Nine

Walking through the London streets toward Olivia’s house, accompanied by her borrowed footman, Verity was conscious of a slight…melancholy? No, that was ridiculous. Not the right word at all. She never brooded.

She admired a froth of pansies in the window box of a stone house they passed. The June morning was balmy. She was on her way to see a friend. She was to attend a soiree that evening and her first grand ball in a few days. Such events would provide a host of opportunities to further her plans. There was absolutely no reason to feel as if something was missing from her life. And so she wouldn’t. She refused. Verity walked faster.

Olivia’s tall, apparently always tipsy butler admitted them and took Verity upstairs to the drawing room. The youngest Townsends weren’t present today. Mrs. Townsend lounged in her customary spot, while Olivia and Beatrice faced off in front of the hearth. “I don’t see why you had to stick your nose in,” Beatrice declared.

“You told me about it,” Olivia replied.

“Not so that you could betray me!” was the dramatic reply. Beatrice struck a pose. She stamped on the hearthrug.

“Oh, take a damper,” said her sister.

Their mother’s calm, amused voice intervened. “If you wish to go—and you notice I am not forbidding the outing—Olivia must accompany you,” said Mrs. Townsend.

Verity was interested to see that she did exercise some parental authority.

“And Miss Sinclair, of course,” added Olivia’s mother, as if offering a treat.

“Where are we going?” Olivia’s note had practically demanded her presence. Now Verity was even more curious.

Before anyone could enlighten her, the drawing room door opened and two new guests were inserted by the butler. Lady Hilda Stane marched in with a sullen expression on her pretty face. “My sister made me bring him,” she complained, indicating her escort with an improper jerk of her thumb.

Verity stared at Lord Randolph, only to find he was gazing fixedly at her. She turned away as Beatrice said, “I have to take Olivia.”

The two girls lined up shoulder to shoulder and glowered at their elders.

Lord Randolph ignored the glares, and their impatient seething, as he offered polite greetings and bowed over Mrs. Townsend’s hand when introduced. He did it all perfectly, yet Verity thought he was as conscious of her as she of him. Finally, he turned to Hilda. “Now you’ll tell us what you’re up to,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere else until you do.”

“I’m not up to anything!” Hilda said, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Emma says you are. She claims you’ve been going about with your smug, about-to-commit-mischief look.”

“Emma is a spineless peagoose! And a snitch!”

“Snitch,” echoed Beatrice, seeming delighted by the slang. “So is Olivia. Sisters!” She and Hilda exchanged a disgusted look.

“Beatrice has an appointment with that German head examiner,” said Olivia, biting back a smile.

“Herr Grossmann?” replied Lord Randolph. “The phrenologist?”

“That’s the name.” Olivia nodded. “She wrote him, pretending to be much older than she is, I suspect.”

“I didn’t ‘pretend’ anything,” said Beatrice. But she looked away as she spoke.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Hilda.

“Really? He knows you’re only fourteen years old?”

Lord Randolph had drifted closer to Verity, which she’d noticed, if no one else had. “She seems older,” he murmured. As the lively argument continued, he added, “I’d thought young Hilda unique. But here’s another. It’s like throwing brandy on a fire.” He shook his head. “Or one of my brother Alan’s chemical experiments, where two elements create a bigger effect when mixed together.”

Apparently, he was going to act as if their last conversation hadn’t happened, Verity thought. And the kiss. Splendid. She could do the same. She was relieved. No, annoyed. Or both. It was difficult to judge. With him right there beside her, she couldn’t think of anything but kisses.

“Enough!” declared Mrs. Townsend.

She had the voice that mothers possessed, or learned, Verity observed. It brought silence.

“Do you wish to keep your appointment?” their hostess added. “Or would you prefer to rip at one another right through the time?”

The group dissolved in a flurry of preparations. Hilda went with Beatrice to fetch her bonnet. Olivia didn’t suggest that Verity come with her. She was left with Lord Randolph, under Mrs. Townsend’s tolerant eye. Verity tugged at a glove. Every remark that occurred to her led right back to those dizzying moments in his arms. Well, let him make conversation.

“I suppose…” he began.

Verity waited. The silence lengthened. “You suppose what?”

“There’s no need to snap at me.”

“I didn’t.”

“No, I’m not going to apologize,” he said quietly.

“I haven’t asked—”

“I maintain I was in the right.”

“About?”

“And the…other thing. I didn’t begin it.”

“Thing?” He was calling their kiss a thing. And saying it was all her doing.

“One might argue that—”

“One is an idiot,” Verity snapped. Yes, snapped this time. And welcome. “I offer no opinion, as you seem to be talking to yourself.”

He looked startled.

From her chaise, Mrs. Townsend laughed. It was a lovely, lilting laugh. And it reduced them to stiff silence until the others came back.

Lord Randolph had brought a carriage. It had the Langford crest on the doors, and the grandness of it improved Beatrice’s temper. Or perhaps it was just getting her way, Verity thought as they piled in. Acting the perfect gentleman, Lord Randolph took a rear-facing seat. Olivia hesitated as if to let Verity join him. She declined by plopping down beside Hilda and Beatrice opposite. With raised brows, Olivia sat.

The younger girls chattered during the drive to Herr Grossmann’s address, with occasional contributions from Olivia. This allowed Verity to seethe in satisfying silence. She looked out the window at the passing scene, eliminating any chance of meeting Lord Randolph’s riveting blue eyes.

They arrived, were admitted by a housemaid, and ushered upstairs to a sparely decorated reception room. Herr Grossmann bustled in a few minutes later, then stopped short, looking puzzled. “Mrs. Beatrice Townsend?” he asked in his accented English.

“Mrs.?” exclaimed Olivia.

Taking this as a reply, the German addressed her. “I’m pleased you have brought your husband.”

Hilda dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Their host gave her a sidelong look as he continued. “I prefer that ladies be escorted. It is more proper.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” said Olivia. “My sister made the appointment with you.” She indicated Beatrice. “Miss Beatrice Townsend. No husband as yet. The male sex has been spared that horror so far.”

Beatrice made a face at her.

“Oh. Ah. Quite a…young lady.” Herr Grossmann looked at Lord Randolph as if he was in charge. Men always made that irritating assumption, Verity thought.

“She has her mother’s permission,” Lord Randolph said.

“Yes? Well, I—”

“We will remain with her, of course.”

He looked eager. It occurred to Verity that he cared less about the proprieties than having an opportunity to observe Herr Grossmann at work.

“Of course.” The German seemed to make up his mind. “If you will all come with me?”

They processed into a room across the landing. It was empty except for a large wooden chair on a dais, two small gilt chairs below it, and a large version of the phrenology chart hanging on the wall. There was no carpet. Light streamed in through two uncurtained windows. Herr Grossmann went to pull a bell rope.

The summons was promptly answered by a lad of perhaps sixteen. Tall and gangly, with black hair and pale skin, he was not dressed as a footman. Beatrice and Hilda eyed him with interest.

“This is Michael, my assistant,” said Grossmann. “Fetch more chairs, Michael.”

“Yessir, right away,” the young man answered. His accent was not German. More London tinged with Irish, Verity thought.

He returned with two more gilt chairs and set them out. Olivia, Verity, Hilda, and Lord Randolph sat in an interested row. Michael went to stand at the side of the dais. He took a notepad and pencil from his pocket.

For the first time, Beatrice looked uncertain. “The evaluation requires that you remove your bonnet,” Herr Grossmann said. Beatrice hesitated. Verity wondered if she was regretting her arrangement.

“I’ll hold it for you,” said Olivia with sly humor. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Beatrice set her chin, untied the ribbons, and removed her hat. Her dark-brown hair was loose beneath it. She tossed her bonnet into Olivia’s lap and marched over to sit in the large chair.

“Michael is observing in order to learn,” the German added.

“In training, are you?” asked Lord Randolph.

“Yessir.” Michael held the pencil poised over the pad.

“Now, if you are ready, miss, I will place my fingertips on your head.”

“I’m ready,” Beatrice said rather loudly.

Delicately, Herr Grossmann touched her forehead. “Yes, I thought so,” he said. “A strong area of eventuality, the desire to know and be informed.” His tone was clinical, not the least intrusive. Beatrice blinked as Michael wrote busily.

“That would be nosiness?” said Olivia. “You’re certainly right there.”

“I wish you would go away,” replied Beatrice. “I never wanted you to come.”

“My papa says it’s our duty to be well informed,” said Hilda in defense of her friend.

“I expect Herr Grossmann concentrates better in silence,” put in Lord Randolph.

“Indeed, sir, that is true,” the other man replied.

Gentlemen united to keep the ladies quiet, Verity thought. Although in this case, it was probably better if Olivia didn’t taunt her sister.

“A bent toward firmness,” the phrenologist continued. “And hope. A marked tendency to imitation.”

“Like an actress?” Beatrice asked, brightening. “A stage role is a kind of imitation, isn’t it?”

“The term refers to ‘copying the manners, gestures, and actions of others, and appearances in nature generally,’” said Michael, as if he’d memorized the phrases.

“Acting,” declared Beatrice with smug satisfaction. “You see, Olivia, I am destined to be an actress.”

“Destiny has no part in this,” said the German. “If you will keep your head very still, miss.”

She subsided.

Herr Grossmann moved his fingers. “Ideality is pronounced.”

“A love of the beautiful, desire of excellence, poetic feeling,” recited Michael. “Abuses include extravagant and absurd enthusiasm, preference for the showy over the solid and useful, a tendency to dwell in the regions of fancy and to neglect the duties of life.”

“You have her character to a T!” exclaimed Olivia, laughing.

“Please do not recite your definitions aloud, Michael,” said the German. He sounded annoyed. “It is meant to be done silently.”

“Yessir.”

“Are there lists of the traits?” asked Lord Randolph. “In books perhaps?”

“Great thick ones in German,” Michael answered. “But Herr Grossmann copied the details out for me.”

The look his employer gave him made Verity wonder if the relationship would last much longer.

“Might I have a copy?” Lord Randolph said.

“What else about my head?” Beatrice demanded. “We came here about me.”

“Yes, miss,” replied Grossmann, who didn’t appear eager to fulfill Lord Randolph’s request. “If we might have silence, please.” When his audience obeyed, he went on with his examination. “A bent toward combativeness.”

Verity wondered if this point was real, or a subtle dig at the interruptions.

“Fortunately not combined with destructiveness,” he added. He stepped back and lowered his arms. “Those are the main points I discern.”

“That’s all?” said Beatrice. “What about my…animal appeal? You told Mrs. Saxon that she was ‘exceedingly amative.’”

“Where did you hear such a thing?” asked Olivia.

“She was visiting Mama, and she said—”

“That is not the way I would have summarized my findings,” interrupted Herr Grossman stiffly. “I am a scientist, not a gypsy fortune-teller.” He stepped down from the dais, muttering something about words being twisted. “Michael will prepare a written report for you, approved by me, with the proper terminology.”

Beatrice looked disgusted.

“Do you keep records of all your sessions?” Olivia asked.

“Of course. As I said, I am a scientist.”

“Even the more informal ones? You examined Mr. Rochford at an evening party, for example.”

Verity glanced sharply at her friend. She noticed that Lord Randolph was frowning.

“I made notes afterward, naturally. Thorough records are vital to the scientific process.”

“So you have files.”

“Of course.”

Verity watched Olivia, thinking that her friend was more akin to Beatrice than she’d realized.

Beatrice stood. “Well, if that’s it, we may as well go,” she said. She stepped over to snatch her bonnet from Olivia’s lap and pull it on. “I must say I thought this would be more exciting.”

“I hope you will tell all your young friends about your mistaken assumptions,” said Herr Grossmann.

Verity laughed, then turned it into a cough when Beatrice frowned at her.

“There is the matter of payment.” Herr Grossmann looked at Lord Randolph. Which was the other side of the coin, Verity thought. If you were in charge, you paid. It wasn’t fair in this case, but she still somehow felt that it served him right.

“I brought the money,” said Beatrice pettishly. She took a banknote from her reticule. “It does seem like a lot for what you get.” Herr Grossmann glowered. Michael stepped forward and took the money before Beatrice could change her mind. The girl turned her back on them. “We’ll go to Gunter’s now,” she decreed. “I want an ice cream.”

“Miss Hoity-Toity,” said Olivia. But no one voiced any objections.

Beatrice flounced out, Hilda on her heels. As Verity followed, she saw Olivia pause beside Michael and speak to him while Lord Randolph had Herr Grossmann’s attention. She couldn’t hear what her friend said, but it wasn’t difficult to guess.

Randolph followed the ladies out. Herr Grossmann hadn’t wanted to give him the list of traits. Perhaps he viewed the details as secrets of his odd trade. Randolph suspected that young Michael would be susceptible to bribery, however, if he decided to pursue the matter. Verity Sinclair turned her head at that moment and smiled at something Miss Townsend said to her. Randolph forgot all about phrenology.

When they reached Gunter’s in Berkeley Square, Randolph dismissed his father’s coachman. There was no need to keep the horses. It was a fine day, and he and the girls could easily walk home from here. And it had occurred to him that if he plotted the route correctly, he could escort Verity home last and carve out a little time to redeem himself after his earlier incoherent conversation.

“I want to have my ice in the park,” declared Beatrice. She sounded like a child who’d been deprived of a promised treat and must be given another to make up for it. Hilda was the same, Randolph thought—childish one moment and alarmingly mature the next.

He found seats for his party in the park and flagged down one of Gunter’s waiters. The popularity of outdoor dining meant these servitors had to dodge carriages and horses in the street to take orders and deliver confections.

“A lemon ice,” Beatrice demanded as soon as the man approached. “One of the ones shaped like a lemon.” When Hilda looked inquiring, she added, “They freeze it in molds shaped like fruit. Or vegetables. Bread or meat even, though that seems odd to me. Why would you want to eat an ice that looks like a lamb chop?”

“How splendid,” said Hilda. “Do you have anything shaped like asparagus?” she asked the waiter.

“A pistachio ice cream, miss,” he answered.

“I’ll have that. I loathe asparagus.”

Randolph didn’t follow her reasoning, but it didn’t matter. The rest of them gave their orders, and the waiter rushed off.

They looked about, and Randolph’s companions began to comment on the other people present. This park of maple trees across from Gunter’s shop was quite a fashionable haunt, one of the few places a young lady could be seen alone with an unrelated man without being exposed to scandal. Although such a visit was a strong signal of an attachment, Randolph thought. He was far from alone with Miss Sinclair, of course. The two youngest members of their party fell into a fit of giggles over some whispered remark. Very far from alone.

“I wonder how she holds her head up,” Miss Sinclair said to Miss Townsend, watching a lady with an enormous feathered hat.

She hadn’t really looked at him since their stilted conversation in the drawing room, and it rankled. They’d sung together in perfect harmony. They’d kissed—a moment and a sensation that were seared into his memory. And then everything had gone wrong between them because of Thomas Rochford. Randolph felt a flash of rage at the man—the sort of person who cared for no one but himself and flouted convention simply for the fun of it, it seemed. Randolph’s eyes strayed back to Miss Sinclair as he tried to dismiss the anger. She seemed peculiarly able to unsettle him.

His connection with Rosalie Delacourt had been just the opposite, he thought. They’d been introduced in the most conventional way. They’d danced and strolled under her parents’ benign scrutiny. They’d talked and talked and found they agreed on every important point. He’d never really talked to Miss Sinclair, Randolph acknowledged, except a bit about music. With Rosalie, he had proposed, and she had accepted. All had been smooth as silk. Had it not been for a malign fate, they’d be living happily together right now. And he wouldn’t be sitting in a park puzzling over how to speak to a stubborn, forthright young lady with a habit of arguing.

Why was he comparing Miss Sinclair to Rosalie? Did he place them in the same category? And if he did—

The waiter brought their sweets and set them out. Hilda and Beatrice dug in.

“Are you still with us, Lord Randolph?” asked Miss Townsend as she picked up her spoon.

“Yes, of course.”

“It seemed you were a thousand miles away. Pondering higher matters, I suppose.”

Randolph wasn’t surprised that she was one who’d poke fun at his profession. Miss Townsend seemed to be rather shallow and self-centered. She was patently prone to sarcasm, a hopeful rather than successful wit. But the same might be said for many young people of both sexes, he added silently. No doubt she would improve with age. “I was just calculating how many birds perished to create that hat,” he said, nodding in the direction of the bonnet they’d been observing. “And deciding it wasn’t worth the slaughter.”

The ladies laughed. They ate their ices, exclaiming over the flavors. The breeze blew a strand of bright hair across Miss Sinclair’s cheek. As she tucked it back, their gazes intersected, and Randolph felt shaken, like a man who misses a step in the darkness. He needed to discover what lay behind those blue-green eyes. “What did you think of Herr Grossmann?” he asked her.

“Think of him?”

“Did his system strike you as credible?” The topic wasn’t scintillating, perhaps. But here in public he couldn’t ask her what she thought about deceptively charming rakes or explore the issue of kissing.

“I suppose it makes sense that the body would reflect the brain,” she said. “But I wonder how they established the map of traits.”

“Some sort of tests, I suppose.”

“What kind though?”

“They might have examined people whose proclivities were well known and collated the results.”

“Collated… What does that mean?” asked Beatrice.

“Put them side by side and compared them,” Randolph explained. A possibility occurred to him. “If you had detailed descriptions of a deceased person’s character—”

“You could measure their skulls and note the shapes,” said Miss Sinclair.

“Ugh,” said Hilda as Randolph nodded.

“A grim prospect,” said Miss Townsend.

Randolph could hear Robert guffawing at the notion that he was entertaining young ladies with talk of palpating corpses. Once again, he’d allowed his curiosity to meander too far. “The Greeks saw the brain as the major controlling center for the body,” he said, somewhat at random. “The Egyptians thought it was the heart.”

“That would seem to depend on what controls you’re thinking of,” said Miss Sinclair.

“A combination of the two is best,” Randolph replied. “Should that occur.”

“You think cooperation is unlikely?”

“I believe that agreement of mind and heart is rare.”

Verity Sinclair gazed at him. “A rather sad picture of life.”

The other ladies swiveled their heads back to him. They’d been shifting like observers at a tennis match. Randolph sincerely wished them gone. “Realistic, rather,” he said. “And often very useful.”

“How so?”

Lobbing ideas back and forth with her was exciting. Even more than debates with friends at university. Perhaps because none of them had been entrancing females whom he’d kissed, Randolph thought. “Much can be discovered, or revealed, through inner debate.”

Miss Sinclair frowned over this. He waited, fascinated to hear her opinion. “Working out what is truly important to the individual, you mean?”

“Precisely.” She looked interested. He found that curiously encouraging.

“Well, you’re too deep for me,” said Olivia Townsend. She pushed her empty ice cream dish away.

“And very tedious,” added her younger sister.

“Beatrice.” But Miss Townsend’s reprimand had no force behind it.

“Lord Randolph has a tendency to run on and on,” said Lady Hilda Stane.

“He must have a great bump for that somewhere on his head,” Beatrice said, giggling.

Randolph tried to shrug off the teasing. His brothers had said worse. Not in front of Miss Sinclair, however.

“Once, in Herefordshire, he talked for half an hour about some fusty poet. With quotations,” Hilda said.

“George Herbert,” murmured Randolph. Miss Sinclair looked surprised.

“He’s as bad as my father,” Hilda continued, pleased to have captured the group’s attention. “Papa once lectured me for hours on the differences between Celts and Picts.”

“Picks?” said Beatrice. “The tools miners use?”

Hilda shook her head and pronounced the word more clearly. “They’re ancient tribesmen. Painted themselves blue. Instead of clothes. They ran screaming into battle stark naked.”

There was an instant’s silence, as they all visualized this scene, Randolph imagined. Catching Hilda’s sly sidelong look, he pressed his lips together. Clearly, she had a trap laid for anyone unwise enough to correct her simplistic description. And she knew more about Picts than he did.

“But wouldn’t that be—” Miss Sinclair broke off.

“Remarkably distracting?” said Olivia Townsend.

“I suppose the other soldiers were familiar…” Miss Sinclair hesitated.

“With such equipment?”

“Olivia!”

“Well, they would be,” responded her friend with mock innocence.

This led all four ladies to look at Randolph and then quickly away. The situation was almost too absurd to be improper. But not quite. Although shielding the youthful ears of Lady Hilda Stane seemed like a lost cause, Randolph rose. “Perhaps we should be going?” he said.

Hilda looked thwarted. What had she expected him to do? Huff and puff like a parson in a farce? The ladies stood up and gathered their belongings.

“You’re fond of George Herbert’s poetry,” Miss Sinclair murmured as they strolled out of the park.

“Exceedingly.”

“I, too.”

“Really? What is your favorite?”

“Are you coming, Verity?” called Miss Townsend.

“Yes. Of course.”

She walked faster. Randolph could only follow.