A Lady of Persuasion

“Reginald,” he called, pausing on his way toward Gray and Joss. “May I beg your company for a moment?”



“Yes, of course.” With a polite bow to Isabel, his brother-in-law joined their group. “What is it, Toby?”



“Do you remember that I told you Isabel’s brother is interested in studying law, as it affects his shipping business?”



“Yes, of course.”



“And do you remember promising to take him as a pupil in your offices?”



“Certainly.”



Toby nodded toward the corner. “Allow me to introduce him, then.”



“But I’ve already met Gray,” Reginald murmured, as they walked in that direction. “The other week, at Lord Fairleigh’s dinner party.”



Toby’s smile widened.



“Good evening,” he said smoothly, as they reached the Graysons. “Gray, I know you’ve been introduced to my brother-in-law, Mr. Reginald Tolliver.”



The men traded perfunctory nods.



“Reginald,” Toby continued, “allow me to introduce Isabel’s other brother, Captain Josiah Grayson. Joss, this is my brother-in-law, one of England’s finest barristers. He’s agreed to supervise your legal studies.”



To his credit, Reginald refused to display the slightest hint of surprise that his new pupil was part African. After all, he hadn’t become a top barrister by being easily rattled. He did, however, shoot Toby a look that told him Reginald knew he’d been manipulated, he didn’t appreciate it, and it would be his and Augusta’s turn to summer in the Brighton cottage, two years running.



“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Grayson,” Reginald said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”



Toby moved to the side, allowing Reginald and Joss the space to discuss particulars. The step brought him closer to Gray, not entirely by accident.



“Thank you,” Gray muttered, in a tone that told Toby to expect no further comment. But really, those two words were more than enough. If all the remarks in the world were ranked according to how much pleasure Gray would take in saying them to Toby—Toby suspected the list would be topped with “I only wish I could kill you twice” and end with something like, “Kiss me again.” Just a rung or two above that last would be “Thank you.”



“You’re welcome,” Toby replied in a magnanimous tone. It hardly signified that Gray had already left. His chest swelled with victory, until he damn near floated away. A tug at his sleeve yanked him back to earth.



“Toby?” Isabel’s low voice was resonant with emotion.



“Yes, darling?” He turned to her, prepared to receive an outpouring of gratitude and affection.



“May I please go have my hem repaired now?”



Toby stared at her, then gave a little laugh. He’d just secured England’s most unlikely aspiring lawyer the tutelage of England’s most successful barrister, and Isabel’s opinion of him hadn’t altered one bit. She wasn’t impressed, or even grateful in the least. Because she wasn’t surprised. She simply expected heroics of him. He couldn’t decide whether that response was mildly disappointing, or supremely satisfying in some bone-deep, essential way. One thing was certain. It was intimidating. Not to mention unsettling, the lengths to which he felt prepared to go, to win his lady’s favor. He half wished some fire-breathing dragon would crash through the frescoed ceiling, just so he might have the pleasure of slaying it for her.



“Off with you, then,” he said, kissing her hand. “But don’t be long.”



“I don’t know how much time it will take,” she said ruefully. “Why don’t you find another partner for the next set?”



“At a ball held in honor of our engagement? No, no. Until you return, there’s no other lady for me.”



“But my dear Miss Grayson, surely you don’t expect Toby to be faithful to you.” Reclining carefully, Lady Violet shucked her slippers and propped her stockinged feet on the arm of the settee.



Hetta Osborne averted her gaze in an attempt to hide her disgust. Between the offense of Lady Violet’s remark and the unsightly bunion on the woman’s great toe, Hetta’s fingers itched for a scalpel.



From the corner of the room, Isabel gave a huff of shock. Lady Violet flicked it away with her gilt-edged fan.



A blunt scalpel, Hetta amended.



“Come now, we are all ladies here,” the matron said, baring her teeth in a predatory smile. “Of course we would not speak so frankly in the ballroom, but the retiring room is our feminine sanctuary. Here, we must be honest with one another. And honestly, we all know Toby to be the most incorrigible flirt.” She looked around the assembled ladies. “Is there any lady here who could claim she has never fallen under his spell?”



Forbidden to move by the seamstress repairing her hem, Isabel craned her neck, looking from woman to woman. Sophia and Lucy—and every other lady in the room—developed a sudden interest in the plush blue carpet. Well, Lucy was presumably studying the carpet, if she could spy it around her enormously pregnant belly.



“I haven’t,” Hetta said clearly, and honestly. From a clinical perspective, she could observe that Sir Toby possessed fine features and the aura of good health. But she had never felt any stirrings of attraction.



Not toward him, at any rate.



Lady Violet gave a throaty laugh and massaged her bunion-afflicted foot with one hand. “Of course you haven’t. You don’t count. Sir Toby may be a rake, but I’m sure he is not the sort to dally with the help.”



Before Hetta could clear the steam from her mind to fashion her own retort, Lucy jumped to her defense. As much as an enormously pregnant woman could jump.



“Miss Osborne is not ‘the help.’ She is my friend, and she is here in Town as a guest of the Earl of Kendall. And at this ball, she is a guest of Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldonbury.”



Lady Violet gave another dismissive flutter of her fan. “Calm down, my dear.”



“Don’t tell me to c—” Lucy began.



“Really, Lucy, it’s all right,” Hetta said, deciding to expend her reserve of patience on Lady Violet’s behalf. She was well acquainted with Lucy’s explosive temper, and pregnancy had only shortened the fuse. It would not do to make a scene. “I’m certain her ladyship did not mean to disparage me, but rather to praise Sir Toby.” In some bizarre, misbegotten way.



“Exactly so,” Lady Violet continued. “Toby may not be so low as to forage through the servants’ leavings—”



A blunt, rusted scalpel.



“—but he does have a healthy appetite. As all men do.”



“That is absurd,” Lucy said. “All arguments of honor and fidelity aside, there is no reason a man cannot be wholly satisfied within the confines of his marriage. If he and his wife are well matched, of course.” She gave Lady Violet a coy smile. “We ladies have our appetites, too.”



Laughter skittered through the room.



In an obvious attempt to escape the conversation, Sophia rose from her chair and made her way to the refreshment table.



“Why, Lady Grayson, do your appetites lead you to stray?” Lady Violet called after her. “I would think that strapping husband of yours would have no trouble satisfying you.”



Reaching for a tart, Sophia gave a little smile. “Of course he doesn’t. That’s why I’m so hungry.”



Lucy’s eyes lit, and she clapped her hands together. “Sophia, you sly thing. Why didn’t you say something before?”



Isabel’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what any of you are talking about.”



“I’m sure you don’t,” Lucy said. “Really, Sophia, you must pass along The Book.”



“What book?” Isabel asked.



“None. There is no book. I know nothing about any book.” Sophia gave Lucy a quelling look, whispering, “Gray would murder me.”



“No, he wouldn’t. That’s the best thing about our condition—complete immunity from a husband’s displeasure.”



“What condition? What displeasure? What book?” Isabel stamped her foot. “Will someone please explain to me what is going on?”



Hetta took pity on her. “Your sister-in-law is with child.”



“Oh, Sophia!” Isabel exclaimed. She started toward her sister, but the seamstress yanked her to a halt. “How wonderful! But what does that have to do with a book?”



“Nothing,” Sophia replied.



“Everything,” Lucy said smugly.



Now Hetta was beginning to feel left out. “Why have I never seen this book?”



“Oh, I gave it to Sophia before I even arrived at Corbinsdale,” Lucy said. “And now she seems to be hoarding it.”



“There is no book,” Sophia ground out, tilting her chin toward Isabel. Isabel whimpered, “I’m so confused.” The maid released her hem, and she strode over to join the group. “But on one point I am certain, Lady Violet. No matter how infamous Toby’s reputation, I know him to be a most decent and generous man. Why, just today, he has arranged for my brother to study law under his sister’s husband, Mr. Tolliver.”



“Gray wants to study law?” Lucy asked.



“No, not Gray. Joss.”



The name gave Hetta a start, and she coughed into her lemonade.



“Truly?” Sophia asked. “And Toby arranged it? Well, that is something indeed. Gray’s been making inquiries for weeks, with no success. Toby’s efforts are a great compliment to you, Bel. There is no love lost between him and your brothers.”



“Yes, yes.” Lady Violet’s eyebrows rose. “He is devoted to securing her favor now. But men behave quite differently as suitors than they do as husbands.”



“Not my brothers,” Isabel protested. “Both were great favorites with the ladies in their bachelorhood, but I know Gray is devoted to Sophia, and Joss is still—”



Hetta rose from her seat and shook out her skirts. “Miss Grayson, perhaps you should listen to Lady Violet’s well-intentioned advice on the inconstancy of husbands. I am certain she speaks from her own experience.”



With that, she quit the room. She could not bear to remain a moment longer. Perhaps she had an aversion to gossip. Or perhaps she simply did not want to hear the truth. Familiar as she was with the character of long-suffering widowers—most notably, her father—she was in no humor to hear Isabel extol the depths of Joss Grayson’s devotion to his late wife. But now that she’d escaped, where to go?



Even dressed in one of Lucy’s gowns, Hetta stood out at this gathering like a tin kettle amongst porcelain. Well before Lady Violet’s comments, she’d been deeply conscious that her mannerisms, her accent, and her bearing all declared “interloper.” She would not have come at all, if Lucy had not insisted. To refuse would have been rude. There had been the pull of curiosity, too—it was entirely probable that this would be her one and only opportunity to attend a ball with society’s elite.



Oh, feathers. Hetta blew out a breath, annoyed with her own prevarication. What did she care about manners or high society?



There was only one true reason she’d come.



“Are you hiding, Miss Osborne?”



Hetta startled, nearly colliding with a potted tree. “No, of course not. I’m not…”



Her voice trailed off as she turned to face the man behind her. Of course, she’d known it must be him. She’d recognized the deep timbre of his voice immediately, but she somehow hadn’t quite believed he was there until she spun around and came nose-to-button with his goldthreaded waistcoat. Hiking her chin, she prodded her gaze up to his sardonic dark-brown eyes.