All these hours later, Lavinia was still in a pique.
Certainly, the Honorable’s suggestions and lessons had been anything but proper, and as Papa always said, she was a quick study, nor had Lavinia held any notion of putting the kindly man’s suggestions into practice.
That is until Tuck had walked into the room and looked at her. And then . . . well, all she’d wanted was to put them to immediate good use.
Especially if she could get him to kiss her again.
When that had failed, she’d held out some hope of being alone with him on the drive back to Lord Charleton’s, yet much to her chagrin, Tuck had spent nearly every minute lecturing her on propriety.
Propriety, no less!
He’d prosed on like the vicar at Kempton, so much so, she hadn’t managed to get a word in edgewise, or point out that the only one (thus far) who had tried to ruin her was him.
Oh, the very irony of him extolling her to exercise “practical restraint” and “all due caution”?
She paused in her distracted pacing. Good heavens, she was starting to think his reputation as a knave was a complete fraud.
Until she thought about his kiss. For when she did—something made her toes curl a bit in her slippers and her tongue wet her lips as if waiting for him to return—she decided perhaps he might know a thing or two about knavery.
Perhaps . . .
That was, until, adding insult to injury, he’d handed her over to Lady Aveley, who had spent a good hour ringing a peal over her head—abandoning their shopping trip without a proper chaperone . . . leaving Her Ladyship in a panic over her well-being . . . spending the afternoon in the company of Mrs. Rowland and the likes of the Honorable Hero Worth.
All grave sins, according to Lady Aveley.
And Tuck? Her Ladyship had sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek and thanked him profusely for “rescuing dear, innocent Miss Tempest.”
Rescuing! Bah! Lavinia puffed out a breath, impatient and furious and . . . and . . .
She turned slightly and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Oh, yes, she was mad, and furious, but more to the point . . . she was changed. Ever so much.
She turned slowly toward the mirror, gaping at her own reflection, for staring back at her was certainly not the miss who had come from Kempton all buttoned-up with lofty notions of proper manners. Somehow, at some point, all those rules and obligations and restraints had fallen away, one by one—and that flicker inside her, the one she’d done the best to extinguish all these years, had become a torch.
One that, if she dared pick it up, would light her way. Let her shine. Let her breathe. Deeply and with passion.
“I don’t want to be proper,” she whispered to the creature in the mirror.
“And you don’t have to be,” came a voice from behind her.
After Tuck had returned Livy to his uncle’s house, he’d borrowed an old jacket from one of the footmen and gone straight to the Dog and Spoon and sat down at the corner table, the one near the window. This was where Old Kelley had held court for nearly thirty years—gathering information and sharing it—all for a price. As luck would have it, Old Kelley was already well in his cups, so the required gold wasn’t as much as it might have been earlier in the afternoon.
“Bludger!” Old Kelley spat out the man’s name and shook his head. He leaned back in his chair, the cup of ale Tuck had purchased for him cradled in his hands. Hands that trembled a bit with age.
Or might it be fear?
Given that Old Kelley was a fierce, bear of a man, this didn’t bode well.
Kelley leaned forward, lowering his gruff voice. “That there is a murderous black-hearted devil if ever there was one. What are you doing, Tuck, me lad, with the likes of that sort of company?”
“He’s been following a friend of mine.”
“Your friend hasn’t long to live then,” Old Kelley declared, heaving a sigh and taking a long drink.
“And the man with Bludger?” Tuck had already learned that Mr. Bludger was a naval deserter, wanted by both the Royal Navy and Bow Street. No one had yet been able to apprehend the thief, and his string of crimes grew daily.
“Charlie,” Old Kelley told him. “Grew up in the Dials—had a regular education there.”
Which Tuck knew meant picking pockets, burglary, even murder.
“Not the brightest lad,” Old Kelley continued, “but he does what he’s told, Charlie does. Whatever he’s told to do. Good with a knife—so be cautious.”
“And this man who’s hired them—the Marquess of Ilford? What do you hear about him?” Tuck slid a coin across the table, and Old Kelley took it in a flash.
For the true value of Old Kelley was that he didn’t discriminate as to whom he gathered information about—the denizens of London’s underworld or its loftiest jewels—there was always a buyer when there were secrets to hide.
“Ilford.” Old Kelley’s rheumy eyes narrowed as he considered his words and pocketed his payment. “That one might as well have grown up in the Dials. Nasty bloke. For all his high-and-mighty titles, he’s the worst of the lot. Wondered when you were going to bring him up. Thought that was why you were here to begin with. What were you thinking, boy? One never wagers when it comes to a woman’s character. Might as well wager on the wind—they’ll change on you just when you get your sails set.”
It shouldn’t surprise him that Old Kelley knew about his wager, but what touched him was the note of concern behind his reproach.
The man continued, leaning across the table as he spoke. “Whatever did you do to the fellow to have him swearing vengeance up one side of the river and down the other?”
“My cousin tapped his claret at Almack’s. I might have found it a bit amusing and offered to help.”
“Seems a trifling thing to get all lathered over. What man doesn’t get rapped a time or two? And some days, you deserve it. But Ilford, he isn’t right—not in the head—not where it matters. He’s out to take his full measure in return, and it doesn’t matter who he hurts in the process—lady or child—just so you and that milling cousin of yours feel the sting.”
“That’s madness,” Tuck declared, his chest tightening as he thought of all the people he and Piers loved, cared for . . . his mother, Uncle Charleton, Lady Wakefield, Roselie, even the Honorable, and now, the new viscountess, Louisa.
But Tuck’s heart pounded only one name.
Livy.
Across from him, Old Kelley emptied his tankard and set it on the table with a practiced clank that broke into Tuck’s reverie. “That’s not the half of his story. A marquess he might be, but he’s a marked man.” His smile crooked at his own turn of phrase, and those words held all the lure of a siren’s song, begging Tuck to seek deeper into what the man meant. The secrets he held.
But like everything with Old Kelley, it came at a price.
And Tuck was willing to pay. He tossed a coin to a passing barmaid to refill Kelley’s cup and dropped another one on the table. When Old Kelley didn’t take it up, Tuck knew what the man had to say was worth a lot more.
Old Kelley was a lot of things, but he was honest in his dealings.
So Tuck added the entirety of the gold coins his uncle had given him to the one on the table. It was a stack that would keep the man in ale for the rest of year, if not well into the next one.
“Ilford is as mad as they come. Someone would be doing the world a favor if they were to—” The man drew a line across his throat.
Tuck pulled back. For as much as he hated Ilford, he drew the line at outright killing him. Not that it wouldn’t give him satisfaction to stand across a grassy field and put a bullet in his heart—all done with seconds and honorably—but what Old Kelley was suggesting was a different sort of death.
It spoke of dark alleyways. A quick thrust of a knife. Plainly said, it was cold-blooded murder.
“Mark me words, someone will,” Old Kelley told him, obviously seeing the shock on Tuck’s face. “Maybe not soon enough for you, but he’s not long for this world.”
Tuck shook his head. “He’s the heir to a dukedom. There would be hue and cry if he were found to have gone on to kingdom come.”
“Not for a man who’s been dabbling in treason.”
“Treason?” Charleton exclaimed not two hours later. “That’s utter madness.”
“Not according to my source,” Tuck told him. The two men stood in the baron’s library, while an ashen-faced Lady Aveley sat near the fireplace. Tuck had refused his uncle’s offer of a glass of brandy.
Given what he’d learned, he needed to keep his wits sharp.
“What evidence is there?” the older man asked, staring moodily into the flames, hands folded behind his back.
At this, Tuck drew a deep breath. For he’d pressed and pried at Old Kelley, but on this the man had been as closed as an obstinate old clam. “Nothing. At least nothing that would hold up—in the manner you’d prefer.”
That left the baron shaking his head. “Without good proof, evidence, something actionable, our hands are tied.”
“Yes, I know,” Tuck agreed, feeling the same frustration.
Charleton looked directly at Tuck. “How dangerous is this?”
Tuck glanced over at Lady Aveley.
His uncle drew closer, and said quietly, “She needs to know. She’s got a right to know.”
Tuck nodded in agreement. Everyone would need to be told. Protected. “We must keep an eye out for this Bludger fellow and his accomplice, but at the same time, we must be mindful—these two are cunning. Dials-bred and black-hearted as they come.”
Lady Aveley shuddered. “To think that man was living next door. In Wakefield’s house.”
“Yes, well, we all owe Louisa a debt for sending him packing,” Lord Charleton agreed, but his glance to Tuck told another story. “Piers needs to be told. Immediately.”
“Everyone needs to be warned,” Tuck added.
“They’ll be watching the house, most likely,” Charleton said, drawing a deep breath.
At this, Lady Aveley sat up. “Oh, my! One of the maids mentioned something like that just the other morning. That there was an odd man lurking about the mews. I thought it nothing at the time.”
Both men turned to her.
She paused for a moment, as if dumbstruck by the realization, then rose to her feet. “Have Brobson fetch Nan immediately. You should question her more thoroughly. Oh, heavens, I feel such an utter fool now not to have realized—”
Charleton went to her and folded the lady into his arms. “There now, Amy, how were you to think such a thing? How would any of us have known such a desperate thing?”
Just then there was a scratch at the door, and Charleton called for them to enter, but not before Lady Aveley stepped a proper distance out of his reach.
Brobson appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. “My lord—”
“Ah Brobson, perfect timing,” Lord Charleton began. “I need you to fetch one of the maids—” He turned to Lady Aveley.
“Nan,” she supplied.
“Yes, fetch Nan. I need to ask her about a fellow she saw the other day.”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“Oh, and Brobson, there have been some reports of prowlers and some unsavory characters about, so I want you and all the footmen to keep a sharp eye about and all the doors and windows locked.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course. But I—”
“And have Miss Tempest summoned. I must speak to her immediately.”
“When she returns, my lord,” Brobson replied, “I will advise her that you would like to see her.”
“Returns?” Tuck said, pushing past his uncle. “You mean she’s not in the house?”
“No, sir,” Brobson said. “She left with your mother, Mrs. Rowland, about an hour ago.” Poor Brobson looked over all the stunned faces, and added, “I thought you knew, my lord.”
“My lord?”
The Marquess of Ilford looked up from his desk. He did not like being interrupted, and here was this low creature boldly coming into his private study.
Bludger was becoming far too familiar. And that was something Ilford wouldn’t tolerate. But for now the man was useful. Most useful. And when he was no longer that . . .
Ilford set down his pen. “What do you want?”
Bludger grinned. “The girl. The one you were willing to pay for.”
Ilford rose to his feet. “You have her?”
“No. But I’ve been watching that toff’s house like you asked. And I got some information that might be worth the while.” His hands rubbed together.
Money. Of course, this rat wanted more money. Ilford glanced down at the papers before him and quickly turned them over. “I’ve already paid you. To catch her.”
“Yes. But I’ve got her cornered. Not the one that got me tossed out, but the other one.”
Lavinia Tempest. Ilford nodded for him to continue.
“And with only a lady with her.”
“Ladies go out all the time,” Ilford told him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Bludger remained planted where he stood. “To the Earl of St. John’s house? To that big fancy party of his?”
Ilford slowly raised his gaze. “No. You must be mistaken.”
“No mistake,” Bludger told him, all confidence. “Got Charlie there making sure they don’t leave. ’Cause if I can’t see her sister get what she deserves, then I say let her twin pay the debt, if you know what I mean.”
Ilford did. And Bludger could have her when he was done with her. Had destroyed her innocence. But still, he found it impossible to believe that Lavinia Tempest was attending one of St. John’s bacchanals.
“You must be wrong,” he told the man, sitting back down.
Bludger took another step closer, so close Ilford could smell the dark reaches of the man—a stench of the Dials so deep, so ingrained, that no amount of soap or deception could ever erase. “No, milord. I’m not. The little bird is at St. John’s house. And there ain’t no one there to protect her. If you know what I mean.”
“Mrs. Rowland—” Lavinia began, as they made their way up the steps of the house. “Whose ball is this?”
“I don’t think I said,” she remarked.
That hardly addressed Lavinia’s growing misgivings.
Though she’d been quite confident back in her room when she’d turned around and found Mrs. Rowland slipping into her bedchamber, valise in hand, Lavinia had known what she should do—refuse the lady’s offer to attend the most coveted affair of the evening.
But when Mrs. Rowland had pulled the blue velvet out and given it a grand shake, holding it so the brilliants sparkled in the candlelight, that flame of temptation had flared to life inside her.
Oh, the dress was a vision of temptation. It prodded her to recall Tuck’s expression when she’d held it up for him to see.
His first expression, not the look of panic that had followed.
One of desire, of passion, of longing.
Yes, he’d been imagining her in the gown.
And perhaps her without the gown. As improper as such a thought might be, Lavinia couldn’t help but shiver at the notion.
“Come now, however will you practice what the Honorable taught you if you remain hidden away?” Mrs. Rowland urged, pressing the velvet into her hands, the soft fabric offering its own seductive whisper.
You’ll be as tempting as the night . . .
And before she knew it, Lavinia was begowned, her hair piled and pinned in place, and finally a mask tied on—obscuring her features yet turning her into a beguiling mystery.
The vision in the mirror had smiled back wickedly, and with that rebellious spark now blazing, she’d followed Mrs. Rowland out of the house and into a waiting carriage in the mews.
But now, as this adventure became so very real—and with no mirror to cast an approving reflection—Lavinia’s heart fluttered with panic. For looking at the other guests who were arriving—in a colorful parade of fashions—boisterous and full of laughter—she realized this was a far cry from the staid world of Almack’s.
A veritable continent from the quiet ways of Kempton.
“Yes, but whose house is this?” Lavinia persisted as she carefully made her way up the steps in the jostle of the other guests.
“You needn’t fret—you look lovely,” Mrs. Rowland told her, nodding in greeting to a tall man in an elegantly cut coat and a brightly embroidered waistcoat. “Why, no one will have any idea who you are. Tonight you can be anyone.”
Anyone . . .
So why was it when she thought of that, she imagined herself in Tuck’s arms. In his bed.
Tempting and so very dangerous. Very dangerous.
Oh, heavens. What was she thinking? Frantically she reverted to her old familiar habit of silently reciting her list of Proper Qualities.
Proper Rule No. 1. Marriage to a respectable, sensible, well-ordered gentleman is the order of business for every proper lady.
Proper Rule No. 2. If a lady desires to contract a proper and respectable match, she will comport herself with nothing less than the strictest manners and unassailable propriety. At all times.
Proper Rule No. 3 . . .
Oh, bother, she couldn’t recall number three as a trio of ladies hurried up the steps, their gowns a scandalous collection of brilliant reds. Why, if Lavinia didn’t know better, she’d think they were a trio of Cyprians.
And when one of them kissed a gentleman thoroughly—right there on the front steps, her hands caressing the front of his breeches, without any restraint or discretion, as if that were the accustomed way of greeting a man, Lavinia rather had her answer.
“Mrs. Rowland, I think it is important that I know who my host is,” she insisted, thinking of Lady Aveley’s earlier admonishment about being on fragile ice.
One misstep and . . .
“This is the Earl of St. John’s masquerade ball.” Mrs. Rowland tossed this out as if it were nothing more than a respectable garden party, but even Lavinia in faraway Kempton had heard of this annual affair and what the respectable and proper members of the ton called it.
St. John’s Folly.
Lavinia’s mouth opened as all the air escaped her lungs, and her feet came to a halt. “But Mrs. Rowland, I cannot—” She caught hold of the railing and looked around, hoping she would suddenly wake up and find herself back in her room.
Oh, yes she wanted to be “Anyone,” but not “Anyone.”
“Mrs. Rowland, Lord St. John’s . . . entertainments . . . are entirely improper.”
“Oh, not entirely. Though they do seem to have their fair share of scandals. But all the right people are invited, and everyone comes.”
“I don’t know—” Lavinia began, digging her heels into the stone steps.
Mrs. Rowland was just as determined. “But I do. You need a venue in which to practice your arts,” she told Lavinia, catching her by the elbow and steering her up the rest of the steps. For a small woman, she had the grip of a blacksmith. “And this is the perfect way to start. You will be seen and wondered at, and by tomorrow, all of London will want to discover who you are—”
While that made perfect sense, still, Lavinia couldn’t help but see the very real potential for disaster as they entered the grand house and half the company—the male half—turned in unison to eye the latest arrivals.
Never in her life had Lavinia felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
And if she were discovered . . .
Mrs. Rowland seemed able to read her mind. “No one will know who you are, Livy. Nor will they care once they are besotted. All it takes is the right parti to turn his eye toward you, and no one, not even that odious Lord Ilford, will be able to naysay your ascent into the highest reaches of society.”
With Mrs. Rowland’s hand on her elbow, the woman led her deeper and deeper into the house, through rooms where couples could be spied scandalously entwined in alcoves. Some shielded partially by curtains, and others openly embracing each other.
This was certainly not the Midsummer’s Eve ball in Kempton. Or even Almack’s.
“Now, here is the perfect spot,” Mrs. Rowland told her, as they came to stop near the stairwell that led upstairs. “Wait here, and I’ll be right back before you miss me.”
“Can’t I come with you?” Lavinia whispered back, slightly panicked at the thought of being left alone. A parade of people flowed past them—some moving toward the ballroom where the musicians had just struck up a new set and others seeking the room just behind them—the one set aside for gaming.
“I’m just going to visit the lady’s retiring room. I’ll be right back.” And then she was gone, slipping effortlessly into the crowd like an eel.
Lavinia thought of trying to follow her, but the lady had just vanished into the peacockery of colors and elaborate costumes. She had no choice but to stay put until Mrs. Rowland returned, for however would the woman find her if Lavinia strayed from this spot?
I can be Anyone, she reminded herself, doing her best to convey the indubitable confidence the Honorable had proclaimed as indispensable for a lady of consequence.
Confidence. Yes, as Anyone, she was the most confident lady to be had. Until a pair of Cyprians swayed past her—and while Lavinia had never actually met a Cyprian, she had no doubt this pair was very much familiar with the Vestal life—and suddenly Lavinia felt herself right back at her first ball.
No, no, that would never do, she told herself as a kaleidoscope of butterflies took to feverishly batting their wings about in her stomach.
When she got nervous, things got broken. She doubted that the earl would be pleased to find an antiquity of value shattered. Certainly the sharp memories of Lady Broughton’s ire over the bunting accident of ’08 was enough to leave Lavinia with a keen interest in not repeating that mishap.
Ever again.
She glanced around. Thankfully, such a disaster seemed unlikely to be repeated as the earl hadn’t hung any. But to her critical eye, a party was not an event without a bit of bunting.
Then again, she thought with a sigh of resignation, the earl had not spared any expense when it came to candles. They glowed everywhere, and one slight mishap, and it could be Lady Essex’s cotillion all over again.
Or as the gossips about Kempton liked to call it, “The Fire Ball.”
Which Lavinia thought was entirely unfair. For the damage had been nearly inconsequential.
And Lady Essex had forgiven her. For the most part.
So perhaps Mrs. Rowland had the right notion. Lavinia should stay put. Yet as she looked around, her gaze fell on a tall fellow across the foyer. There was something most familiar about him, and when he tipped his mask up trying to get a better look around the ballroom beyond, she realized why.
Dear heavens, it was Lord Rimswell.
At first, Lavinia was relieved, but then a bit shocked. She had thought the young baron a proper gentleman, but if he was seeking company here . . . She pressed her lips together and frowned, Proper Rule No. 28 coming to mind.
A gentleman’s pursuits should be of the highest order, with the noblest of intent.
Then again, she was here, so she was hardly in a position to judge, but still . . . She took another glance in his direction, but he was already gone.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered. For with the baron near, she’d felt a bit safer, but then someone else came into view, a man in an elaborate mask and richly done coat. Like Lord Rimswell, he was giving the company a thorough scrutiny, but it was his voice that sent a chill knifing through Lavinia’s breast.
“Ah, as always promised on this night, St. John has gathered together the most exquisite collection of fallen goddesses for we mere mortals. And tonight I am looking for one in particular.”
Lavinia stilled. Lord Ilford.
And worse, his sharp and calculating gaze lit on her.
Lavinia turned her back to him and frantically searched for some means to escape his attention.
His most unwanted attentions.
And then it happened—the thick crush of guests parted ever so slightly and Lavinia Tempest—the girl who couldn’t dance, who left fires and wreckage in her wake, who hadn’t a social grace to her name save one—saw an escape that was perfectly suited for her.
An empty seat at the Earl of St. John’s personal gaming table.
Lord Charleton turned to Tuck. “This is all my fault.”
Tuck shook his head. “Yours? Hardly, sir. My mother is the one to blame.”
His uncle glanced away, and it was Lady Aveley who spoke up. “Tell him everything.”
“I gave Jenny carte blanche to help Lavinia get noticed.” He sighed. “She most likely took her somewhere where she thought she could slip about unnoticed. A masked ball of some sort.” Then he looked up at Tuck. “Have you any notion where your mother might go?”
Unfortunately he did. “St. John’s Folly.”
Lady Aveley gasped. “No! Why she’ll be ruined. Utterly.”
Tuck had already thought much the same thing. “I’ll go get her.”
“We all must go,” Lady Aveley said, determination and steel in every word.
“Yes, we’ll all go,” Lord Charleton agreed.
“No.” Tuck shook his head. “If the two of you arrive, it will draw suspicion upon us.”
“But—” she began to protest.
“My lady, have you ever attended one of the earl’s gatherings?”
“I should say not!” she replied with all the indignation of a proper matron.
“Exactly,” Tuck told her. “And if I were to guess, neither have you, Uncle. I, on the other hand, will fit right in. No one will think it amiss if I am in attendance.”
Lady Aveley wasn’t convinced. “But Lavinia will need—”
“—Tuck,” Lord Charleton told her. “She needs Tuck. He’s got the right of it, Amy. He’s the only one of us who can go in that den of snakes and move about without notice.”
“Yes, well, my lesser qualities have finally come to some use. Slithering about with the snakes,” Tuck joked, albeit a bit weakly.
“Never thought I’d say it, but I suppose it is a good thing you’re a bit of a ruin,” his uncle relied. “Go get her, my boy. Bring her home. In the meantime, I’ll warn Piers.”
Tuck nodded. While his first instinct was to rush off to rescue the maiden, he paused and considered lessons he’d learned at the foot of the Honorable. “Uncle, do you have a mask I can borrow? And I’ll have that bit of brandy after all.”