“We shall restore our good names tonight, Louisa,” Lavinia told her twin, giving her hand a squeeze. They stood at the doorway of Lady Gourley’s town house and Louisa, just seconds earlier, had come to an abrupt halt. “Just you see,” she reassured her.
Certainly, Lavinia wanted to prove all the old gossipy cats wrong, almost as much as she wanted to feel as she had in Tuck’s arms.
No, make that Mr. Rowland’s arms.
No more than it was proper for him to call her “Livy”—of all the ridiculous presumption—would it be for her to think of him as “Tuck.”
Yet when he had whispered with such intimacy into her ear . . . Oh, heavens, it made her heart flutter ever so oddly.
Much as it had when she’d been dancing with him. Of course, then her heart’s unlikely rhythm was understandable—for she’d been dancing—perfectly and elegantly. As if she could fly.
And Tuck had done that. For her.
She tamped down a small smile and looked over at her sister.
“This is a bad idea,” Louisa said in a mulish tone.
“Nonsense, my dear,” Lord Charleton told her, prodding the two of them forward. “You’re borrowing trouble.”
Lavinia couldn’t agree more. She had tried to buoy her sister’s spirits, much as Mr. Rowland had done hers, but Louisa was resolved.
They were ruined, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Though Lavinia suspected that if Viscount Wakefield had poked his nose out his front door instead of remaining holed up in his house like a troll under a bridge, her sister’s opinion might differ.
“Yes, indeed,” Lady Aveley agreed—even if it was a little too readily and a far sight too brightly. “The ton is a fickle lot. I’m sure everything has been forgotten.”
Lavinia nodded in agreement, for hadn’t Tuck said much the same thing? He had been right about her dancing, and she held every hope he’d be right about this.
After all, he’d promised.
Besides, her new gown and slippers were entirely proper. She checked that off her list. Lady Gourley was a well-regarded hostess, and her kindness would go far. Check and double-check. Finally, she could dance, and certainly that would help when everyone saw she wasn’t some cowhanded country miss without a notion of proper behavior.
Check and check again.
Lavinia’s buoyed spirits carried her right up to the entryway of Lady Gourley’s ballroom, where she reveled for all of two ticks of the large clock behind her in her impending success. Yet in those moments, everything changed.
Their appearance stopped nearly every conversation. The only ones still nattering on were the old cats in the wings who were too nearsighted and/or deaf to realize something scandalous was bubbling up.
Noses rose in the air, backs turned toward them, and any interest in their arrival was shuttered against as quickly as the sudden arrival of a bitterly cold northern gust.
“Oh, heavens, no,” Lady Aveley muttered under her breath as she looked across the crowded room—which seemed to be parting into two camps—neither of which appeared to hold a single ally.
At the end of the room stood Lord Ilford. The marquess raised his glass to their party, a wicked smile on his lips.
“What the devil is he about?” Lord Charleton muttered. “I won’t stand for it.”
The baron began to move forward, a determined and ruthless set to his jaw, but Lady Aveley caught him by the arm and anchored him in place, all the while smiling. “Whatever you are considering, be mindful of the consequences, my lord.”
Her words were enough to get the baron to look away from the object of his ire to the stormy waters surrounding them.
He muttered something under his breath, then, like Lady Aveley, pasted a jovial expression on his face and went forward to greet their hostess as if nothing were amiss. “Lady Gourley, it has been far too long. My dear Isobel always spoke so affectionately of you and your social prowess. I can see she wasn’t wrong, but then again we both know she rarely, if ever, was.”
Lady Gourley opened her mouth, her lips fluttering like the fan in her hand, as if she couldn’t quite find the words to reply.
Lord Charleton, for all his bluff and bluster, showed a side of himself that Lavinia had yet to see. All charm, he drew Lady Gourley’s hand to his lips and spoke in a confidential tone. “I knew I could count on Isobel’s dearest friends to see her goddaughters through their first Season.”
Yet his charm was for naught. Nor was his call to old friendships and loyalties. Lady Gourley’s brow furrowed like a deep, thick field, and her jaw finally stopped wavering. “Lord Charleton, there seems to be some mistake. I sent a note.” The lady flicked a hard, determined glance toward the ballroom doors.
Her meaning could not have been any clearer. Please see yourselves out.
Hopes and dreams, Lavinia discovered, were not unlike champagne. For every bubble that rises in that effervescent scramble ends its wayward ascent with a sharp pop, lost forever into the ether.
Frantically, her gaze searched for Tuck. He would make this right.
He’d promised.
“A note? I fear it did not reach my notice,” Lord Charleton was saying, managing to look positively bewildered, as if he had no idea why she would have to send a note. He glanced over his shoulder at Lady Aveley, who gave a little shake of her head as if she was equally perplexed.
Lavinia had to hand it to them, they were quite a pair of thespians. Playing willful ignorance, as if that would erase the dire sentence being cast down upon them.
“Come my dear girls, it appears the dancing is about to begin,” Lord Charleton announced walking past an open-mouthed Lady Gourley. “Perhaps some punch beforehand.” He took a quick glance back. “My compliments, madame. It appears you’ve managed quite the crush.”
“Well, we’ve stormed the gates,” Louisa said in a practical sense. “But have you any notion how we are to win the war when we are surrounded by enemies on all sides?”
And enemies they were. Lady Blaxhall strolled past them, and the widow eyed them both with cool disdain. She whispered something to her companion, and the pair laughed, all while looking at the sisters.
“Jealous, spiteful woman,” Lord Charleton muttered. “If ever there is a silver lining, it is that Wakefield is well rid of her.”
“She certainly holds no affection for us,” Louisa said. “Then again, it appears no one does.”
Rather than admit that her sister was right, Lavinia glanced around looking for a friendly, familiar face—perhaps Harriet, or Daphne, or even Tabitha, their dear friends from Kempton who had come to London and made glorious matches.
Taking one more searching glance, Lavinia was loathe to admit that this second time she was looking for a particular gentleman. But any sign of his tall frame and easy smile could not be found.
Worse, the deeper they waded into room, the more fans that snapped shut as they came past, the more backs that were turned toward them, and Lavinia’s heart fluttered with a different refrain. For every snap left her feeling torn asunder, because she knew all too well that even if her knight-errant arrived, not even he could save the day.
Tuck arrived at Lady Gourley’s late.
Which wasn’t unusual for him, but this time he found himself hurrying up the steps in a state of anticipation.
He’d even left what might have been a profitable card game to be here.
To see her.
Well, not to see her. Precisely.
But then he envisioned her as she’d looked at Ponthieux’s, a bit disheveled, a few stray strands of her dark hair tumbling down and her eyes—those demmed blue eyes of hers—sparkling with a rare delight.
He’d lived too long in London, amongst the jaded hearts of the ton, and had all but forgotten what joy looked like.
Pure, innocent joy. She’d quite startled him senseless.
And he was loath to admit, but that was what he feared he would find when he entered Lady Gourley’s ballroom.
Lavinia Tempest gazing up at some lordling or gentleman with the same magically enchanting light in her eyes.
He shook his head and told himself he was being ridiculous—because that very sight was the object of his desires—no, not desire, per se—make that the object of his future interests.
She’d catch the eye of every bachelor in search of a wife and have a crowd around her after the first reel.
And then he’d be well on his way to seeing Ilford’s ill-made wager wipe away his outstanding debts.
He might even be able to pay Falshaw’s back wages. Or at the very least a good portion of them.
All because that winsome little chit had found her footing.
Tuck grinned. For all her claims that she couldn’t dance, she’d been light as a feather in his arms, entirely enchanting with that delighted smile on her lips, her flashing eyes bright with joy.
All in all, Tuck felt as if his recent spate of bad luck had turned a corner.
He handed his hat and coat to the butler and strode confidently into the ballroom. A crush greeted him, but almost immediately he was greeted by a familiar voice.
“Surprised to see you here, Rowland.”
He turned to find Lord Rimswell leaning against the wall. “Why is that, Brody?”
Having known the man since childhood, Tuck had a hard time thinking of him as Rimswell, the title Brody’s older brother had held for a number of years.
“Ilford will be delighted. He’ll have someone else to crow over.” Brody pushed off the wall and came to stand beside Tuck.
He didn’t like the way that sounded. “How so?”
“You know the man. Always relishes a chance to rub salt in a wound. Especially when he smells blood.”
“Blood? Hardly.” Tuck rose and straightened his shoulders. “I’ll have you know I’ve set this all to rights. Ilford hasn’t a chance—”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brody told him, nodding toward the far wall.
Tuck first looked about the dance floor, confident he would see a certain mahogany-haired beauty being squired by some viscount or other gentleman of impeccable breeding.
But Miss Tempest was nowhere to be found. Not there, at least. Then he looked at Brody again and found the man’s gaze fixed on a point farther away.
The spot usually reserved for those unfortunate souls who had managed to gain entrance to the hallowed halls of the ton but really didn’t belong. If anything, they filled the wings and room to give it that essential volume that enabled a hostess to cry out the next day in feigned dismay that her soiree or ball or musicale was a “dreadful crush.”
In truth, the wallflowers were key to her triumph. Thus the invitations.
So Tuck looked beyond the Diamonds and Originals. Beyond the Corinthians and those esteemed few who held sway. Beyond that to the fringes.
And there to his horror stood his uncle and his charges.
Not just pressed to the wall, but in a far, lonely corner.
“No one will pay them any heed,” Brody remarked. “Ilford has done his damnedest to see that they are given the cut direct.”
“No,” Tuck said, the word writhing in this gut.
Then he looked again and found the marquess holding court in the middle of the room, several matrons fawning about him, while the usual gossips and Tulips fluttered about, close at hand to catch any bit of the man’s viperous words.
“I’ll kill him.”
Brody shrugged. “Won’t help them,” he replied. Then he was more succinct. “Won’t help you.”
Tuck opened his mouth to argue the point, but the younger man cut him off. “You take on Ilford directly, you will be all but admitting defeat. Then again, since no one is likely to invite them anywhere—certainly not after tonight—the Tempest sisters are finished.” He looked over at Tuck. “As are you, I’d imagine.”
Tuck tried to breathe. Tried to quell the panic growing inside his chest. But . . . but . . .
“Too bad,” Brody remarked. “They are a fetching pair.”
Tuck latched onto this like a drowning man being tossed a rope. “Then you go ask one of them to dance.”
But Brody was already shaking his head. “I’m not sacrificing my new boots for your sorry wager. You dance with one of them.”
“Can’t,” Tuck told him.
“Can’t?”
He shook his head. “Would look like I was desperate to save my wager. Or worse, my uncle had put me up to it. Wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Poor girls. They are truly rather innocent in all this.”
Brody groaned even as he took another glance in the direction of the Tempest sisters, his all-too-obvious honorable nature taking over.
Just as Tuck had hoped.
“You did call them ‘fetching,’” he prodded.
That was all the nudge that was needed. “Demmit!” the young baron cursed. “You’ll owe me, Rowland.” But he set off across the ballroom, willing to sacrifice the gloss on his boots for a higher calling.
His spot was soon filled by none other than Ilford himself.
“Sad about your uncle’s pretty goddaughters,” the marquess said in a friendly tone as if they were old friends.
“Sadder still that you’ve gone and ruined their chances,” Tuck replied.
“Ruined their chances, improved my own,” the man said in an offhanded manner. “Either way, I come out the winner.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Ilford.” Tuck glanced at the dark bruise that marred the marquess’s face from where Viscount Wakefield had planted an excellent facer the other night.
And how Tuck wished he’d been the one to land the blow.
And Ilford knew it. “That sounds like a threat, Mr. Rowland.”
Tuck knew what the man was fishing for—another disturbance, another chance to bring down shame on the Tempest sisters. Still, that didn’t stop his fists from tightening.
“I would think you wouldn’t want to provoke another scene, Ilford. You’ll hardly be welcome anywhere if you keep ending up on the floor,” Tuck replied as nonchalantly as he could. “People will think you’ve taken to drink. Or that you simply belong down there—beneath all our feet.”
“I cannot wait to see you ruined,” Ilford said, his narrow lips curling. Then he glanced downward, where Tuck’s fists were balled tight, and he must have thought better of provoking him, for he smugly retreated, much to Tuck’s relief.
For another few taunts, and Tuck wouldn’t have been willing to walk the path of restraint. For Brody had been right—he had a tightrope to walk at the moment. One that had to carry him through this wager. Him and her.
Miss Tempest. When he looked in her direction all he saw was a girl with a smile that was a tad too bright. Oh, her nose was turned up just so, all defiance and pride, but her smile and her eyes told the real story.
Her heart was breaking.
Damn.
Tuck shoved back a sudden tide of guilt and fury. This was all his fault.
Well, that and Piers. If his cousin hadn’t hauled off and tapped Ilford’s claret in front of half the ton, the man wouldn’t have been spouting such foul words at White’s, and Tuck wouldn’t have made such a foolish wager.
And . . . and . . . and . . .
All water under the bridge, as his Uncle Hero would say. Spilt milk can’t be tucked back into the cup. Or his most astute maxim:
Don’t wager what you can’t afford or can’t outrun.
But there it was. Tuck was mired up to his neck, and he had to find a way out. As he’d done so many times before.
Yet this time . . . oh, bother, something about this time was all different. Tangled him up in ways he couldn’t fathom.
Where before he wouldn’t have cared if he’d slighted a debutante, left a lady in some bit of scandal—after all, that was what he did, at least according to his uncle and a good part of society, but this time . . .
Everything was different. He was different.
And right now he didn’t have time to consider just exactly what was wrong with him.
Certainly, all of it would be righted when the Right Honorable Lord Rimswell asked Miss Lavinia Tempest to dance. Brody couldn’t be more respectable if he tried, and his good opinion would go a long way.
Then to his horror, Brody’s progress came to a halt by none other than Lady Rimswell.
The formidable old dowager had her only remaining child in a death grip and appeared to be giving him a thorough wigging.
And worse, it appeared his Uncle Charleton was making a quiet retreat toward a side door.
They were giving up?
No! No! No! Tuck wanted to shout. And yet there they went. One by one, slipping out the side door. The last one to go was Miss Tempest.
His Miss Tempest. Livy, stop, he wanted to tell her.
By chance, she took one last glance back at the ballroom. She didn’t see him, but he saw the bright glisten of tears in her eyes. And he could well imagine the recrimination there as well.
You promised . . .
“Whoever is it that you seek, Lord Rimswell?”
“Pardon?” Brody glanced up. He had just divested himself of his mother and now yet another was blocking his path. He did his best to be polite. “Ah, Miss Stratton. How are you this evening?”
“Quite well, not that you would notice,” Roselie replied sharply.
“How can I not? You look as fetching as ever,” he replied, all the while glancing up and toward the spot where Lord Charleton and the Tempest sisters had been.
Had, being the point of the matter. Oh, where the devil had they gone?
“Spanish coin, my lord,” Roselie told him with a dismissive flutter of her hand. “But then again, you haven’t answered me. Who are you looking for?”
“Miss Tempest,” he told her. “Damn this bloody crush. It is nigh on impossible to find anyone. I can’t see her anywhere.”
“They’ve left,” Roselie told him.
“Gone?” he sputtered.
“Yes, that’s usually what ‘left’ means.”
Tart-tongued little minx. She was the devil’s own. No wonder she was on her—what—fourth Season?
To his relief, Tuck came wandering up and joined them. “Cousin,” he said with a short bow to Roselie.
The lady snorted. “Don’t cousin me, you rogue. We are hardly related.”
Tuck turned to Brody. “What the devil happened? You lost them!”
“My mother,” he had to admit—though he didn’t have to stand in shame for long, for it became apparent that Miss Stratton wasn’t going to be left out of the conversation.
Much to Brody’s relief she turned her razor’s wit directly at Rowland. “Whatever are you doing here? Isn’t it bad enough what you did to that poor gel at Almack’s?”
Tuck took her chiding in stride. “For someone who is hardly related to me, you certainly take a great interest in my business.”
“Have you not thought of how this will reflect on our uncle?”
At this, Roselie’s adversary grinned. “So you do admit that we have a relation in common.”
The youngest Stratton barely even flinched and went right back to lobbing her artillery at her “cousin.” “You’ve ruined her, Tuck, what with that dreadful display at Almack’s and now some vulgar wager with Ilford. Really! You’ve gone and done the Tempest sisters no favors.”
Brody felt as if he was watching a tennis match, for here was Tuck firing back, unwilling to concede defeat.
“I can hardly be blamed for Almack’s. I wasn’t in my right mind—”
“As if you ever are,” she returned with alacrity.
Tuck was enough of a gentleman to ignore her insult. “—when I spied Piers having that row with Ilford, I merely came to his aid. I don’t see why you aren’t—” Then he stopped, for it appeared he’d finally caught up with what she’d said before. “Just a moment. Whatever do you mean by some ‘vulgar wager’?”
Roselie looked from him to Brody and back again. Huffing with dismay at their feigned expressions of innocence, she shook her head. “I know you wagered Ilford an ungodly sum of money that the Tempest sisters could be raised above their current misfortunes—”
“That’s putting it politely,” Brody muttered.
“I’m a lady,” Roselie reminded him. “As I was saying, you bet those girls would be Originals before a fortnight was out, did you not, Tuck?”
Unthinking, Brody rose to his defense. “I say, Roselie, however do you know what happens at White’s? Those are private matters.”
Then Brody realized what he’d done—he’d unwittingly just confirmed the truth for the intrepid chit.
For while Roselie might favor her beautiful mother in looks, she had her father’s keen wits. Woe be it to the man who tangled with her.
Which right now was him.
“Private!” She scoffed again at both of them as if she’d never met such fools. “There is nothing private in London.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Brody muttered, glancing around the ballroom and feeling finally that he had the upper hand over her.
For there were some matters she wasn’t party to. And never would be.
“And what would you have me do, coz, since you have taken such a keen interest in all this?” Tuck asked.
“See that you don’t lose,” she told him. “I despise that horrid man. It would be nice to see him get his due.”
Meaning Ilford.
“I took Lavinia to see a dancing master. Thought that might help matters,” Tuck confessed, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t, for Roselie’s brows drew up in a most expressive manner of shock. “Yes, well, she was quite improved by the end of the lesson.”
“A dancing lesson? That was your solution?” Roselie looked like Lord Howers when he was about to give some new agent at the Home Office a devil of a time for failing to notice a critical detail. “And how would that solve anything? Especially given the gossip about their mother.”
Before Tuck could answer, she stopped him by raising her gloved hand. “Tuck Rowland, you know as well as I, probably more so than anyone in this room given the number of ladies you’ve led astray, that a girl with scandal attached to her name is not forgiven, not like you devil-may-care rogues always are.”
Brody would have agreed with her, but that hardly seemed sporting to leave Rowland out hanging.
“No, it is going to take more than a mere dancing lesson to help the Tempest sisters,” Roselie told them both. “But that might be a good pretext to begin with—” Her jaw set, and her gaze took on a faraway expression that suggested she was plotting something more. “If this is to be done properly, you both will need my help.”
“Me?” Brody sputtered.
“Us?” Tuck echoed, shaking his head.
“Yes. The two of you. Something should be done. Besides, I do believe Piers rather fancies Miss Louisa. And if that particular Miss Tempest makes my brother happy, then we need to set this all to rights.” She looked them both over while they gaped at her in return. Poking her finger into Tuck’s chest, she started with him. “You were his best friend. You two were inseparable. And whatever happened between the two of you, I don’t care, I only want to see my brother happy again.”
“I hardly see how I—” Brody began, hoping to find a way to extract himself from this encroaching tangle.
“Oh, you will help as well, Baron Rimswell,” she replied. “You owe your brother as much. Piers admired Poldie, called him the finest man who ever lived. You can’t let that memory be tarnished. Wouldn’t be honorable.”
Oh, yes, if there was anyone who could pluck at the very heart of something, it was Miss Roselie Stratton. No polite mincing of words or dancing around a subject.
Brody worked his jaw back and forth in consternation because for the life of him he couldn’t come up with a single protest. Not one that didn’t leave him sounding like a complete ass.
“Bring Miss Tempest around Monday afternoon,” Roselie was telling Tuck.
“Which one?” Tuck had the temerity to ask.
“Well, certainly not the one Piers fancies,” she told him without missing a beat. “He’s probably still a pretty fair shot.”
Oh, yes, nothing escaped Roselie.
Then she continued, “Maman is always out on Monday afternoons, so I’ll have Herr Fuchs sent round. He’s a regular martinet, but if anyone can put the right foot where it belongs, it is Herr Fuchs.” She paused for a breath and continued like a general snapping out orders. “Besides, I must get to know her if I am to help her. We haven’t much time.” Her brow arched at Tuck as if he should have made his wager with far more than just a fortnight in which to bring about a miracle. “In the meantime, cousin, you owe that girl an apology.”
“I—I hardly—” Tuck began.
“Don’t argue with me,” she told him. “Tomorrow. Apologize to her. Flowers are in order as well.” She stopped and looked him up and down. “Well, what are you waiting for? You are hardly helping matters standing around here feeding the gossips. Off with you.”
And so dismissed, Tuck made a hasty bow and departed.
Brody wished with all his heart he could do the same, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of a good excuse.
Nor did it seem that Roselie was done with him. “You’ve spent the entire evening searching the room for some lady. Who is she?”
He straightened up and looked anywhere but at the lady beside him. “I have no idea what you mean.”
She snorted again. “At balls, from your box at the theater, even at Almack’s, you spend your evenings searching for someone. I just would like to know who is this paragon you seek. Perhaps I can help you find her.”
He continued to feign disinterest. “You’ve always had the devil’s own imagination, Miss Stratton,” he told her, folding his arms over his chest and tipping his nose in the air. “There is no mysterious lady.”
“So now I’m Miss Stratton? My dear Lord Rimswell, there was a time you always called me Roselie, you even for a time called me Peach—though I’ve forgetton why.”
“Because you would tattle on me,” he replied. “That, and you hated it.”
“Oh, I did hate it, but Peach would be a vast improvement over the stuffy, horrid way you say ‘Miss Stratton.’ You make me feel a hundred and five. As if we were never friends, and we were, friends. Good friends. And the one thing I do recall is that we never told each other falsehoods.” Roselie rocked on the heels of her slippers. “So who is she, this woman whom you seek?”
“There is no one, Peach,” he told her, smiling slightly.
If he thought he’d gained the upper hand, he’d forgotten that this was Roselie.
She smirked up at him. “Then again, perhaps I’ve mistaken you entirely. Tell me, is it a gentleman you seek?”
Oh, yes, that was enough to topple him from his imperious stance. Brody’s head nearly spun off his neck, and his mouth dropped open at the very suggestion.
“Certainly not—” he sputtered out. And after a moment of consideration, his brows furrowed. “You shouldn’t know about such things.”
“And yet, I do,” she replied with a smug confidence. “You would be amazed at what I’ve learned over the course of three Seasons, Lord Rimswell. And whom I know.” She began to saunter away, but a few steps into her departure, she looked over her shoulder at him. “When you are ready to find her, Brody, let me know. I’d be more than happy to help.”
That will never happen, Brody would have liked to tell her as she waded into the crowd.
Mostly because there was a singular problem with his search.
He didn’t know who the lady was.