It Started With a Whisper Page 9

  She watched him go, the tiger once more, lithe and fluid, searching amongst the wildebeests for his prey.

  “Shoulders back, girls.” Mrs. Nichols snapped open her fan. “The gentlemen approach.”

  It was true, Tensford had wished nothing more than to strangle a couple of the lordlings who had so mocked him, but he knew the manly importance of being able to take a joke. His forbearance had done him good, it seemed. A few of his contemporaries had approached him to commiserate.

  “Young idiots,” Lord Montbarrow said with a roll of his eyes. “They’ll find some other poor sod to torture, in good time.”

  It sounded similar to what Lady Hope had said of Bardham. He could see her from their corner of the ballroom. She looked flushed and lovely as she went through the rigorous steps of a country-dance.

  “Eh, Tensford?”

  He started. “I’m sorry?”

  The viscount pursed his lips as he looked Tensford over. “I don’t suppose it’s true that you locked your aunt away in the attics on bread and water?”

  “Worse,” Tensford replied, deadpan. “I put an end to her outrageous household expenses.” He looked to the heavens. “She was buying new livery to suit every season and when I refused to build her a conservatory, she hired an army of gardeners to keep fires going in the orchard, in an attempt to grow palm trees larger than the ones in her neighbor’s hothouse.”

  “What puts these maggots in their heads?” one of the other gentlemen asked. “My mother keeps ten dogs and two small pageboys to follow the lot of them around all day. The boys carry bones and biscuits for the dogs and extra shawls and quills and gloves for my mother, so that she never has to run and fetch the smallest thing.” He shook his head. “I wish I could cut her expenses.”

  “Oh, I did worse,” Tensford confessed. “I closed up the estate house where my aunt was living to save the expense, and forced her to move into the dower house with my mother.”

  Someone sucked in a breath. “You might as well have stuck her in the attics.”

  They all laughed.

  “Yes. The damned house has twenty rooms, but apparently that’s not close to enough for the two of them.”

  “It wouldn’t be enough for me either, had I to live with my mother,” Montbarrow said with a shiver.

  They compared familial horror stories for a while, then moved on to discuss the latest crop of debutantes.

  “A smallish group this year.”

  “Yes, and more than one who is a bit . . . rambunctious,” Montbarrow remarked. “There are a couple who should take care before they end up on the wrong side of Lady X’s pen, like poor Tensford, here.”

  “Yes,” someone said, low and snide. “And none more than the youngest of our host.”

  “Not the young Lady Margaret?” Tensford strove to sound surprised.

  “Yes, her. She looks coltish and innocent, but I hear she has a temper—and a defiant streak.”

  “Lady X may write what she wants of the girl, but it will never get published. Not even if it has more substance than Tensford’s supposed sins,” Mr. Neville, a younger son of the Baron Longley, said with a raised brow.

  “Why not?” Montbarrow asked, indignant on Tensford’s behalf.

  “Perhaps she is Lady X,” Tensford threw out.

  “No, it’s because Westmore is great friends with the man who prints the paper, Childers. Boyhood chums. His family will never feel the sting of Lady X’s sharp wit.”

  “Chit’s too young to be Lady X, in any case,” Montbarrow said thoughtfully. “Her scandal rag has been printed for years.”

  “And people have been trying to ferret her out for just as long.” Neville emptied his glass. “We’ll never know.”

  “Perhaps she is a he,” Tensford said, just to keep the conversation going.

  “Now there is a thought I hadn’t entertained.” Montbarrow looked much struck.

  “No—couldn’t be. She shows far too much interest in fashion,” Neville laughed. “And I mean the ribbons and furbelows, not in how easily they might come off!”

  The laughter was lower and more conspiratorial this time—as was the conversation that followed, about much different sorts of women.

  Tensford didn’t listen. Disappointment tasted bitter in the back of his throat. But this was just his first attempt. He sighed. There would be other ideas—perhaps the printer—and this night held promise to be the first he might actually enjoy in London. He’d gained a modicum of acceptance from his peers—and he still had his dance with Lady Hope to look forward to.

  He watched her throughout the evening, so clearly enjoying herself, just as she’d wished, and he realized her mere presence made him feel more at ease. And that it made him happy to see her happy. But it also made him . . . impatient.

  The more time he spent with her, the more he was drawn to her. He liked her smile. He liked the way she could listen with sympathy and not pity. Hell, he liked the way she actually listened, truly hearing what he said, without merely waiting for her turn to speak, to lecture, or to ask for things he couldn’t give.

  He liked the way her hair shone in the candlelight and how she looked both curvy and elegant in that dress.

  Two thousand pounds.

  A handsome sum, but it lost in the balance against the sheer number of leaking roofs and crumbling barns at Greystone, not to mention the tenants in need of steady work.

  So he curbed his impatience. He talked with the gentlemen and even danced twice. And he squashed the eagerness and anticipation he felt when the time came for the supper dance and he could approach her at last. He kept his smile relaxed and he kept a rein on the tightening in his nether regions—all in spite of the way her low bodice hugged her curves and the rich color of her gown enhanced the flush of her skin.

  He bowed before her. “I believe this is our dance.”

  His hand held steady, his manner elegantly detached.

  He convinced himself that he could do this.

  And then the first strains of the music began.

  A waltz.

  A cursed waltz, where he was going to have to touch her, hold her, feel her hands on him.

  Damn.

  Chapter 5

  Have we, as a Society, given thanks for the waltz? Oh, but we must. To feel your partner move beneath your touch, to feel his arms around you . . . surely it is the most romantic dance of all time . . .

  —Whispers from Lady X

  Her heart pounded when the supper dance arrived—at last. Her excitement was partially due to her daring plan, of course, but that was not the full of it.

  Why did it feel like relief when Lord Tensford approached? Gladness and relief, as if it had been a trial to spend the evening away from his side?

  Breathing deeply, she managed to stay calm when he bowed over her hand—an effort that grew easier when the music sounded the first few strains of a waltz—and he looked horrified.

  She laughed. “Do relax, my lord. I promise not to step on your toes.”

  The stoic mask dropped back into place. “I wish I could promise the same, but it’s been some time since I waltzed.”

  “You are safe with me. Should you miss a step, I vow not to show a sign of it.”

  His mouth quirked. “Very well.” He held out a hand. “Let’s muddle through, shall we?”

  He led her out and eased them into the dance. The music swelled. Their eyes met—and the world went blurry at the edges. No need for her to dissemble, despite his worries. Effortlessly they moved together while the dancers, musicians, and all the rest of the ball disappeared in a colorful haze, melted by the heat of his hand at her waist. She shivered suddenly, as the warmth began to spread, chasing cold and doubt and fear away.

  Time slowed. She drifted, weightless, in his arms. Even the music had faded inside the bubble they’d slipped into. A place where they were connected in a way she had never imagined.

  Yes. This, whispered her soul. And she knew her instincts had been right and thi
s was exactly where they were meant to be.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Not yet.

  So she blinked and the world came back into focus and he, too, looked like he was awakening from a dream.

  Gradually, her wits returned. “So, how did you fare in your hunt, my lord?”

  “I . . . hunt?” He sounded more than a little befuddled.

  “For Lady X?” she prompted.

  “Oh.” He shook his head a little. “I hit a bit of a wall.”

  “I hope you won’t be offended if I say I am glad.”

  His gaze cleared as he met hers directly. “You don’t think she deserves to be held up to the same scrutiny that she focuses on others?”

  “I think revenge or retaliation rarely does anyone good, and can rebound upon the person seeking it.”

  A thunderous frown wrinkled his brow and he fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps I don’t need to expose her. But I do wish to confront her. I want her to look at me and hear about the shambles she’s contributed to in my life.”

  Hope didn’t respond. The waltz was coming to an end. She squeezed Tensford’s hand. “My lord, I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, bringing you tonight. Now it is your turn. The dance is winding down. Can you make sure we end it near those potted plants?” She nodded toward the corner.

  Surprise, and a mix of mischief and curiosity, chased his frown away. He nodded. “I am a man of my word, Lady Hope.”

  The waltz ended. The musicians stood and stretched and set their instruments aside. Couples joined the guests moving toward the rooms set up for dining, but Hope pushed Tensford behind the palms, placed conveniently to hide a servant’s door.

  “All of the servants are occupied with dinner,” she whispered. “The way should be clear.”

  She slipped through the door and started down a narrow set of stairs.

  He followed. “What are you up to? Have you an heiress hidden down in a coal larder?”

  “No. Shhh!” The stairs let out onto a wide passage. Kitchen sounds and barked orders sounded at the far end. She peered out, watching for her moment. “Now!”

  She dashed a short distance toward a wide door. He followed and then they were through, and out in the night air.

  “Quickly,” she told him. “We have to get there and back before the late supper is finished.”

  She pulled him past stacked crates, a privy and the kitchen gardens. A gate in the back led to a narrow street that stood between the house grounds and the mews.

  “What are you doing, Lady Hope?” he whispered, balking at last. “You cannot wander in the mews and back lanes! It could be dangerous.”

  She shook her head. “Bedford Square, my lord, if you will recall? It’s all locked up tight.” She gestured behind them, where the lane narrowed and eventually ended at a locked gate. “Perfectly safe.”

  “Unless you don’t get back before you are missed!”

  “Miss Nichols will cover for us. There are two separate dining areas. She’ll just tell her mama she saw us in the other one.”

  He considered that. “But where in blazes are you taking us?”

  “Just up here.” She dragged him along the row of houses. At the fourth one she stopped and traversed a path to the house that echoed the one they had already taken, where she knocked on the closed door.

  It opened immediately. “Come in quickly, Miss.” The maid led them further into the house and to a staircase on the other side of the similarly wide passage. The house lay dark and mostly quiet around them, although the clink of dishes could be heard from the kitchen area ahead. “This one leads to the family wing. Stop at the third landing and you’ll know where you are.”

  “Thank you, Mary. We won’t be long.” She started up the stairs.

  Lord Tensford did not immediately follow.

  “Hurry on, sir,” Mary urged. “It’s best for everyone if you are not seen.”

  Hope breathed a sigh of relief as his footsteps started after her.

  “Whose house is this?” he whispered. “What in hell’s bells are you up to, young lady?”

  She didn’t answer, just exited the stairway and counted doors until she found the right one, opened it and entered.

  He stopped on the threshold.

  She beckoned him in.

  “I think I will require an explanation before I enter a young lady’s bedroom,” he said sardonically.

  She crossed her arms. “I took a gamble bringing you here, Tensford. I did it because I know you are not Lord Terror, no matter what the ton says. I trust you. Now it is for you to decide. Do you trust me?”

  Heaving an exasperated sigh, he stepped in. “If we are caught . . .”

  “We will not be caught.” She closed the door behind him and turned up the two small lamps in the room. “This is the home of my friend, Miss Emma Atherton.”

  “If you wished me to meet her—”

  “That’s not why I brought you here,” she interrupted. “Miss Atherton is a fine young lady, but she and her family are away from Town, attending the Hadleigh fair.” She turned to him and put her hands on her hips. “I said I would prove to you that worthy young ladies do exist in the peerage. Miss Atherton is one, and she allowed me to set this up, so I could tell you about another. I want you to judge this girl’s heart, without the bias of family, connections, or money to interfere.”

  “Anonymously,” he said.

  “Yes.” Eagerly she gestured toward a writing desk. It was cluttered with fashion magazines, sketches, notes and letters. “I wanted to show you these. They belong to a young lady who was brought to London with her family, all save for a younger sister left at home. The younger girl is lame, you see. A withered leg, I believe. The light, diaphanous fashions of the last years put her at a disadvantage, emphasizing her uneven gait and crooked stance. It has made the girl shy about meeting people or appearing in public.”

  “A shame.” He frowned. “She would do better to let it show without comment. If she treats it as matter-of-fact, others will too, eventually. Though it may take some time.” He shrugged. “In any case, there’s no use hiding.”

  Was that what he was attempting, with the state of his own misfortunes? She’d seen the gentlemen talking with him earlier. Perhaps he was right, and it would work for him.

  “Her sister certainly wishes for the girl to go out into the world more. The fashions are changing, you see. Waists are lowering, fabrics are growing more varied, and heavier. This girl is searching out fabrics at linen drapers and in the shops of all the modistes. She’s making notes of fashions and how they might be adjusted. She’s drawing pictures and giving elaborate descriptions about current fashions and the ladies who wear them and the events to which they are worn. It’s a letter campaign, full of excitement and ideas. She’s trying to convince her sister that new styles and heavier fabrics will help disguise the first, obvious notice of her condition, working to persuade her that a slow and careful gait can look elegant and not just different.”

  He was listening. She could see it. But he hadn’t yet taken the point.

  She moved to pick up a letter. “I wanted you to see that this young lady is more than a flirt and a careless gossip. She might have frivolous moments. I’m sure we all do. But she’s investing a substantial amount of time into this project and in trying to draw her sister into the idea, developing her interest, and coaxing her out of her nest.”

  He nodded. “It is admirable. I grant you that.” He gazed across the cluttered desk. “It’s a lot of work and a fine cause. I wish her success.”

  She relaxed. She hadn’t been sure he would see what she wanted to show him.

  He gave her a pointed look. “You have a younger sister at home, do you not?”

  There it was. She’d been worried that he eventually would begin to put pieces together and make connections—and it was the first thing out of his mouth.

  “Yes.” She allowed herself to smile at the thought of her hey-go-mad sister. “Her name is Glo
ry. Oh, and she’s a handful, that one. My brother is going to have a time taming her and I look forward to watching from afar.” She laughed. “Although, if he is smart he will just bribe her with a prime, blooded mare. Glory is horse mad. She’s probably riding hell-for-leather across the Downs even as we speak.”

  She dropped herself into the desk chair. “But you have a sister as well.” She waved a hand over the collection of papers. “I’m sure you understand the urge to help out a sibling.”

  He shrugged. “My sister is older than I. The relationship is different.”

  “Are you two not . . . amicable?” The thought troubled her.

  “We were friends once, when we were younger. Though she swears I was a terrible pest, she did relent to my pleading once in a while and consent to a game of spillikins or hoops. She also hosted elaborate tea parties for her dolls and learned that our cook would provide real cakes if she invited me.” He chuckled.

  “What happened?”

  “We grew older. I was sent to school. She married and became concerned only with her status amongst the ladies of the ton.” His mouth twisted. “I think that now she could give your sister-in-law a run for Most Shrill.”

  Hope shivered.

  “Yes. But it’s not all bad. She’s not thrilled with me at the moment because I don’t have the funds to fulfill her latest loan request, but as she’s married and gone, she’s not utterly furious with me for destroying her status in the neighborhood at home.”

  “Oh. Your mother?”

  “And my aunt as well,” he nodded.

  “Because of the rumors?”

  “No. Because I leased Greystone Park.”

  She frowned, trying to understand.

  “Not the entire estate. Not the dower house where my mother and aunt live. Not the farms or orchards or tenancies. Just the main house and the gardens. I leased them to a merchant named McNamara. He’s obtained a staggering amount of success with his shipping concerns. He has the money, and now he wants his wife and daughter to learn the ways of the gentry so that he might get a noble grandson. He decided to give them a trial run in country society before he launches them on London.”