It Happened One Season Page 6

  Arms tightly folded, she glowered at him, yet no matter how much she lectured herself against trusting him, it was impossible to doubt the sincerity in his voice. His hypnotic and therefore untrustworthy, yet compelling and convincing, voice.

  Eventually she let her expression ease, let her arms fall, and sighed. “Very well. But now we have to face a major ton engagement ball.”

  His lips twisted in wry resignation. “And between then and now, I’ve been instructed that we have to attend at least one major ball every night.”

  She exhaled through her teeth. “Damn it! When I agreed to go along with this sham engagement, I had no idea matters would escalate like this!”

  He seemed to consider, then, his gaze still on her, softly said, “I really can’t see how we can avoid it.”

  She humphed, but he was right. She wanted to catch the blackmailer, and this was the price.

  Chapter Three

  Their first excursion as a formally affianced couple occurred the following evening when they attended a ball at Carrington House. It was one of the major balls held that evening, and Lady Carrington waxed delighted—nay, ecstatic—on spying them approaching her ballroom door.

  She gushed; she exclaimed.

  Tabitha kept a socially appropriate smile plastered to her lips. That Sebastian, too, seemed to inwardly wince, mollified her aggravation to some degree. He might have multiple reasons for keeping up their facade, but she, too, had incentive enough to play along.

  Parting from their hostess, they joined the throng of guests filling the room.

  “Another blasted crush.” Sebastian sounded distinctly unamused. “Enlighten me—why do ton hostesses consider assembling more guests than can comfortably fit in their rooms a good thing?”

  “You’ll have to hold me excused.” Tabitha inclined her head to a pair of distant acquaintances. “That’s something I’ve never fathomed myself.”

  The brief glance they shared heightened the sense that in this—in playing their roles and keeping up the charade of their engagement—it was the two of them in league against the fashionable world. Even if the fashionable world didn’t know it.

  “I fear,” she murmured, drawing her eyes from his, “that we’ll need to actively mingle.”

  He gave a soft, disgusted snort, but held his ground by her side as a veritable horde of garrulous and openly curious well-wishers all but lined up to speak with them.

  After half an hour of thinly veiled interrogation, Sebastian’s temper had eroded to a dangerous degree. He’d never found it easy to abide fools. Musicians had been sawing at their strings on and off for some time, but at last an area of the ballroom was cleared and the opening bars of a waltz reached his ears.

  Closing one hand about Tabitha’s elbow, he summoned the best smile he was currently capable of and fixed it on the tedious matron and her two giggling daughters currently standing before them. “I fear, ladies, that I must steal Miss Makepeace away. She promised me the first waltz, and I intend to claim the favor.”

  The glance Tabitha threw him clearly stated she hadn’t given the first thought to dancing, but the lure of an escape, however temporary, was difficult to resist.

  The three females facing them tittered in unison.

  Reinforcing her smile, Tabitha turned back to the trio. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  A rhetorical question, yet the three gratuitously assured them that they should certainly indulge in the diversion.

  Sebastian waited for no further encouragement. With a controlled nod, he drew Tabitha away.

  As the crowd parted before them, he lowered his head and murmured in her ear, “You do waltz, don’t you?”

  “Yes … but I haven’t in years.”

  “But you would waltz with your betrothed, wouldn’t you? That would be expected.”

  “Yes … that’s true.”

  She made no further demur as he steered her to the floor, then twirled her, stepped closer, and drew her into his arms. They stepped out, and the music caught them. It swirled and swept them up; the other dancers whirled around them, but in that instant they stepped onto a separate plane of existence, or so it seemed.

  A plane where their bodies flowed in concert, where he led and she followed … effortlessly. The rest of the guests were still there, but distanced, no longer impinging on their reality. He gazed into her eyes, bright hazel and wide, and was lost.

  Neither tall nor short, she was the perfect height for him. Slim and slender, almost willowy, she was supple and responsive in his arms. After their first circuit, he murmured, “I’m surprised you don’t dance more often—whenever the chance presents.” He let his lips curve understandingly. “It’s certainly preferable to the alternative.”

  Tabitha managed a reasonably sophisticated inclination of her head in reply. I didn’t know I could waltz like this, seemed too risky a confession to make. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could speak—her lungs had constricted, not with fear, but with the thrill of excitement. Of pleasurable expectation.

  Dancing had always been a chore, something one did because it was expected. She’d never enjoyed waltzing before, yet as the measure continued she only enjoyed it more. For quite the first time on a dance floor she relaxed in her partner’s arms; she had complete confidence in Sebastian’s skill. If he said he could do something, he could, and it had taken no more than half a minute to be assured that he could, quite definitely, waltz.

  So for the first time in her life, she dropped her guard and let herself flow with the dance.

  And enjoyed and appreciated as she never had before.

  Was it him? Or had she somehow, without being aware of it, changed?

  The analytical part of her mind wondered, and wondered if she should waltz with some other gentleman to learn the answer.

  But by the time the music slowed and, sharing genuinely appreciative smiles, they halted and he bowed and she curtsied, she’d concluded that pursuing that answer wouldn’t be wise. Learning that the only gentleman with whom she shared an affinity on the dance floor was her sham-intended, a fiancé who was that in name only and only temporary to boot, wouldn’t make her life easier.

  Determinedly smiling, she linked her arm in Sebastian’s. “Come on. If we stroll as if on our way to join someone, we won’t be quite as besieged.”

  With a nod, he joined her in projecting that image. Somewhat to her surprise, the next two hours passed in companionable, conspiratorial ease.

  The next day they attended an alfresco luncheon at Sion House. Lady Jersey had summoned the cream of the ton to assemble at noon and partake of a delicious picnic repast, then explore the delights of her rambling gardens. Well acquainted with the Makepeaces, her ladyship had sent a reminder the day before, which had loosely translated to Don’t you dare not come. The biggest gossipmonger in the ton was not of a mind to be denied their presence, and the associated entertainment.

  As Tabitha had always got along well with Lady Jersey, she’d inwardly sighed and obliged, but after two hours of being the cynosure of all eyes, the focus of all attention, when the guests spread out to roam the gardens, she stepped out briskly, ultimately leading Sebastian into the cool shade of the arboretum.

  Strolling the path wending among the mature trees, for the first time that afternoon they could speak privately.

  After glancing around and confirming no one had yet followed them into the cool haven, Sebastian snorted. “I’ve fought alongside cannons, but I can’t ever recall my head ringing as well as my ears.”

  Tabitha grinned wrily. “Our hostess does talk a lot, which opens the flood gates for others.”

  He glanced at her. “I’m surprised you and she get on.”

  “She’s a strong-willed woman who has forged her own place in society, more or less on her terms.”

  “Put like that, I can see the basis of your mutual appreciation.”

  “Indeed. I can understand her—she’s curious, as always, and senses there’s more to our engagement
than meets the eye, but she trusts my judgment, regardless. She’s intrigued, which is what I expected.”

  She ambled on; he followed beside and a little behind her.

  “What I don’t fully comprehend,” she went on, “is why everyone else—every last person I’ve met barring only those who had you in mind for their own charges—is so very happy that you and I are engaged.”

  Halting, she swung to face him. He halted, too. The slope of the path meant her eyes were nearly level with his.

  “I know why your family’s in alt, and why my family and connections are, but all the others—especially the parents of other marriageable young ladies—seem thrilled to the back teeth, too.” A dark cloud descended over her face. “I’ve a lowering notion it’s a form of relief—that now they can point to me and say, See? Even she is marriageable, so our daughters must be, too.”

  She paused, then humphed, swung around and ambled on.

  He followed. “Are you sure you’re reading them correctly? For my part, I’d interpreted their relief being because you, in your previous, unbetrothed, single-lady incarnation, were too compelling a role model for other young ladies—said marriageable but as yet unmarried daughters. You, single and unbetrothed, personified another path, one that did not include marriage, yet you were still recognized and accepted among the ton.”

  He watched her as she walked slowly just ahead of him. “I, too, see their reaction—their happiness at our betrothal—as primarily fostered by relief. But it’s the relief that you’ll no longer be there, a living, breathing counterweight to the customary arguments urging young ladies to marry—the alternative incarnate.”

  She slowed. He slowed as well.

  Eventually, she halted, paused, then swung to face him again. With her usual bold openness she studied his eyes, his face, then tilted her head. Eyes on his, conceded, “Perhaps. You may be right.”

  Other voices reached them. Tabitha glanced back along the path and saw a gaggle of young ladies coming along. She turned and led the way on. “Rothbury’s rendezvous with the blackmailer is three days away—we should start making our plans.”

  “The first thing to do,” Sebastian replied, “is to learn what we can about the lie of the land.”

  The ball that evening proved tedious in the extreme. Tabitha spent a good portion of it mentally distracted, contemplating Sebastian’s view of her as a role model for young ladies. It wasn’t so much him seeing her as such—she thought of herself in that light; it was one of the reasons she wasn’t happy about their charade—but rather that his tone hadn’t implied criticism, but acceptance, even a degree of approbation.

  The next day, she barely contained her impatience through the morning tea and luncheon she had to attend. If others interpreted her fidgeting as a symptom of unbridled eagerness to meet with her fiancé again … well, that wasn’t all that far from the mark.

  After some argument, she’d agreed to allow him to reconnoiter the Church of St. Clement Danes alone while she continued socially supporting the fiction of their engagement. He’d said he would go to Fleet Street that morning, and had promised to report fully when he called to take her up in his curricle for a turn about the park that afternoon.

  He dutifully arrived in Bedford Square at three o’clock. She rushed out from the drawing room where she’d been keeping watch—occasioning a knowing smile from her mother, which she’d ignored—and met him in the front hall.

  He smiled when he saw her.

  She tamped down the pleasure that rose in response. This was a charade; she mustn’t forget that. “So … ?”

  He took her cloak from Biggs. “I suggest we get going—the wind is chilly and it looks like it’s coming on to rain.”

  She humphed. “This is England—it’s always coming on to rain.” But she fell in with his transparent wish not to discuss their secrets in front of the staff, allowing him to settle the cloak about her shoulders, then she flipped up the hood, arranging it over her wild mass of hair before swiping up the reticule she’d left ready on the hall table. “Right. Let’s go.”

  He smiled and offered his arm.

  She took it and went quickly down the steps beside him. Taking his hand, she climbed into the carriage and sat. He climbed up and sat beside her, the reins in his hands; she held her tongue until the carriage started rolling, then demanded, “Well?”

  He grinned and glanced at her. “Patience.” He looked back at the road, at the approaching corner. After he’d taken it, he met her eyes. “There’s too much detail to relate in traffic. We’ll stroll in the park and I’ll tell you all without distraction.”

  So she had to wait some more.

  Yet when they were finally strolling the well-kept lawns leading down to the shores of the Serpentine, she couldn’t fault his openness, his unrestricted disclosure.

  After describing the layout of the church, he told her of this week’s calendar of events. “I even checked with the minister. There’s an early service that morning, but it’ll be long over. The church is always open from dawn to dusk for contemplation and prayer. I stayed from eleven o’clock until midday, just to see what it might be like—only one old lady came into the church, and she stayed for barely fifteen minutes.”

  She frowned. “That’s going to make watching for the blackmailer difficult.”

  “Indeed. I was going to suggest we watch from outside, but the church’s location negates that—there are four exits, and many ways to go the instant they step outside. Watching from outside is hopeless, not if we wish to be certain we’ve identified the real blackmailer and not just someone who’s wandered inside, then come out again by a different door.”

  “We can’t afford not to catch the blackmailer in the act, in the church, but then we’ll have to follow them outside, perhaps further, and pick our moment to confront them.”

  “Precisely. And from what you said, if we don’t succeed in identifying the blackmailer at St. Clement Danes, then learning of another rendezvous will be difficult if not impossible. We’ll have lost our only real lead.”

  She nodded, wondering how to achieve all they had to. “Is there anywhere inside we can hide? Some spot from where we can see the whole church. The choir stalls?”

  He shook his head. “I looked. There are a number of nooks, but every spot leaves too much of the church unobserved. We would hear someone come in, but if we then emerge to watch them, they’ll hear us and very possibly take fright. If they flee without picking up Rothbury’s package, there’ll be no way we can prove they’re the blackmailer and not some unwary soul who just happened to wander in and got unnerved by our presence.”

  He paused, then went on, “I really don’t think there’s any alternative but that we go in disguise.”

  She met his eyes. Saw something of her own—silly, ridiculous, perhaps even puerile—excitement at the prospect shining in his eyes. She grinned. “What should we go as?”

  He smiled, caught her hand, and drew her arm through his. Holding her close, he turned them back toward his curricle, parked on the Avenue’s verge. “Let’s discuss the possibilities.”

  Sebastian called at Bedford Square the following morning. Tabitha was—once again—waiting impatiently. He hid a smile at her unrestrained eagerness for his company; even if it was their joint mission that drove it, it was nevertheless balm to his ego.

  After greeting Mrs. Makepeace, he offered Tabitha his arm and they set out to walk the short distance to the British Museum. Along the way they entertained themselves with vitriolic observations on the previous night’s ball. “At least,” he observed, “being engaged, we’re now spared the worst of it.”

  “If we weren’t engaged, I wouldn’t have attended.” She arched a brow at him. “It’s you who our engagement has benefited in that regard.”

  “For which”—he caught her fingers and raised them to his lips, briefly kissed—“believe me, I’m truly grateful.”

  She humphed, but he detected a faint blush in her creamy cheeks
. The museum’s gates loomed ahead; they turned in and walked purposefully to the front steps, up, and through the large doors.

  “The Egyptian Hall,” Tabitha declared, and led the way up the main staircase.

  “Are you fascinated by mummies?”

  She glanced back at him. “No, but I thought the hieroglyphs might be of interest to you—or at least provide us with a reason for being there.”

  “True, but my interests lie more in the Assyrian and Mesopotamian systems, not so much the Egyptian.”

  Her lips quirked as she faced forward. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  They reached the Egyptian Hall, and found it helpfully deserted.

  “There was huge interest some years ago, when things Egyptian were all the rage, but that’s largely passed, so …” She whirled, arms spread. “We have the place to ourselves, as I’d hoped.”

  He smiled. “Excellent planning.”

  “I thought so.” She plopped down on a bench before one window. “Now cut line—what about our plans? Rothbury’s rendezvous is tomorrow—how are we going to be there and not scare off the blackmailer?”

  Assembling his thoughts, he sat on the bench beside her. “Definitely disguises—it’s the only way. But they must be the right disguises—the sort that will excuse us being there at that hour, and remaining for more than a few minutes.”

  Tabitha was relieved that he was still talking of we and not I; she’d fully expected him to try to insist that she didn’t need to be there. She’d been primed to protest and press her case; his lack of resistance to her involvement left her momentarily off balance. She didn’t make the mistake of imagining he lacked an active protective streak vis à vis herself; she’d seen evidence aplenty of it through the recent days, especially in the overcrowded ballrooms, where he invariably shielded her from the worst of the crush.