A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior (14 page)

Taking the closest chair, Bartholomew half fell into the seat. The grinding agony had gone from his leg, but it hurt enough that he knew damned well he shouldn’t be walking on it yet. Considering that his main goal in seeing it mended was so he could dance with Theresa, he supposed he could mangle it again now as he liked.

Thomas Easton rose from the table across the room and ambled over to him. Whatever Bartholomew thought of the man’s character, the fellow wasn’t shy about arguments. “Go away,” he said, before the former silk importer could pull out the neighboring chair.

“Newspaper says only one attack on travelers occurred in India last year,” the fellow commented, sitting anyway. “If we suppose that one attack was yours, then you’ve been exaggerating, Colonel. One man wounded and one man killed ain’t nearly the same as one man wounded and eight men killed.”

“Fifteen men,” Tolly corrected flatly. “The zamindar’s son and his attendants were murdered, as well.”

“I was only counting Englishmen.”

“Count whomever you damned well please, Easton,” Bartholomew snapped. “You didn’t have to write the letters to their families. I did. And I know how many men I lost. Nor am I likely ever to forget, whatever Lord Hadderly and his gaggle print.”

“You’ve read it, then,” the Duke of Sommerset said
as he crossed the room from the door that opened to his house proper. “Good. That saves me breaking the news to you.”

“I didn’t know you allowed victims of chicken thieves into the Adventurers’ Club, Your Grace. My uncle’s stableboy might—”

“Go away, Easton,” the duke interrupted.

Scowling, Easton picked up his glass of vodka and returned to his former seat. As tempted as Bartholomew was to ask Sommerset why he’d decided to invite the bag of hot air that was Easton to join the club, he kept his silence. He was on shakier ground than Easton at the moment.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he said instead.

The duke nodded. “I thought I might have to call on you, actually.”

That didn’t sound promising. Little as he cared to admit it, he respected the opinions of Sommerset and the men the duke had gathered here. They’d seen their way through things that would leave most members of the peerage quaking in their Hoby boots, if not dead. Being asked to leave their company…well, if they thought he deserved the ridicule and condemnation heading his way, he wasn’t likely to be able to convince
anyone
otherwise.

“How fares your leg?” Sommerset asked.

Bartholomew looked at the duke for a short moment. “I’d prefer to head straight for the end of this conversation, rather than meandering about the beginning.”

Steel gray eyes met his levelly. “I very rarely meander. How is your leg?”

“Mending, I think. I can feel my toes now. Thank
you for asking. Do I turn in my key to you, or to Gibbs?”

“I didn’t invite you to join this club because of the East India Company’s recommendation, so I don’t feel obligated to ask you to leave it because of their condemnation.” He sat forward. “On the other hand, if you mean to hide here until everyone forgets you were in India, I won’t allow it.”

“I won’t forget India,” Bartholomew retorted. “I don’t give a damn what anyone else remembers.”

“You’re welcome to take a room here again once the scandal ebbs. Give it a week. Perhaps a fortnight.”

“Yes, and then the next scandal from India will be about some lord’s son who goes looking for his fortune and ends up dead or missing.” He clenched his fist. “I don’t understand how the Company can turn its back on the memory of brave murdered soldiers and send others to join them when they know the cause of it.”

“Because the deity they worship has drawings of the king across it and is made of sterling silver.” Sommerset sent a glance at the open space around them. “What do you intend to do about this, Tolly?”

“I imagine I might find a few other Englishmen acquainted with the Thuggee and see if I can persuade them to corroborate my story with theirs.”

The duke smiled. “Perhaps I shall make a few inquiries along that line. There are some in the Horse Guards offices who owe me favors. Perhaps a look through the records would be helpful.”

“That would make you rather unpopular with the East India Company,” Bartholomew noted. Another pair of eyes and ears could be useful, but he refused
to have anyone involved who didn’t know the full measure of what they faced.

“Hmm. I believe I can look out for myself.” Sommerset moved his chair closer. “To my surprise, I find myself curious about the chit who had you thinking about dancing. How goes the hunt?”

Bartholomew shrugged, keeping his face carefully blank. “She likes to dance. She does not like scandal.”

“That is a shame,” the duke commented. “She seemed to improve your mood.”

“Yes, vain hope will do that. Now, however, you will find that my feet are firmly on the ground. Or my foot is, rather.”

“If that is the case, I recommend not tripping. If I discover anything of interest, I’ll contact you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sommerset stood. “One bit of advice. Don’t remain buried in your den, Colonel. The less everyone sees of you, the easier you will be to discount. And whether the Company likes it or not, you are a walking—limping—contradiction to their assertion that all is well in India.”

All was not well in India. Nor, however, was London turning out to be any safer.

Thankfully Lackaby arrived out the front door of James House at the same time as the hack Bartholomew had hired after he decided he couldn’t extend his luncheon at the Adventurers’ Club any longer.

“What the devil do you think you’re about, Colonel?” the valet asked, coming forward to half lift his employer to the ground.

Bartholomew pushed free as soon as he had his
balance. “I think you meant to say, ‘Welcome home, sir, may I fetch your chair for you?’ To which I would then reply, ‘Yes, thank you.’”

“Well, you’ve said all my bits, so I’ll go fetch the chair.”

No sooner had the valet pushed back into the house past the rather offended-looking Graham, however, than Stephen appeared. “Where the devil have you been?”

Everyone seemed to be singing the same tune. “I’ve been out. It’s called luncheon.”

“And didn’t you consider that we would be worried about you today and that you should have left word?”

“No, it didn’t,” Bartholomew said, blowing out his breath. “Apologies.”

“Then I…Oh. Accepted. Let me help you into the house.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Stephen nodded even as he grabbed Bartholomew around the waist and helped him up the front steps. “I wasn’t asking.”

Bartholomew untangled himself from his brother, eyeing the viscount. “You have a great deal of spleen today.”

“Well, you weren’t here, but we had several callers who came by to express their support of and belief in you. It was something of a pity we couldn’t trot you out to say thank you.”

He didn’t feel in the mood to be trotted out, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. “Who, precisely, came to express their support?” For a moment pretty ocean-colored eyes and hair the color of sun-
shine played across his thoughts. If she’d changed her mind, then she was the one. And he wanted so much for her to be the one.

“Humphrey, Lord Albert,” his brother began, “Mr. Popejoy, the Wellers, Aunt Patr—”

“The Wellers?” he cut in.

“Yes. Very kind of them, considering they’ve only known me for a year, and you only for a fortnight or so. Grandmama Agnes seems to have a very keen dislike of the East India Company.”

“Ah,” he ventured. “And Theresa?”

“She wasn’t feeling well this morning. I’ve noticed over the past year that she tends to avoid…upheaval.”

Upheaval. That was a good, polite word for it. But though he understood the reason Theresa disliked upheaval, and though he sympathized strongly with her sense of responsibility for her parents’ deaths, he would still rather have had her there.

“Are you going to stay about now,” Stephen asked, “or do you intend to vanish again?”

Bartholomew knew quite well what Sommerset had advised, but the duke had also practically banned him from the Adventurers’ Club. “I will leave that up to you, Stephen,” he finally said. “I intend to defend my reputation and that of my men, so this is likely to become unpleasant. And if I stay here, I won’t be the only one affected.”

His brother glanced toward the depths of the house for a long moment. At least he was taking this seriously, Bartholomew noted, whatever his answer would be.

“The more I read about the so-called frivolousness
of believing in the Thuggee,” he said slowly, “the more thankful I am that you survived.”

“Stephen, you—”

“If you’d been killed, or simply vanished, and the Company put out that nonsense of a report, I would be out for blood. As it is, I can only imagine the…outrage of the families of the men who didn’t return.” The viscount took a breath. “You are staying here, Tolly, if I have to remove every stair railing, cane, and wheeled chair from this house. Is that clear?”

Thank God for family. They stood by him, even if a witty, forthright chit of impeccable manners chose not to. “Very clear,” he said aloud. “Thank you.”

“Do you have any idea how you’ll fight these accusations?”

“Not yet.” A heavily breathing Lackaby arrived at the foot of the stairs with his wheeled chair and three footmen. Lackaby, who’d served in India as the personal valet to the future Duke of Wellington.

The valet swallowed, eyeing him. “You’ve got a bit of a…a look about you today, Colonel.”

“Do I? I was just thinking that you and I need to have a little chat.” As he sank into the chair, he shot another look at Stephen. “You’re going to a party tonight, are you not?”

“We were. Under the—”

“I’d like to go with you.”

Montrose walked up to Theresa before she even had time to relinquish her wrap and procure a dance card. “Tess, you put the sun to shame,” he drawled, bending over her hand with an exaggerated bow.

Whether the action was meant to inform her that
all was well and friendly in the ballroom or if it was a mere flirtation, she found it immensely reassuring. All day she’d been nervous about the Clement ball. What would she do when someone made a comment disparaging Tolly? She couldn’t laugh and go along with the defamations, because that was wrong. If she said something in his defense, though…Oh, what a blasted rat’s nest.

“I suppose I must grant you the waltz in exchange for your compliment,” she said aloud, shaking herself and forcing a smile.

“I think that’s fair enough,” Montrose agreed. His gaze took in the crowded room. “Any word from your fr—”

“Oh, is that Harriet?” Theresa interrupted. “That lavender is so lovely on her, don’t you think?” She waved. “Harriet!”

For forty-three minutes, it worked. By paying close attention, she deflected at least nine references by her friends that might possibly have been about Tolly. But then, in the middle of stopping another rumor by speculating over whether the wind might pick up tomorrow and give a chance for kite flying, she glanced toward the main ballroom doors.

Oh, my
.

He’d worn his uniform. Evidently Colonel Bartholomew James didn’t mean to sit quietly at home and wait to be forgotten. As she watched, he rose from his chair and stood to shake hands with the Duke of Sommerset. Chair waiting behind him or not, he looked…magnificent. A lion among sheep.

Her heart twisted in her chest. He could be hers.
The striking man in that striking red coat wanted to be with her, wanted her, and the only thing keeping them apart was those rumors, and her. Her and a set of rules she’d made for herself because of something that had happened thirteen years ago.

Tolly half turned in her direction, and Theresa quickly took a step behind the Marquis of Montrose. If Tolly met her gaze everyone would know she was a coward. And at the moment that seemed even more significant than accusations of impropriety. It all meant the same thing, though—she couldn’t be anywhere near him.

“Shall we take a stroll?” Alexander asked, his light blue eyes flicking a gaze between her and Colonel James.

“Oh, yes.” She grabbed onto his arm. “That would be splendid.”

In no time they were out of the ballroom and down the hallway to the quiet and thankfully deserted library. How was she supposed to avoid conversation about Tolly now? He was just a few doors away, and so…imposing. People might avoid insulting him to his face if they had any sense of self-preservation at all, but the chatter behind his back would increase tenfold.

“If you continue pacing like that, you’ll wear a hole into the breakfast room ceiling,” Alexander noted.

She hadn’t even realized she was pacing. “Apologies,” she said, stopping in front of him. “I seem to be a bit distracted tonight.”

Montrose tilted her chin up with his fingers. “Perhaps I can help.” Then he leaned down and kissed
her. Smooth, warm, and skilled, it caught her completely off guard. Slowly he straightened again, looking down at her. “Any better?” he asked.

“I—stop that.”

“Marry me, Tess. Say yes, and you’ll be a marchioness in a fortnight.”

Theresa blinked. It was such a simple request. Three words. A few weeks ago, that kiss and those words might have been enough to convince her. Suddenly everything seemed plainly, painfully clear. She wasn’t going to marry Alexander Rable and be the Marchioness of Montrose. She wanted to be with Bartholomew James.

And Montrose still stood there, gazing at her. Expecting an answer, this time. “As I said, Alexander,” she began, “I’m not ready to marry.” Her voice shook, but not because of the handsome man standing before her. Rather, she felt all shivery inside because of the man just down the hallway.

“Mmm-hmm. You’re not ready to marry, or you’re not ready to marry me?”

“Clearly they both mean the same thing, Alexander.”

“No, they don’t. I have no qualms over protecting your sensibilities if, in the end, doing so is to my benefit. Holding your hand while you decide to screw up your courage enough to approach him again, however, is something else entirely.”