Candice Hern (83 page)

And so each evening had been filled with parties, balls, routs, concerts, and every other sort of entertainment
ton
hostesses could dream up. Though she had not yet located Sedge, which was a puzzle to her, Meg had nevertheless managed to enjoy herself. It was much more fun to be accepted than to be ignored, to dance than to be a wallflower. After her last experience, Meg could never have imagined a Season could be so enjoyable.

And she used every opportunity to listen for news of Sedge. Twice, she had heard his name mentioned. It certainly sounded as though he was in Town. But why had she not seen him? Six years ago, he had been everywhere. She had understood from their conversations at Thornhill that he was a very sociable person who truly enjoyed all the frantic activity of the Season. Could he still be incapacitated by the broken leg? It seemed unlikely. His recovery at Thornhill had gone remarkably well. He should be out of the splint and walking fairly normally by now. So, where was he?

As the carriage finally reached the entrance to Grosvenor House and she mounted the steps on Terrence's arm, Meg thought—as she always thought upon first entering a ball or party—this could be the night.

* * *

Sedge grabbed a glass of chilled champagne from the tray of a passing footman. He moved behind a large potted plant and downed the glass in a single gulp. His shoulders sagged in relief. He had needed a drink to steady his nerves, but had promised Jack, and himself, that he would practice a little temperance on his first formal evening of the Season. But what harm could a bit of champagne do?

Sedge hid the empty glass in the leaves of the plant, then edged out from behind it. He placed his hands behind his back and strolled casually into the main ballroom, nodding and smiling at various acquaintances along the way. Lady Montrose's ball looked to be a rousing success. If Meg was there, it was going to be difficult to find her in the crush of people.

And he did indeed want to find her.

The fire in his bedchamber and the news of Meg's appearance in Town had the combined effect of knocking some sense into Sedge's hard head at long last. He came to realize how ridiculous his behavior had been, allowing himself to wallow in self-pity over Meg's rejection. And Jack was right. If he really felt that strongly about her—and he did—then he should not give up so easily. If only he could see her again, talk to her again, maybe he could turn her around. Or at least understand better why she had turned him down in the first place. Surely she owed him an explanation.

Sedge skirted the edge of the ballroom, keeping his eyes on the dance floor. No tall, red-haired woman in sight. He moved toward every cluster of gentlemen he saw, using his height to peer over shoulders in order to locate the woman who claimed their attention. None of the women was Meg.

"Looking for someone?"

Sedge turned to find the smiling face of Sir Gerald Hathaway, one of the young men who had joined him in carousing and gaming during his first days back in London.

"Hullo, Ger. Just looking around to see who's here."

"Thought you had left Town," Sir Gerald said. "Haven't seen you around. Noticed your knocker was removed."

"I am in Town, as you see."

"How's the leg?"

"Much better," Sedge said, looking down and flexing the limb in question. "No cane tonight. Don't think I'm quite ready to dance, though."

Just then a chorus of laughter floated up from a nearby group of gentlemen surrounding a dark-haired beauty. When Sedge turned back to Sir Gerald, the young man's eyes were fixed on the woman with open admiration. Sedge smiled. "So, why are you not a part of that beauty's court, Ger? Too much competition?"

Sir Gerald tore his eyes away and heaved a sigh. "I suppose so."

"Who is she?"

"Miss Sybil Danforth," Sir Gerald replied, pronouncing each syllable with reverence. "Old Perriton's granddaughter. Beautiful, ain't she?"

"She is," Sedge replied. He decided to probe a bit. "This Season's Incomparable, eh?"

"One of them," Sir Gerald replied.

"Only one of them? 'Tis a bountiful Season, then?"

"Oh, yes. Quite a few interesting new faces. There's Lady Susan Endicott, for example, just over there. See? The tall blond, all in pink?"

Sedge located Lady Susan and nodded. "Pretty," he said. "But not so very tall, I think."

Sir Gerald looked up at Sedge and laughed. "From your vantage, I suppose she does not seem so very tall. Oh! But there is one new incomparable who is quite tall indeed."

Sedge's heart began to hammer in his chest. Attempting to mask his excitement, he flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off his sleeve. "Oh?" he said in a bored voice.

"Yes," Sir Gerald said. "A Titian-haired giantess who must be almost as tall as you."

"Indeed?" Sedge said in a disinterested tone as he examined his fingernails. "How unusual. You must point her out to me at once."

"Oh, she ain't here," Sir Gerald said. "At least, I haven't seen her tonight."

"What a pity," Sedge said before stifling a yawn. Damn. He would have to seek her out somewhere else. But there was one thing he had to ask. Just to be sure. "What did you say her name was? This red-haired Amazon?"

"Oh. It is Miss Meg Ashburton. Her brother is Sir Terrence Ashburton. Owns Thornhill stables. You are sure to see her about. She seems to be everywhere." He laughed. "Can't miss her, you know."

Oh, but I can. And I do. Meg, where are you?

* * *

Meg strolled through one of the galleries at Grosvenor House accompanied by the Misses Willoughby, two young ladies who were nieces of Gram's friend Lady Stanton. The elder Miss Willoughby, Eugenia, was of an age with Meg and the two had struck up a comfortable friendship. While Eugenia chattered away about the questionable taste of the red-covered walls, Meg glanced about the room, as she always did, seeking a particular tall, blond gentleman. Suddenly, her gaze landed upon a familiar face in the adjacent gallery.

She laid a hand upon Eugenia Willoughby's arm. "I am sorry to interrupt you," she said, "but I see an old friend in the next room. I simply must go say hello. I hope you will excuse me."

"Of course," Miss Willoughby said.

Meg made her way to the adjacent gallery as quickly as possible, hoping she had not lost him. She soon located him in a far corner, his back to her as he spoke to a group of gentlemen. She stepped up quietly behind him.

"Mr. Herriot?"

He spun around too quickly and almost lost his balance. It was clear that Mr. Albert Herriot was foxed. His eyes bulged in astonishment when he saw her. His bleary gaze then traveled slowly up from her toes to her neckline, where it lingered too long before moving up to her face. Meg's cheeks flared and she would have liked nothing more than to whack him across the face with her fan. He made her feel as if she stood naked before him, and she wished now she had not spoken to him at all. But her only thought had been that he might lead her to Sedge.

"Miz Ashbur'n," Mr. Herriot said as he sketched a wobbly bow. He had moved slightly away from the group of gentlemen, and his eyes darted left and right, as though making sure they could not be overheard. "What on earth brings you t' Lunnon?" he said in a thick-tongued voice. "I never thought t' see you here."

Meg could not tell if he was surprised or angry, but he made her very uncomfortable in any case. She shrugged off his question. "My family simply decided to come to Town for the Season. That is all." Meg did not have the stomach for small talk with Mr. Herriot, particularly in his present condition. She determined to get straight to the point. "And how is your cousin?" she asked. "Lord Sedgewick?"

He snorted loudly and flung his hand as if he were shooing away a fly. "That idiot! Wha'd' you care 'bout him for? He's a fool. Shootin' at people. Throwin' people outa his house. Drinkin' alone. Bloody fool."

Though she could make no sense of his words, a tremor of fear ran down her spine. "Mr. Herriot? What are you talking about? What shooting? What has happened? Is Sedge all right?"

Mr. Herriot threw back his head and laughed, causing eyes to turn in their direction. " 'Course he's awright. He's always awright." He shook his head and laughed mirthlessly.

"But the shooting?" Meg prompted, her hands aching to slap the man silly.

"Oh, he blew a hole in a highwayman's shoulder, tha's all. Almos' blew my head off. Cork-brained idiot."

"You were held up by a highwayman?"

"Oh, yes. But good ol' Sedge saved the day," Mr. Herriot said with a limp wave of his arm.

"Well, thank goodness for that," Meg said.

"Yes. Good ol' Sedge."

"But he is back in Town now?" Meg asked, hoping she could get some sort of coherent information out of the man.

"Sure, ever since we lef your place." Mr. Herriot's eyes bored into Meg's as he continued. "But he's a sorry mess, Miz Ashbur'n. You don' wanna see him now." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "He's taken to drink, y' see. Pretends he ain't home, but he's there awright. Drinkin' hisse'f int' a stupor. All alone. Drunk as can be. 'Tis a pit'ful thing, Miz Ashbur'n. A pit'ful thing."

"Oh, dear." Meg's heart wrenched to think that what Mr. Herriot said might be true. What had happened? Sedge was not a drunkard. What on earth had happened?

Mr. Herriot reached over and placed a hand on Meg's arm and bent closer, the liquor fumes from his breath almost knocking her backward. She tried to wriggle away, but he kept hold of her arm as he whispered close to her ear. "I'll tell you the worst," he said. "Almos' killed hisse'f, Sedge did. Set his own bed curt'ns on fire. Knocked over a candle or somethin'. Got saved, tho'." He absently dropped her arm and his eyes seemed to glass over as he gazed into the distance. When he spoke again, he seemed to speak almost to himself. "Di'nt die aft'r all. Bad business."

Feeling awkward and uneasy, Meg watched as Mr. Herriot shook his head slowly back and forth and appeared to have forgotten all about her. "Bad business," he repeated as he turned away from her, slowly weaving his way across the room. "Bad business."

Meg stared slack-jawed at Mr. Herriot's retreating back. It had been one of the strangest encounters she'd ever had. Though he had been completely foxed himself, she suspected that the things he had said about his cousin were true. What reason would he have to make up such tales?

She turned to walk through the other gallery in hopes of finding Gram or Terrence. She felt like going home early. The thought of Sedge sinking into a debauch tore at her heart. It simply did not sound like the Sedge she had come to know— and love—at Thornhill. What could have pushed him to such limits? Drinking so heavily that he had almost killed himself?

She stopped up short, causing a couple walking close behind her to crash into her back. The woman gave Meg a baleful glance as they walked around her, but Meg paid them no attention. She stood in the middle of the gallery floor with her hand to her mouth, oblivious to all the activity around her.

Almost killed. Sedge had been almost killed. Again. Good heavens, the man was forever being almost killed. And not only the fire, but also this new business with the highwayman. What sort of man was he, to bring about such a string of bad luck? Meg covered her mouth to hide a grin as she considered that she must find him quickly before he tripped and fell in the path of a speeding carriage. Otherwise, all her plans would be for naught. She must find him quickly and protect the foolish man against himself.

Meg stood still as a statue in the center of the gallery, grinning to herself, as images raced through her mind—images of Sedge clasped to her breast, her arms protecting him from any further mishap. Her reverie was interrupted by the voice of Gram, hailing her from the opposite doorway. She looked to find her grandmother waving for Meg to join her. Meg finally stirred herself to move toward the door. As she nudged her way through the crowd, a raucous laugh rose above the din of conversations. She recognized the laugh as Mr. Herriot's, and all the sad implications of her strange encounter with him came crashing back to her. Poor Sedge. What had happened to him? But there was something disturbing about that conversation. What was it?

When she reached Gram's side at last, the old woman began to chatter about the next party they were scheduled to attend and what Mrs. Hamlin-Lacy had just told her about Lady Bowditch, and Meg lost the train of thought completely.

Although she could not put her finger on what had really troubled her about the conversation with Mr. Herriot, the real problem was Sedge and this new drunkenness. Meg considered this situation as they retrieved their wraps and waited in line for their carriage. She was normally impatient with all the waiting. But just now she appreciated the time to think. If only Gram would quit chattering. Meg wondered if she had miscalculated in coming to Town after all. Perhaps Sedge would never show up at one of the Season's events. Perhaps he would simply stay at home getting drunk.

Or perhaps Mr. Herriot had exaggerated.

By the time their carriage was brought round and she was handed inside, Med had determined to continue her search at each new affair. He was bound to show up eventually. She would find him. That was, after all, the point of this trip to Town. She would not lose him again. Not through her prudishness or through his drunkenness. Or through another silly accident. Yes, she would find him. If she had to go marching up to the door of his Mount Street town house, by God, she would find him.

Chapter 19

Meg's search continued that evening without success at Lady Erskine's rout. A success of a different sort, though, seemed to be hers all evening, as she found herself almost constantly surrounded by a group of attentive young gentlemen. The same held true when she and Gram moved on to the Montrose ball. Within five minutes of greeting their host and hostess, Meg had promised a half-dozen dances.

She danced a waltz with Lord Bellingham, who stood a good half foot shorter than Meg but did not seem to mind. The way his eyes darted to her bosom with alarming frequency, she began to understand why her height mattered so little. She danced a cotillion with Mr. Soames, a gentleman closer to her own height but who stuttered and stammered through the most vacuous conversation. She was partnered in a country dance with Sir John Cunningham, who used each movement that brought them together to whisper words of flattery in her ears.