Most Eagerly Yours (7 page)

Yet a man from among their rank had recently died in one of the very facilities where many of those present tonight intended to soak their aching limbs. Though there had been no conclusive evidence of villainy, the circumstances of Babcock’s death remained suspicious. Aidan would have expected a dampening of merriment, a more somber demeanor, out of respect. Looking about, he saw quite the opposite.

Had Babcock been without friends here in Bath?

He once more considered Captain Taft’s theory that an inebriated Babcock had stumbled into the water. Aidan didn’t believe it. Babcock had a reputation for honor and responsible behavior in the Commons, and nothing the Home Office had dug up on the man suggested a tendency toward overimbibing.

Then again, some men were skilled at hiding their vices until, of course, those vices suddenly got the better of them. Had that been the case with Babcock?

Aidan had done enough mingling; it was time to ask more questions, and near the central fireplace he spotted the perfect opportunity.

“Lord Harcourt, what an agreeable surprise to find you here,” Aidan declared, drawing the aging marquess to his side. He adjusted his pace to accommodate the man’s mild infirmities.

“Barensforth, my boy. What brings a young buck like you to hobnob with the gout-afflicted?” Harcourt was limping slightly, favoring his right leg over the left, while at the same time appearing determined to keep abreast.

“News of a financial opportunity,” Aidan replied lightly. He nodded at a passing acquaintance. “Perhaps you’ve heard?”

“Indeed. The Summit Pavilion.”

“Tell me, what is this I hear about an elixir?”

Harcourt’s wiry eyebrows went up. “So news is spreading, is it?” He looked about and lowered his voice. “The research is still in its early stages, but should the elixir prove successful, it will be offered exclusively at the pavilion.”

“Do tell. Have you tried it?”

“Oh, indeed. I am on the list.”

“What list?”

“Rousseau passes out nominal samples from time to time, but to receive a full dosage, one must have a place on his exclusive list. Those of us who are on the list swear by the stuff. I tell you, I have never felt better.”

“Fascinating. How does one get on this list?”

“Ah . . . I am afraid for now the list is closed until Rousseau is ready to offer his elixir to all. I tell you, Barensforth, this elixir shall prove a revolutionary development to the field of medicine.”

“And a highly profitable endeavor,” Aidan added, contriving to sound impressed while wishing instead to warn the other man of the potential hazards, both to his health and his purse. Instead he said, “I hear Roger Babcock was a huge proponent of the project. An appalling shame, his death.”

Harcourt’s gait faltered; his nostrils flared. “I shall waste no energy mourning a rapscallion like Babcock. I am sorry for his family. Beyond that, I am little moved by his passing. If you will excuse me, sir.”

The liver spots on his temples showing starkly russet against the pallor of his skin, Harcourt limped off. A commotion on the dance floor ensued as he squeezed his unwieldy form through the lines of dancers presently engaged in a quadrille.

As much as Aidan would have liked to follow, he remained where he was, observing through narrowed eyes as Harcourt rejoined his equally stout wife. Aidan had learned something the Home Office had not previously known: Babcock had not been without adversaries, and even the feeble Marquess of Harcourt was not above suspicion.

“
T
hen I am to understand, Mrs. Sanderson, that your mother was a lady- in-waiting at Kensington Palace at the same time as Lady Fairmont?”

Viscountess Devonlea, formerly Beatrice Fitzclarence, sat facing Laurel inside the velvet- trimmed, luxuriously appointed barouche. Laurel could hardly believe her luck yesterday morning at the Pump Room when Lady Fairmont had introduced her to none other than George Fitzclarence’s sister.

The two women apparently cosponsored several charities and were both members of the Ladies’ Botanical Society in Bath. When Lady Devonlea had mentioned how tiresome it was that her husband would be arriving at the Assembly Rooms early tonight to play cards, Lady Fairmont had offered her a ride, a fortuitous circumstance that almost convinced Laurel that her mission here would be easy.

Almost.

Now, as they traveled north into the stately environs of Bath’s Upper Town, she hesitated before answering the viscountess to be certain she had her “facts” straight.

Her fictional mother, the wife of a baronet, had once attended the Duchess of Kent, but—oh, dear—was that supposed to have been before or
after
the Countess of Fairmont served as a companion to Princess Sophia, who had also occupied apartments in Kensington Palace?

So much to remember, so many lies to tell. A slight ache blossomed behind Laurel’s eyes. At the same time, the silk gown Victoria had supplied, along with the satin slippers and stunning jeweled reticule, brought an odd sense of reassurance. These borrowed trappings of wealth and privilege provided a confident second skin, like a protective covering, that rendered Laurel Sutherland safe from all the falsehoods the widowed Mrs. Sanderson must say and act upon.

Even her hesitation worked to her advantage, as the Countess of Fairmont, sitting beside her, offered Lady Devonlea what she fully believed to be the correct answer. “Mrs. Sanderson’s mother and I never actually had the pleasure of meeting, for I left the palace the year before she arrived.”

Though in her middle years, Laurel’s social patroness was nonetheless a stunning woman, with glossy dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. Faint lines fanned from the countess’s slanting gray eyes as she covered Laurel’s hand with her own and gave a squeeze. “Apparently your mother was a great favorite of the household. I do wish I
had
known her.”

As the coach turned the corner onto Bennett Street, the vehicle fell in behind a host of costly carriages rumbling along the cobbled street. Laurel peeked out at the elegantly attired guests making their way toward the Palladian facade of the Assembly Rooms and listened to their animated banter.

Her fingers clenched and unclenched around her reticule as she anticipated the next several hours. She had little inkling of what to expect, for she had never before attended a ball, much less in borrowed clothes and under an assumed name—Mrs. Edgar Sanderson, lately from the village of . . . oh yes, of Fernhurst, in the county of Hampshire.

Recruiting her sisters’ help, she had practiced dance steps all the previous week. Should she happen to step on a gentleman’s foot, he would, with any luck, attribute her lack of skill to her having spent the past two years in seclusion, mourning the death of her “husband.”

The carriage pulled into an empty space at the curbside. When the footman opened the door, Lady Fairmont slid over to allow the tall, red- haired fellow to hand her down. Lady Devonlea went next, and Laurel followed suit, resisting her natural inclination to step down on her own initiative. Ladies, after all, never descended from carriages unassisted.

The doors to the building’s columned portico opened onto a bombardment of colors and textures, faces and voices. Soaring ceilings, carved pillars, and a dizzying array of candelabra made Laurel giddy with nervous excitement.

“Ah, Lady Fairmont. Lady Devonlea. How splendid of you both to grace our assembly tonight.”

An elderly gentleman with graying muttonchops and a shaggy mustache bowed smartly over the ladies’ hands. With a tap of his heels he straightened. Through silver-rimmed spectacles, his gaze lit on Laurel. “I see you have brought a charming new friend.”

Lady Fairmont drew Laurel closer. “Mrs. Sanderson, I should like you to meet Major Calvin Melrose, a dear old friend of my husband’s and master of ceremonies here at the Upper Rooms. Major, Mrs. Edgar Sanderson.”

“Enchanted, madam, enchanted.” His practiced eye appraised her tawny silks, pausing only briefly on the jet brooch pinned to her bodice to signify a lingering sentiment of mourning. Apparently satisfied, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Now let us see, to whom shall I introduce you first? You do mean to dance tonight, Mrs. Sanderson, do you not?”

“She most certainly does,” Lady Devonlea supplied before Laurel had the chance to answer. “Mrs. Sanderson is most accomplished in the art of dancing.”

Laurel swung a startled look in the woman’s direction, then sent another through the expansive archway into the ballroom where countless couples moved in flawless rhythm.

“That might have been a bit of an exaggeration,” Laurel whispered to the viscountess as Major Melrose escorted them into the brilliantly lit ballroom.

“You shall thank me later,” the viscountess whispered back. “To have indicated otherwise would have consigned you to a host of ungainly partners.”

Laurel sighed. If she hadn’t already learned her lesson about the foolishness of making wishes, she would certainly have wished this night long over.

 

“Aidan Phillips, you scoundrel. I might have known I’d find you here. Why do you skulk here alone like a Spitalfields footpad? And what the devil have you done with my brother?”

Aidan had escaped into the relative quiet of the tearoom to avoid a certain young lady’s mother who believed he would make a perfect match for her charmingly bucktoothed but regrettably pin-brained seventeen-year-old daughter. But here, at last, was a welcome feminine voice.

“Bea, my darling.” Turning, he closed the space between them and raised her satin-clad hand to his lips. “You grow more beautiful each time I see you.”

“And you, dear sir, deliver flattery with more false sincerity than any other man alive.”

“I practice before a mirror, you know.”

He twirled her in a graceful pirouette. Auburn-haired and generously curvaceous, Beatrice Fitzclarence remained at thirty-two a striking woman, having inherited none of her father’s physical shortcomings and virtually all the charms that had made her mother, Dorothea Jordan, a favorite on the London stage. Tonight her peacock silk gown emphasized her finest assets with devil’s-bargain perfection. Her hair glittered and her skin glowed. Her lips tilted at their haughtiest.

By God, she never failed to make him smile. “Have you only just arrived?” he asked her.

“Yes. Arthur came earlier, but I drove over with the Countess of Fairmont and a new acquaintance.” Using her folded fan, she jabbed at the center of his chest. “You are avoiding my question.”

“Fitz is in the cardroom.”

The corners of her lightly rouged mouth turned down. “Oh, you can’t have left him alone.”

“Never fear, he’s won enough tonight to offset any funds he might relinquish in my absence.”

“Are you quite sure? He very nearly reduced himself to beggary last month.”

“Beatrice, upon my honor, Fitz shall leave tonight’s festivities with heavier pockets than when he arrived.”

She gave a satisfied
humph
and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Dance with me. Or are you promised for this set?”

“No,” he said as they made their way through the crowded octagon room and into the ballroom, “I’ve been maddeningly evasive all evening.”

“And you call yourself a gentleman.”

“I call myself no such thing. Shall we?”

She placed her hand in his and together they stepped to the center of the dance floor. With an arch look she said, “What an irredeemable bachelor you are. And yet some young hopeful must eventually ensnare you. You must produce an heir.”

He set his palm at her waist and guided her in the whirling steps of the waltz. “I had rather contract the pox than submit to the simpering opportunism of the marriage mart. Besides, I’m afraid you broke my heart when you married Devonlea.”

She let go a bubble of laughter. “Aidan, dear boy, there is nothing the least bit breakable about you. Not your ego, your pride, certainly not your heart. That is what I like most about you. You are never likely to go to pieces in anyone’s hands. Unlike my brother. Tell me, how has he responded to all the fuss over Victoria’s impending coronation?”

“Tolerably well. This new pavilion has proved an obliging distraction.”

“Yes, how very tedious. The Summit Pavilion is all Arthur speaks of these days.”

“Is he investing heavily?”

Looking bored, she shrugged a half-bare shoulder as he moved with her in time to the music. “He believes Bath will suddenly become all the rage again. I have my doubts, but as long as he doesn’t bankrupt us, I am content.”

“And this so-called elixir? Does he credit Claude Rousseau’s promise of eternal youth?”

“A foolish notion, perhaps, but I confess I don’t see the harm in it.” She gave a momentary lift of her brows. “Convincing people they will feel rejuvenated often produces the desired effect. And who knows? Perhaps Rousseau is on to something.”

“Perhaps.” But he doubted it, and Beatrice’s attitude surprised him. He would have predicted much stronger objections on her part, along with a hearty contempt for anyone gullible enough to believe in magical potions.

“Have you sampled it?” he asked, as though the matter were of little consequence to him.

“Not yet. Having only recently arrived in Bath myself, I am not on the list.”

“The list again.” Aidan craned his neck to see over heads. “Is Rousseau here tonight?”

“Goodness, no, darling. He never comes to events such as these. You’ll find him at the theater, concerts, the occasional private soiree. He’s far too scholarly for dancing,” she added with a roll of her eyes. Lifting her hand from his shoulder, she bobbed her closed fan in greeting to someone off to their right. A smile blossoming, she said, “There is that new friend I mentioned. The one with whom I shared my coach on the way here.”