The Rake and the Wallflower (2 page)

She darted past the door, followed the palms along the next wall, then paused to peer out. Griffin was rounding her pillar. Praying he would think she’d escaped through the servants’ door, she sauntered past the terrace, then slipped behind another row of palms near the card room – a thick, double row that screened a shocking hole in the wall.

She stared. A hole in Lady Debenham’s elegant ballroom? It looked like someone had struck a heavy blow with a club. But this explained tonight’s plethora of palms. They must be camouflage.

The hole reminded her of a truth she’d ignored until now. London society was built on façades – hypocritical matrons decrying vices they practiced in private, elegant drawing rooms in houses falling into disrepair, ladies fawning over people they savaged elsewhere, suitors disguising poverty with fancy wardrobes. She could trust nothing. But that very fact gave her hope. If she could erect her own façade of competence, she might survive the Season intact.

Leaning against the wall, she pulled a tiny sketchpad from her reticule. Catherine wanted her to leave it home, but Mary needed to escape nearly every evening, either to recover her composure or relieve boredom. Its pages captured scenes she wanted to remember and transformed disasters into humor.

Under her flying pencil a picture of Eden evolved – lush plants, bubbling streams, mouthwatering fruits, and a poisonous snake curled around the branch of an apple tree. Its face bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Griffin.

Smiling, she turned to a new page and began drawing a common chaffinch. It wasn’t a particularly interesting bird, but one had landed on her window ledge yesterday and cocked its head as if amused, evoking a laugh.

* * * *

Lord Grayson sauntered across Lady Debenham’s ballroom, pausing frequently to exchange greetings with acquaintances or flirt lightly with matrons. His path was far from straight, for he avoided a dozen disapproving dowagers and every unmarried lady – a habit honed over three years of society’s censure. Avoiding innocents maintained an uneasy truce, keeping his name on guest lists. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered, for he had more than enough work to fill the hours, and he was always welcome in his clubs. But he couldn’t stay away from the Season.

You’re lonely.

He quickly suppressed the thought, though it was true that only in society could he meet ladies of quality. And despite everything, he still dreamed of one day marrying and setting up his nursery – not that he could imagine what that fantasy family might be like. He would cast himself into the Thames before reproducing his own. And no decent young lady could speak to him, let alone accept an offer.

He skirted a cluster of misses, then deflected an invitation from Lady Alston. She was renowned for entertaining gentlemen, but he had no interest in sampling her charms. Rumor had always exaggerated his raking. And even at his worst, he’d never bedded matrons. The last thing he wanted was to emulate his father.

Long practice hid his disgust at allowing Rothmoor into his mind. At least half of his reputation arose from the assumption
like father, like son
.

The Earl of Rothmoor had long pursued anything in skirts, ignoring rank, wedded state, or even desire on the unfortunate female’s part. The man had three loves – horses, hounds, and whores. And in his view, if it was female, it was a whore. Ladies gave him a wide berth, and villagers hid their daughters when Rothmoor approached.

Gray felt Lady Cunningham’s animosity as he passed her. She was one of his more vocal detractors, not that he could blame her. She’d whelped eight children, six of them girls. If his calculations were correct, she would be firing off daughter number three this Season. In her eyes, he should have been ostracized three years ago so he couldn’t endanger her offspring.

The shield protecting his heart quivered, but he quickly steadied it. No one had promised that life would be fair. Those who followed the rules suffered as much as those who didn’t. Yet honor demanded he at least try, so he did whatever was necessary, then hoped for the best. All in all, he managed a tolerable existence. If donning his public façade seemed difficult tonight, he could blame only himself. Attending a ball after six hours of skidding into muddy ditches and bouncing across ruts was one of his poorer ideas. But he’d wanted the latest news. Where else to get it but in Lady Debenham’s ballroom? She was the second most formidable gossip in London.

“Gray!” A grin split Nicholas Barrington’s face as he shook hands. They had been close friends since school. “When did you return to town?”

“An hour ago.” He shuddered. “Horrible journey. All this rain.” His eyes took in Nick’s appearance, from the Byronesque curls, through the intricate cravat and wine-colored coat, to the highly polished dancing shoes. “New knot?”

Nick laughed. “New valet. I’ve not yet broken him in. He has delusions of dandyism, I fear.”

“Not a bad idea. The affectation would mask your intellect to a nicety.” Gray was one of the few who knew that Nick supported himself entirely on wagers based on his understanding of human nature.

“I would rather be thought intellectual than court comparisons to peacocks.”

Gray laughed. “So who’s in town this year?”

“Atwater is back, though it’s barely six months since his wife died. He seems smitten with Miss Warren – Forley’s sister.”

“Forley?”

“This is his first Season in London, but you might recall his father. Died about six years ago.”

“Ah. Fast parties. Ran with Cavendish, as I recall. Dissipated his fortune trying to keep up.”

“That’s the one.” Nick scanned the room. “The latest Cunningham chit will do well – looks and a keen sense of humor. Rockhurst is back and supporting the reformists in Parliament. He’s sponsoring his wife’s two sisters. The elder Miss Seabrook is a diamond, though too aware of it. She uses the younger as a foil, which I deplore.”

“Perhaps it would have been kinder to leave the younger at home another year.”

“Perhaps, but Miss Mary is already twenty – the family was destitute until Rockhurst stepped in. Once she conquers her nervousness, she should do well.” A shrug dismissed the Seabrooks. “The other diamonds are Miss Norton and Miss Harfield. As for the lesser lights, Miss Huntsley is beyond hope. I expect she will return home within the month.”

“Why?”

“Clumsy, gauche, not overly bright, and looks that would make a bulldog seem handsome. Her dowry is too small to compensate. That’s her talking to Lady Stafford.”

Gray glanced across the room. Horse-faced and dressed in a gown so bedecked with ribbons and bows that she could pass as a display in a draper’s shop. He would have to avoid Miss Huntsley.

Socially inept females were his bane, though he could only blame himself. As a stripling, he had sympathized with society’s misfits. So he’d tried to set them at ease, drawing out the shy, relaxing the nervous, introducing originals to gentlemen who shared their interests.

No more. He’d been badly burned for his efforts and now stayed far away from eligible misses. Another scandal would ruin him. Only his fortune and expectations had kept him in London ballrooms after the last one.

“What are the latest
on-dits?
” he asked, his eyes scanning the crowd for potential trouble. Lady Alston playfully rapped a fan on Wigby’s arm – arranging an assignation? Lady Cunningham had pulled her daughter behind a pillar, probably to warn her away from Lord Grayson. Griffin burst from the refreshment room with a face like thunder.

Nick smiled. “Shelford made a cake of himself last week. Fell off his horse in Hyde Park.”

“Fell?” Shelford was a noted Corinthian and outstanding horseman who could prose for hours about horses, riding, and carriage construction. Gray found his lectures as boring as Rothmoor’s discourses on hunting and shooting.

“At least fifty people saw him. He was so smitten by a young lady’s beauty that he wasn’t ready when his horse shied.”

Gray shook his head.

Nick continued. “Renford and Garwood are suddenly at odds, though no one knows why. I suspect the complaint is Garwood’s.”

“Not surprising. The man’s a prime prig.”

“True. And in another dispute, Atwater may regret returning while in mourning. Blackthorn is trying to provoke a challenge.”

“Atwater had best look out, then. Blackthorn has already killed several men.”

“He won’t be the next. I’ve never seen him in a temper, no matter what the provocation. The man is a saint – and just as annoying as one.” Nick shrugged.

Gray chuckled. Nick always suspected those who were too perfect. “Anyone I should look out for besides Miss Huntsley?” Some girls were drawn to rakes. It made no sense, since such associations could ruin them. But every rake knew they existed.

“Miss Derrick. Her mother is dead, so her father hired Miss Pettigrew as chaperon.”

“Damnation. The woman is too enamored of cards to watch anyone.” He ought to know. One of her previous charges had made his life hell. “Does Miss Derrick court danger, or is she already unchaste?”

“Danger, certainly, but I doubt she is experienced. Her ultimate goal is marriage, and after a month in town, she’s growing desperate. Her father can’t afford a second Season. Doubtless she will ruin herself before long, but in the meantime, she is forward enough to be a serious problem.”

“I won’t be the one who ruins her. Maybe we should direct her to Devereaux or Lord Roger, and be done with her. Neither cares a whit for society or for convention.”

“It wouldn’t work. She’s drawn to rakes, but demands wealth and position, too. Devereaux would never offer marriage, and Lord Roger lacks social standing. She cut my acquaintance when she discovered I have no fortune and am only remotely connected to a title. She’s been after Wroxleigh for the past week. He set her down quite firmly yesterday, then cut her dead in the park this morning, so she will rejoice over your arrival. You also meet her standards.”

“Heir to an earl who despises me. An exaggerated reputation that is often out-and-out false.”

“But you are rich.”

“From engaging in trade.” He shrugged.

“I doubt she would care, and Rothmoor can’t cut you out of the title. So watch out.”

“Is she here tonight?” Gray frowned. Girls who craved danger were as bad as the greedy ones who had destroyed his credit. He would gladly throttle the lot of them.

“She’s talking to Lady Beatrice. The white gown with rosebuds on the bodice. She always dresses in white. It makes her look angelic if you ignore her eyes. They are alive with scheming.”

Nick would know. He could see beneath the surface better than anyone.

Gray casually glanced toward the corner. Honey blonde hair, light eyes, heart-shaped face. With a decent portion, she would have no trouble making a good match, so why did she risk a reputation that must already be tarnished? Only two gentlemen were paying her heed, and neither had marriage on his mind.

He shuddered when she turned and met his gaze. She must already know who he was, for her eyes lit like lanterns, and she coquettishly waved her fan.

“Is Justin here tonight?” he asked, turning back to Nick. Lord Justin Landess was the other member of their trio.

“In the card room. Heatherford is trying to convince him to replace his team.”

“I’d better rescue him, then. Once Heatherford starts talking horses, he never stops.”

Nick nodded. “I’ll see you at White’s later. I’ve bespoken this next set.”

Gray watched Nick move off, then headed for the card room. But he’d not gone three steps before spotting Miss Derrick headed his way. Damnation! She’d already crossed half the room.

He joined a group of gentlemen discussing the latest news from Spain, then ducked behind a screen of palms when they headed for the door. Since two of them wore jackets the same blue as his, Miss Derrick might believe he’d left with them. But his real destination lay in another direction.

He hugged the wall, careful not to brush the branches as he followed the palms toward the card room. He’d traversed half the distance before he realized he was not alone. A young lady was also hiding.

Curses exploded through his head. He was neatly trapped. Retracing his steps would draw Miss Derrick’s attention, yet he must squeeze past this new threat to reach the card room.

But was she a threat?

She almost looked like a companion or governess, though she could not yet be twenty. Brown hair coiled untidily atop her head – or perhaps it was falling out of an attempt at curls. A plain white gown encased her slim body, a single ribbon beneath the bodice its only embellishment. The high neckline covered a lack of jewelry. One hand clutched a pad of paper.

A journalist?

He shook off that notion as she added lines to a picture, the tip of her tongue protruding past her teeth. She couldn’t be sketching the ballroom, for she never looked at it. She might have been alone in a field for all the attention she paid her surroundings. Odd. Very odd.

Curiosity is dangerous
, warned his conscience.

Ignoring it, he peeked over her shoulder, then inhaled in surprise. She was a talented artist and a student of natural history. Who else could draw so well from memory? A chaffinch perched in a gnarled apple tree, head cocked perkily to one side. A few lines evoked rough bark, soft feathers, and lustrous fruit. But he could see why she was frowning. The bird’s beak was too thick, pushing it slightly off balance.

“Try this,” he murmured, grabbing the pad.

“Oh!” She whirled, one hand to her breast. “I d-didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Not so loud.” He rubbed out the beak. Brisk strokes reshaped the appendage, bringing the bird to life. “That’s better. Are you from the west country?”

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“That is the only place you find apples that shape. Those in the east are rounder. You are an accomplished sketch artist.”

“I—” She blushed. “I was hoping to see some different birds in town, but we have so little time to look about.”

“If you walk in the park in the mornings, you will see hoopoes and bee eaters. And a magnificent purple heron visits the Serpentine at dawn most days.”