A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior (19 page)

A shiver of uneasiness ran down his spine, but he pushed it away. She’d more than proven that she trusted him, and he certainly knew now that he could trust her. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

She grinned. “Yes. I seduced you so that you would let me tame that lion’s mane of yours.”

“Very devious.” As she turned away for her shoes, he grabbed hold of her wrist. “I want to make certain one thing is clear.”

Theresa lifted her chin. “What is that?”

“You are with me. You are not marrying Montrose or anyone else. Call it a seduction or a courtship or whatever pleases you, but we are together.”

Swiftly she lifted on her toes to kiss his mouth. “Yes. We are together. You and me.”

“Then cut my damned hair. And make me look handsome; apparently I have a great many opinions to sway in my favor.”

“Well, I’ll do my best, but handsome? It might be a bit much to hope for.”

He laughed. Whatever was coming for him, after today it would find him a changed man. And not simply because he was getting a haircut.

“Tell me you’ll come to Essings this year for the pheasant hunting.”

Chuckling, Adam, Lord Hadderly nodded. “I’d been hoping you would invite me, Crowley. I would be delighted.”

As they left the House of Lords for their luncheon recess, Hadderly continued his rather dull conversation with the Earl of Crowley. Hadderly always did that, found one fairly undemanding fellow to serve as a barrier between him and the members of the peerage who had second or third sons or nephews who wanted administrative positions with the East India Company.

It was a damned nuisance, though on occasion acquiescing to the right request from the right lord had managed to sway a vote or two in his favor. And then there were lords like Crowley who wanted to move closer to the center of Society’s most prestigious inner circle. And the pheasant hunting at Essings was rumored to be excellent.

At the bottom of the steps he caught sight of one of his clerks. The man waved furtively, clearly trying to gain his attention but not attract anyone else’s. Keeping his expression unchanged, he excused himself from Crowley.

“What is it, Mr. Peters?” he asked, taking his clerk’s arm and continuing on with him.

“Colonel James called at Apsley House this morning, my lord.”

Hadderly scowled. “Wellington served as Governor-General of India. He is not going to do anything to jeopardize his standing. The man wants to be prime minister.”

“James stood in front of His Grace’s carriage and forced it to stop or run him down. Wellington went out and spoke with him. I couldn’t hear what they discussed, but Colonel James looked…satisfied.”

“Wellington does admire men with spleen.” He took a breath. “Well. We’ll just have to keep a closer eye on our crippled colonel, then. Take what assistance you need, Mr. Peters. I don’t like surprises.”

The clerk inclined his head. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

Bartholomew James by himself was merely a nuisance on his way to becoming a disgraced, discontented soldier. The more ridiculous he could be made to look, the better. After all, it was James’s damned
injuries and his reputation as a competent, level-headed officer that had caused the latest round of Thuggee rumors in the first place.

But if he looked to be gathering allies or evidence, then he would have to be dealt with. Millions of pounds in imports and profit were not to be jeopardized. Not for anything.

Theresa stood back to do a slow circle around her masterpiece. Well, not a masterpiece, perhaps, but Tolly James
was
hers. Every delicious amber-eyed inch of him.

“Well?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“It’s still a bit long, if ye ask me,” Lackaby commented, moving around them on the small terrace and sweeping the dark, mahogany hair into neat little piles.

“I like it a bit long,” she said, stopping her circuit in front of Tolly. She wanted to kiss him, but settled for brushing her fingers across his temple.

“It’s a damned good thing I have sheet over me,” he murmured, leaning into her caress.

Her cheeks heated, and she dropped her gaze involuntarily to his lap before she could recover herself. Today had been the most extraordinary day of her life. And all she’d had to do to arrive there was set aside thirteen years of guilt and every one of her preconceived ideas about propriety and proper behavior.

And in return she’d declared her resolve to stand with a man who intended on making more of a stir than she ever would have imagined for herself. And of course having the sex, as he called it, with Tolly,
which in her opinion compensated for any number of other ills, past or future.

“Well, your brother is coming through the door,” she whispered back, “so…control your urges.”

“You are my urges.”

Lord Gardner stepped onto the small terrace, Amelia and Violet with him. “Tess, you’ve performed a miracle,” the viscount announced, grinning. “Well done.”

“I hope you don’t think my troubles with the East India Company will vanish simply because my hair is combed.”

“What I think is that at least you don’t look like an escapee from Bedlam any longer. I count that in our favor.”

“Very nice, Tess,” Amelia seconded, no sign of suspicion or censure in her gaze.

No one knew, then. No one suspected that she and Tolly had actually been alone and naked in his bedchamber. Well, no one but Lackaby, and she’d already developed an odd affection for the stocky, barrel-chested valet. He seemed to be the only one other than she who could stand up to Tolly.

“Thank you,” she said aloud. “I did what I could.”

“Come shopping with us now, will you?” Leelee pursued. “If we’re to attend the Tomlin-Reese soiree tonight, I would like some new lace. Silver, I think, to match the blue and silver of my gown.”

“You’re going to the party tonight?” She looked at Tolly.

He nodded. “It was suggested to me that being reclusive would not help my cause.”

“Suggested by whom? I would like to thank this person.” And to discover who it was Bartholomew had finally decided to take advice from.

Tolly glanced at her, then threw off the sheet. “A friend.”

Ah. More than likely the same friend with whom he’d stayed when he’d first returned to London. The one he’d claimed was a female. Jealousy stabbed at her. “And is this ‘friend’ planning to stand by you at the Tomlin-Reese soiree, as well?”

This time his gaze stayed on her. “I don’t know. Are
you
going to attend?”

“Yes. I think I will.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “Then perhaps you should go shopping with Amelia and Violet.” Tolly looked her up and down.

Warmth spread through her. If she didn’t go, she would more than likely stand about mooning after him for the rest of the day. And then someone would notice. She was actually somewhat surprised they couldn’t tell just by looking at her.

And she was mooning after him right now. Squaring her shoulders, she handed the scissors over to Lackaby. “Let’s go shopping, shall we?”

Since she already had the barouche with her, they elected to take that over to Bond Street to look for lace. She sat facing backward, while Amelia and Violet sat opposite her. Her cousin and cousin-in-law were very chatty, and from what she gathered at least part of their high spirits was because Tolly seemed to be in a good mood.

Theresa studied Amelia’s face as she giggled over
something with her sister-in-law. Leelee was married. Lord and Lady Gardner had done what…she and Tolly had done. And yet, she couldn’t detect any outward differences in her cousin and dear friend. Hopefully that meant she was safe from discovery, as well.

Not until they had entered the second shop in a row looking for just the perfect silver lace did Amelia take her arm. “I don’t know Tolly well,” she said quietly, sending a glance at his younger sister ahead of them, “but he seems quite taken with you.”

“Does he?”

“He looks at you all the time. And when he notices someone looking at him, he glances away, like he doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

Oh, my
. “He’s very interesting,” she conceded.

“And the uproar that he’s looking to cause? It makes
me
a bit nervous. I can’t imagine what you—well, I can’t imagine. Will you stand beside him tonight?”

Even a few hours ago that question would have left her uneasy and nervous. Well, it did still. It made no sense to deny that. The difference was in her own heart. She felt…strong inside.

Whether it was because she believed Tolly’s interpretation of her parents’ death or because she found it inspiring that Tolly’s tragedy hadn’t stopped him from fighting, the old fear of being caught doing something wrong wasn’t quite so keen. But then, standing with Tolly felt like something right.

“I intend to, yes,” she said aloud. Theresa forced a smile. “And you know Grandmama will be thrilled, because she’s never liked Lord Hadderly.”

“‘Hadderly and those blasted big dogs of his,’”
Amelia growled, doing a very fair impression of their grandmother. “I do find it interesting that she faults him for his dogs rather than for his politics.”

Theresa laughed. “At this moment I’m feeling quite a fondness for cats, myself.”

“What about Montrose?” Amelia leaned closer to Theresa. “He’ll want to know whether you are standing by Tolly because of his relationship to me, or because you like him.”

“I don’t think any of that is Alexander’s business.”

“He will think so.”

“Well.” Theresa considered her answer for a long moment. “Alexander has been asking me the same question for better than two years. I suppose I owe him an answer, whether he will like what I have to say or not.”

Amelia clutched her closer still. “Has Tolly offered for you, then?” she asked, obvious excitement making her voice shake.

“No, he hasn’t.” Nor was he likely to while plotting a battle with the East India Company. But men had been chasing her since she turned eighteen. There was a reason none of them had caught her. They all knew her as the chit she’d sculpted—the perfect and proper one. They were after a nonexistent woman.

Tolly knew who she really was, and he liked her. Not despite of what had happened, or even because of what had happened, but just…her. She smiled.

“Something has definitely happened to you, Tess.” Amelia squeezed her arm, then released her as they reached the display of dyed lace. “You said it had, but half the time you don’t say what you’re thinking.” She held up a length of silver, eyeing it critically in the
light from the window. “This time, all I know is that you seem happy, which makes me happy.”

“Then at this moment,” Theresa returned, “we’re all happy.” Tonight, after the first sideways glances and the scowls from Montrose that all might change. Of course, she’d already changed a bit, herself. It was definitely going to be an interesting evening, and in a way she was even looking forward to it. Her second test of courage—only with the results much less pleasurable than the first one had turned out to be.

W
ell?” Lackaby prompted, glancing up from the red and white officer’s coat he had spread across the table.

Bartholomew flipped another page of Wellington’s—or rather Wellesley’s, back then—India journal. “Good God, the man drones on,” he muttered. “Dinners he attended, the entire guest list, the cleverest bits of conversation, supply timetables, weather, the food he ate for breakfast, th—”

“And the Thuggee?” the valet interrupted. “I know Arthur heard tales, because I did.”

Cursing under his breath, Bartholomew turned another page, then another. “Arthur likes facts.”

“Yes, he always was a bit of a foot-in-the-mud,” Lackaby mused, turning the coat over and running a polishing cloth over the buttons.

“But why would he even bother with loaning me his journal if there’s nothing in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“That,” Bartholomew retorted, “isn’t helpful.”

He’d been looking through the damned thing for an hour, though it had swiftly become clear that a quick glance through such densely packed bits of facts and information would never net him anything. He was beginning to think that Wellington couldn’t possibly remember what he had or hadn’t said in his journal, because he recorded every nonsensical thing imaginable.

In another ten minutes Stephen would begin conjuring reasons that Amelia and Violet should remain home tonight—which they more than likely should. But as of this morning he’d had to alter his plan. He was no longer going to throw himself into the whirlwind and damn all consequences. Now he intended to survive to the end, hopefully with some semblance of a reputation. For that he needed his family, he needed some way to spread the word and make it credible without damning himself, and he needed Theresa Weller. Without her, he had no reason to stay alive at all.

“Time we got ye dressed for battle.”

Nodding, Bartholomew turned another page. “Finally,” he muttered.

“You found something?”

“Yes. A rumored Thuggee attack on a group of travelers.” He read on. “Damnation. No survivors.
There’s some speculation that the party simply got lost and perished.”

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that blasted story.” Lackaby carried over his well-polished black Hessian boots. “If ye ask me, as many fellows as they say got themselves lost in the wilds of India, they all must be standing two deep.”

“You make a good point.” Bartholomew stepped into his right boot, then held his breath and clenched his jaw as the valet pushed and twisted to get his foot into the left one. “If there are no Thuggee, then where the devil have five or six thousand people vanished to over the years?”

“If I was Lord Hadderly, I’d ask which five thousand you might be referring to. Who says anybody’s missing at all?” Lackaby commented.

“True again, being that more natives than Englishmen have vanished. Rather than ruminating over what we can’t prove, let’s be more productive, shall we?”

“I knew three fellows, went out to Delhi on leave and were never heard from again. They were tried for desertion in absentia. One of em, Evers, he might have found some pretty Urdu chit, but Willis and Smythe, they were good men and married. Their families had to live with them being called deserters. Sad business.”

Tolly looked at Lackaby as his valet shook out the uniform coat. “Yes, it is sad. Four of mine were married. The others had parents and siblings. I wrote too many letters.”

“Arthur wrote letters, too.”

Halfway to his feet, Tolly sank back again. “Did you see any of them?”

Lackaby cleared his throat. “I suppose we can keep chatting and I could stand here all night waiting to help you get your coat on, but I’d rather be hunting after them sugar desserts at the soiree.”

Bartholomew shook himself. “You know you’re supposed to be serving me at the party—not eating sweets.” He stood up, and Lackaby helped him pull on his formal military coat, medals and all. Medals and honors that he now rather detested, but they did help prove the point that he wasn’t some idiot whose family had purchased him a commission beyond his abilities.

“I don’t take ’em when anybody’s looking.”

“Ah. Carry on, then.” Pushing back against the uneasiness that would likely always be present, he lifted his chin to let Lackaby finish fastening up his coat. “Is your reluctance to talk about Arthur’s correspondence out of loyalty to the man, or because you think he would deny ever attributing a soldier’s death or disappearance to the Thuggee?”

The valet scowled. “A bit of both, I reckon. But if I know Arthur, and I do, he won’t do anything to counter what the East India Company’s said. And the Company’s already stated that the bastards don’t exist.”

“I agree,” Tolly said slowly, sending a last glare at Wellington’s journal. “He loaned me this damned thing because at worst he thought I would find someone else who’d be willing to come forward without involving him.”

“Or at best because Arthur thought you wouldn’t find anything and you would stop going about charging into the street in front of his coach.”

That made at least as much sense, damn it all. “We’re back to the beginning, then.”

“Breaking into the Horse Guards? In a wheeled chair?”

“I reckon I could still set you on your arse if need be, Lackaby. You’re to be helpful, remember?”

“Aye, Colonel.”

“I do have someone making a discreet inquiry with the War Office, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm, what?” Tolly retorted, frowning.

“I don’t want to be set on my arse.”

Bartholomew blew out his breath. “Out with it.”

“I’m just wondering how much blunt the Company puts into the pockets of your discreet friend, is all. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t heard anything.”

And he’d thought he was the cynical one. Wealthy as Sommerset was, it was entirely likely that he had ties to the Company. “I’ll look into that this evening,” he said.

“Do as you will, Colonel.” Lackaby finally stood back. “There. You look fine enough to march before old King George himself. I dare anyone to not be impressed with you.” The valet picked a fleck of dust from one shoulder. “She’ll be impressed, for certain.”

Bartholomew scowled. “None of that. And my appearance has never much influenced Theresa one way or the other.”

All day he’d barely been able to put two seconds together where he hadn’t thought about Theresa, her voice, her touch, her soft skin and warm mouth and the way she’d squared her shoulders before she’d announced that yes, she meant to stand with him. The
proper chit who hadn’t been able to behave properly in his company. He meant to ask Amelia for a look at Tess’s booklet. If nothing else, it would remind him how fortunate he was that he had somehow escaped being lumped in with the general pile of gentlemen who were courting her. Whether she felt lucky to have met him or not, he didn’t know.

“She ain’t the mistress sort, Colonel.”

Bartholomew glared at his valet. “I know that. All I asked for where Theresa Weller is concerned was your discretion, Lackaby. Not your observations or advice. Leave off.”

“No offense meant, Colonel. I was just wondering what your plans might be.”

“My plans,” Tolly returned, grabbing up his cane and skirting the wheeled chair, “depend on whether I’ll be tarred and feathered and run—or rolled—out of London. So if you like seeing Tess about, I suggest you keep your attention on helping me locate anyone who’s survived a Thuggee attack.”

“Yes, sir. Not riding the chair down the stairs this evening?”

“My dignity seems to be recovering faster than my knee. So, no. You bring the chair, and I’ll bring the cane.”

Thankfully for the sake of his leg, Stephen caught sight of him before he’d made it to the landing. “Christ, Tolly,” his brother grumbled, taking the stairs at a trot and slinging an arm around his waist, “do you have to wear the uniform again?”

“I want the attention,” Tolly grunted, stifling a curse just in time as his sister pranced out of the morning room and into the foyer. “You look lovely, Vi.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, Colonel. The red sash is meant to match your uniform.” Violet brushed her fingers across the wide sash at her waist. “I’m showing my support for your cause.”

“Damnation,” Stephen murmured. “Tolly, do something.”

Bartholomew cleared his throat. “You’re showing support simply by being there tonight, Vi. The trick is to not directly set anyone’s back up. The more everyone is charmed by you, the less they’ll be able to say something unpleasant later.”

“Then I will be charming. You know I excel at that.” She saluted. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”

“Thank you.”

Once he and Stephen reached the foyer Bartholomew shrugged free of his brother’s grip. Grumbling and complaining, Lackaby and two footmen hauled the wheeled chair down after them. “Your throne, Colonel,” the valet panted.

Tolly gestured at the front door, and Graham pulled it open. “Go lash it to the back of the coach, will you?”

“At least I don’t have to carry the damned thing to the party on my back,” Lackaby grumbled, heading outside.

As the valet left the house Stephen glanced after him. “If you find him too insufferable, Tolly, I’ll look for someone else for you.”

“No need. Lackaby and I seem to understand one another.”

“Good, then.”

Stephen seemed rather pleased with himself, and Bartholomew let him have his moment. He hadn’t
precisely been pleasant when his family had arrived back in London. And with anyone other than Theresa and Lackaby standing with him, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be as relatively civilized as he was now.

Their party arrived before the Wellers, though it was entirely possible that Tess or her brother or their grandmother or all of them together had decided it would be best if they didn’t attend. Her absence, though, divided his attention between the circulating crowd and the main ballroom doors.

“Colonel James.”

He looked up to see a man ten or so years his elder and wearing a very similar uniform, down to the gold and white epaulets on their shoulders. “General Mayhew.” Pushing to his feet, he saluted. By the strictest interpretation he was retired from the military, but he’d chosen to wear the uniform tonight. And he didn’t want any new rumors of improper conduct attached to him.

“You’re a disgrace, James, looking for attention with your men lying dead somewhere.”

“Not somewhere, General. My men are in India,” he returned coolly, very aware that everyone around them was listening to the conversation. “We pulled them out of the well the Thuggee had thrown all of us into. Unless you think they all jumped in on their own.”

“That’s your story. I’ve seen and heard nothing to substantiate such nonsense.”

“I’m not surprised, since the evidence lies beyond your well-lined pockets.”

A low snicker came from somewhere behind him,
and General Mayhew’s already ruddy face went beet red. “That is inexcusable,” he sputtered.

“You’re the one who began an argument with a cripple,” Bartholomew said easily. “Didn’t you realize you’d look either a buffoon or a bully?” He saluted again, then deliberately resumed his seat. “Good evening, General Mayhew.”

As the general stalked away, muttering to himself, Stephen returned carrying two glasses. He handed over one of Scotch whiskey. “That was a bit savage, wasn’t it?”

“My original plan would have been fisticuffs.”

“Not that I’m complaining that you’ve decided to alter your tactics, then,” his brother returned, “but why have you done so?”

His breath stilled. Without looking he knew Theresa was in the room, and he knew she approached. “Her,” he said quietly, finally turning his head.

“Her?”

Stephen continued speaking, but Bartholomew had no idea what he was saying. All his attention focused on the petite young lady with gray-green eyes and hair the rich color of morning sunshine. Tonight she’d chosen to wear a full silk gown of emerald green, stones of the same color at her throat and dangling from her ears and left wrist.

Liquid heat and desire flowed through him, its ferocity stunning. He wanted her, immediately. For a heartbeat he wondered whether she would regain her senses and walk right past him, but he stood again anyway.

She stopped, gazing up at him. “Good evening, Tolly,” she breathed, her voice not quite steady.

Good God, he wanted to touch her. Digging his fingertips into the outside seams of his trousers, he inclined his head. “You took my breath away, just then,” he returned.

“Good. I didn’t dress up for nothing, you know.” She smiled.

A moment later her brother and grandmother walked up behind her. Lord Weller looked agitated and as though he was doing his best to hide that fact; he knew, then, that Tess would be much better off elsewhere. The dowager viscountess, though, was practically beaming as she looked from her granddaughter to Tolly. At least someone approved the match—whether it would be possible ever to make a match, or not.

“There’s Harriet,” Lord Weller said, gesturing across the ballroom. “We should go say hello.”

Theresa shook her head. “I’m staying here.”

“You can’t do that, Troll,” her brother said more quietly. “No one’s even asked for your dance card.”

While the deep, possessive part of Bartholomew was rather pleased to hear that she’d apparently foregone everyone in favor of him, the more logical part knew that she couldn’t be happy with any of that. “Tess,” he said with a grin, “the phrase ‘stand by me’ wasn’t actually meant to be literal. And I know you love to dance.”

“That doesn’t signify.”

“Yes, it does.”

Her brow lowering, Theresa folded her arms across her lovely chest. “No, it doesn’t.”

Violet looked from one of them to the other. “Tolly said I should be as charming as possible, to make it
more difficult for anyone to say later that they don’t like us,” she said. “So I am going to dance with everyone, beginning with the most frown-faced gentleman I see.”

Theresa’s mouth twitched. “Well, I will wager you a lemon ice, Violet, that I find a more frown-faced man than you.”

With a giggle, Violet nodded. “That is a wager, then, Tess.” She curtsied. “Excuse me. I must go find someone unpleasant.”