Stoneville offered her his arm. "Then I'll tuck her away in the kitchens so she can speak to the chemist to learn how nitrate of ammonia is turned into the desired gas. Once most of the guests are here, I'll fetch her."
The disappointment on her face was so palpable, Anthony knew he'd guessed right.
"You could fetch her from here," Anthony pointed out.
"Oh, but I'd like to meet the chemist," she said hastily. "I'd like to find out how the nitrous oxide is made."
More likely she wanted to sneak out to learn their friends' names, and he couldn't stop her— especially with Stoneville ignoring his admonitions. He'd just have to make sure she showed her article to him before she got it published.
Stoneville offered Madeline his arm, and Anthony forced himself to resist the urge to whisk her off to the hackney before anything could happen to her. She wanted this, after all. He was being foolish to worry.
Nonetheless, as he watched them leave, he realized he couldn't just sit here reading and drinking brandy while she was at the party with Stoneville.
He'd wait until everyone was fully involved in their entertainment, then he'd move about on the outskirts and keep an eye on her. What with the servants making the rounds to provide fresh bags of nitrous and the poor light and the general confusion that nitrous caused in imbibers, no one would notice one man in the shadows.
Better not let Stoneville see you, or he'll torment you endlessly. He'll say you're acting more like a jealous husband than a cousin.
Husband? Nonsense.
Yet as he waited, the idea of Madeline as his wife rose up to tempt him. Yes, he was supposed to marry some virginal chit of appropriate rank from a respectable family, but when had he ever done what he was supposed to? Madeline was the only woman who even came close to thinking as he did. They would never lack for interesting conversation, to be sure.
But marry her? Why her? Why did
she
make him want to abandon his firm resolution about not marrying yet? She was no prettier than other women, possessed of no more charms and graces. Yet something in her peculiar blend of innocence and knowledge stimulated his mind and body like no other. Just when he began to think her incredibly young and naive, she would say something that showed her wise beyond her years. The incongruity of it utterly fascinated him.
That was the trouble— her mysteriousness bewitched him. But that wouldn't last past tonight. Once he'd bedded her, once he'd learned her secrets, he could go back to being detached.
Or so he tried to convince himself as he waited for the party to be in full swing. An hour later, when his obsessive thoughts began to annoy him, he decided to carry on with his plan.
He slipped into the hall, then nearly tripped over a man sitting in the middle. It was his friend Dr. Roget, whose project of grouping words by their types absorbed his every hour these days. Anthony tried to sneak past, but no such luck.
"Norcourt!" Roget said, the words slurred from inhaling the contents of the silk bag he held. "Didn't know you were here."
"I'm not. You're dreaming this."
"Ahh," Roget answered, as if that explained everything. "Quite right."
As Anthony hurried off, he heard Roget mutter, "Don't know why I had to dream about Norcourt. Much rather dream about some pretty filly."
Though Anthony doubted that Roget would remember the incident later, it served as a warning to him to be careful. And it left a bad taste in his mouth for other reasons that became apparent the moment he got a good view of the first room filled with guests.
Usually by this time Anthony was well intoxicated himself. Unlike some, his experience of the gas tended to be mild and benign— a pleasant sense of well-being, some laughing, and thoughts that seemed brilliant until he came to his senses later. Still, it did distort his perceptions, so that he viewed the party through the same rosy lens as everyone else.
The rosy lens was gone now, and for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, it left him staring at a scene he found utterly unnerving. The laughter bore an unnatural quality, and the sight of so many intelligent gentlemen— and ladies— comporting themselves like fools made him wonder how
he
appeared when he indulged. Did he giggle idiotically like that man over there, whom he knew to be a well-respected barrister? Or twitch his legs, like the prominent headmaster in the corner?
After a week teaching schoolgirls, Anthony found the headmaster's behavior particularly disturbing. What if the man's students were to see him acting like a fool? How much harder would it be for them to listen when their headmaster cautioned them against the ills of society?
To his horror, he caught himself wanting to stride over and lecture the man on responsibility, something he'd never wanted to do in his entire life. Perhaps Stoneville was right. Perhaps he had turned into a prig.
That was absurd. He was plotting Madeline's seduction, wasn't he? That wasn't the behavior of a prig.
Yet he couldn't shake his uneasiness as he skirted the party looking for her and Stoneville. When he found them, he was relieved to see his friend soberly escorting her about the room. She was safe.
Unexpectedly, he felt a desperate wish to join her. They would laugh at the others together, then leave before the nitrous oxide could taint them.
He resisted the fanciful impulse, and not only because she'd be angry at him for cutting short her period of observation. He resisted it because it demonstrated just how thoroughly he craved her.
And that would not do.
Chapter Sixteen
Dear Cousin,
Lord Norcourt behaved more admirably than expected at Mr. Godwin's. Although Lady Tarley took him off with her, he rebuffed her entirely, judging from her annoyance when she rejoined the group alone. I questioned Miss Prescott, who said she'd never seen them together. He returned a while later, which supported her assertion. And why would she lie, anyway? She's as suspicious of the man as I am.
Your anxious relation,
Charlotte
T
he party had been going on for two hours, and Madeline began to despair of ever finding Sir Humphry. He must be here somewhere— the few names she
had
managed to learn belonged either to his friends or members of the Royal Society.
Clearly this wasn't the first time most had attended such an event. As if it were their everyday practice, they took their silk bags off the trays and sucked the wooden mouthpieces with cool aplomb. Most sat in chairs or reclined on the many cushions strewn about. Early on, Lord Stoneville had explained that the gas could make one insensible of one's body, so the safest way to inhale it was while seated.
She'd read Sir Humphry's book and the different accounts his friends had given of their experiences with nitrous oxide, but that still hadn't prepared her for the wide variety of reactions. Some guests lapsed into a near swoon, their faces spread in beatific smiles. Others seemed unable to stop laughing. A few even danced, capering into walls. It was like observing a madhouse peopled with well-dressed gentry.
The few females present appeared to be wives of other guests, but their experiences seemed no different from the men's. One lapsed into a fit of giggles. Another exclaimed about the "music, the glorious music."
Normally, Madeline would be rapidly scribbling notes, asking questions, recording what she witnessed. But scientific observation wasn't her aim tonight.
Unfortunately, Lord Stoneville was making it very difficult for her to
achieve
her aim. He hadn't left her side after fetching her from the kitchen. Worse yet, he'd taken very seriously Anthony's admonition not to introduce her to anyone, and the rules of society meant that people couldn't introduce themselves.
Under normal circumstances, anyone curious about her would simply beg an introduction from the marquess, but the guests were too single-minded in their desire to imbibe the gas to pay her much mind. And if anyone did venture near, Lord Stoneville's frigid manner put them off.
By now they probably assumed she was his paramour. She didn't really care, since the likelihood of her seeing these people again was remote. But she did care that she hadn't reached her goal.
So she took a different tack. If she couldn't meet the guests, she could at least find out who they were. Then, once she discovered Sir Humphry, she would introduce herself, society's rules be damned.
She began questioning the marquess about the guests, careful not to sound too nosy. Since she had to intersperse her queries with polite conversation, it was a painfully slow process. It took another half an hour to identify only six men.
"That fellow looks interesting," Madeline said casually to her too-attentive escort. "Is he a good friend of yours?" She nodded toward a gray-haired fellow who could be Sir Humphry's age. Soberly dressed, the man with the pointed chin and full lips was sprawled on a settee, where he kept up a conversation with a thin, red-faced gentleman between shallow puffs from their silk nitrous oxide bags.
"I know him well enough."
Drat it, why wouldn't he give her a name? "Is he famous?" she said in a breathy voice meant to sound like that of a typical provincial visitor to London. "Would I have heard of him?"
Lord Stoneville cast her a searching glance. "Perhaps. That is Mr. Coleridge and his friend Sir Josiah Wedgwood. As a woman of learning, you might have heard of Mr. Coleridge— he writes poetry. And Sir Josiah— "
"Is a potter. Yes, I know." Although they'd participated in Sir Humphry's initial experiments, they could hardly help her with Papa's problem. The opinions of a poet and a potter wouldn't sway Sir Randolph and the vicar.
"Shall I introduce you?" Lord Stoneville asked.
Her gaze shot to him, the unexpected question making her wary. Why offer to introduce these particular men and why now?
The marquess was clearly up to something. She'd best proceed with caution. "Lord Norcourt thinks meeting people would be dangerous for my reputation."
"Ah, there
is
that. Norcourt doesn't want the parson to hear any gossip. Wouldn't want your husband finding out how exciting your trip really was."
"Exactly. My cousin knows Mr. Brayham wouldn't approve."
They wandered into a smaller room, where the light was so dim that some guests had nodded off. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone pass a nearby doorway, but when she glanced over, he— or she— was gone.
It was probably a footman. They were everywhere, waiting to replace the guests' empty bags.
"Your poor husband," Lord Stoneville said as they strolled the room. "He must hate being left alone in— Where did you say you were from?"
"I didn't say."
"Oh yes, I forgot— it was Norcourt who said you hail from Kent," Stoneville remarked in a deceptively casual tone.
She tensed. She didn't know what Anthony had told his friend, but she doubted he'd have invented something so specific. "I can't imagine why he would say that. He knows perfectly well where I live."
Lord Stoneville searched her face. "I must have misunderstood."
She forced a smile. "You must have."
"Or perhaps I simply forgot what he told me. He brings so many beautiful women into our circle, you know. It's hard to keep them straight."
Though her heart raced madly, she fixed him with a cold glance. "I'm sure that's true. But I'm his cousin, not one of those women. That should make it easy."
"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Brayham. I shan't forget
you
for quite some time."
What did
that
mean? Did Lord Stoneville even believe Anthony's story? She began to think he might not.
Shifting her gaze to the reclining guests, she said casually, "I notice you aren't partaking of the gas yourself. I should hate to think that squiring me around is preventing you from enjoying your party."
"Hardly. Your presence is intoxicating enough to satisfy me."
She rolled her eyes. "Spare me your flatteries, sir. I'm no green girl."
"Odd, then, that Norcourt thinks he must protect you from everyone."
"He's only behaving like a cousin."
"A kissing cousin, perhaps."
Her blood slowed to sludge in her veins. She leveled him with a chastening glance. "Why on earth would you say such a thing about a parson's wife?"
The marquess looked decidedly unrepentant. "Because I've never seen Norcourt want to throttle me just for flirting with a woman. It smacks of jealousy, and one isn't generally jealous of one's cousin, is one?"
She fought to keep her voice even. "He's protective, that's all."
"Yet he brought you to a nitrous oxide party and left you to me."
"Because I begged him to."
"And he complied, even though he has sworn off such things. Even though he refuses to attend himself. Very strange behavior, wouldn't you say?"
