Most Eagerly Yours (11 page)

 

“Laurel! Laurel, wake up.”

Her hands groping at the bed linens, Laurel’s eyes flew open. A cold wash of panic dappled her brow as her gaze darted about a room thankfully untouched by flames.

It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings, to understand that she had awakened, not in the little bedchamber she shared with Willow atop their Readers’ Emporium in London, but in her comparatively spacious room at the charming Abbey Green lodging house in Bath’s Lower Town.

“It’s all right, Laurel. You were having a nightmare.”

She half expected to see the wrinkled features of the woman in her dream, but the attractive face framed by auburn curls and a plumed hat belonged to Lady Devonlea. She clutched Laurel’s shoulders just as the woman in her dream had, giving insistent little shakes to rouse her.

Gradually the knocking of her heart subsided. With a calmer gaze she took in the cozy furnishings of her rented bedchamber. “How did you get in?”

“The chambermaid remembered me from the other day and unlocked your door for me. And a good thing she did.” Beatrice released her but searched her face in obvious alarm. “That must have been one devil of a dream.”

Yes, a devil of a dream, a horror, yet one in whose grasp she would willingly remain if it meant answering the endless questions it raised. She knew a fire had destroyed Peyton Manor, her childhood home in the Cotswold Hills, and taken the lives of her parents. From what Uncle Edward had explained, she understood that she and her governess had escaped through the service tunnel that linked the cellars to the carriage house.

But what had caused the blasts she had heard?

That question and others had dogged her for most of her life. Why had her governess vanished from Laurel’s and her sisters’ lives? Why hadn’t she entered into Uncle Edward’s employ and continued raising the girls at Thorn Grove? Did the woman continue to live somewhere in the Cotswolds?

Uncle Edward had always been vague in his answers, and Laurel had never been satisfied with his assertion that the blasts had been the result of glass and masonry exploding from the fire’s intense heat. She had seen and heard something else that day, something she believed in her very bones explained the tragedy of her parents’ deaths, if she could only remember.

The figure in a black cloak—had he been real or imagined, an intruder or merely a shadow cast by the flames?

Beatrice perched on the edge of the bed and studied Laurel with a shrewd expression. “You have suffered this nightmare before.”

“Since I was a child,” she admitted. “Our home in the Cotswolds caught fire. My parents died.” She had been six at the time, and in all the years since then, the dream had never varied. Until this morning. This time it had begun with Laurel safe and happy in Lord Barensforth’s arms.

What did that mean? That even her erstwhile protector could not save her from danger? Or that he was no true protector at all, but someone she must take pains to shield herself from?

With shaky fingers she combed the tousled hair from her face. “What time is it?”

“Nearly half past ten.”

“So late?” She pushed up onto her elbows. “I have slept away nearly the entire morning.”

Laughing, Beatrice placed her hands on Laurel’s shoulders and eased her back onto the pillows. “How delightfully country bred you are, my dear! And here I was about to apologize for rousing you with the chickens.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why
are
you here?”

Beatrice laughed again. “To see if you might wish to accompany me to the Pump Room this morning.”

Remembering the rancid taste of the famous Bath waters from when she had visited the Pump Room the other morning, Laurel wrinkled her nose. While others had hurried to fill their glasses in the interest of boosting their health, she had happily moved away from the foul-smelling fountain. “I hadn’t planned to. . . .”

“Oh, do come. There is to be a special presentation. All of Bath’s most notable residents and visitors will be there, including Lady Fairmont and . . .” She gave a mischievous wink. “My brother will be there as well, and he is so hoping to see you again. It seems you made quite an impression on George last night.”

“Did I?” Laurel pushed to a sitting position.

“You know you did. He came by my place in Queen Square an hour ago and made me promise to procure you any way I might. Thus, being a good sister, here I am.”

Laurel swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting her hair fall forward to veil her face. Victoria would be pleased with how quickly Laurel had insinuated herself into George Fitzclarence’s life. But her experience at the ball had left a bitter taste in her mouth when it came to her mission, and grave doubts about how to proceed.

She had danced with Lord Munster several more times during the evening. Half into his cups and none too steady, he had held her uncomfortably close until she’d been forced to poke him repeatedly with her fan. He had trodden on her feet until her toes shrieked with pain.

Once, he had gone so far as to suggest, in a whisper that had made her skin crawl, that she ride home with him in his carriage, though whether to his home or hers had remained a mystery, for he never clarified his intentions. She had handled the matter by turning it into a jest, as though she quite believed he had not just insulted her but had intended only to make her laugh.

In truth, the affront she should have felt had been tempered by how quickly he had retreated from his impertinence and joined in her mirth, making her wonder if he
had
been joking after all. At that moment, indeed during all their moments together, terms like
villain
,
scoundrel
, and
rabble-rouser
had grown too grandiose for such a man. He had instead revealed himself as imprudent and biddable, as easily led astray as under other circumstances he might have been guided toward decency and respectability.

Was it the Earl of Barensforth’s fault?

She shoved her feet into her slippers, but before she stood, Lady Devonlea placed a hand on her forearm. “You would be good for my brother, Mrs. Sanderson. A steadying influence. Dare I hope you might return his regard?”

Startled by the question, Laurel hesitated. The truth would never do—that she found him piteous at best and repulsive at worst. But neither, she discovered, would her conscience allow her to make convenient use of another human being’s feelings. Not even for queen and country. Lines must be drawn and not crossed, or Laurel might find herself mired in dishonor.

For the first time she found herself wishing that Ivy or Holly
had
accompanied her to Bath. As the eldest, she had always set the example for the others, had always espoused honesty and respect and simple good breeding. Now she discovered that old habits died hard. Ivy and Holly, while good girls both, had never held themselves to quite so rigid a code of conduct. When a situation called for it, they saw no harm in cheating.

If ever a situation called for it, this one surely did. Still . . .

“I am afraid, Lady Devonlea, that while I found your brother perfectly charming”—a small lie couldn’t hurt too much, could it?—“we are not well acquainted enough to know whether or not we would suit.”

“Yes, but just the fact that you would attach the word
charming
to George says something, doesn’t it?” Springing up from the bed, the woman crossed the room and swung the wardrobe doors wide. “What shall you wear today? There is a bit of a chill. . . . Let me see. . . . Ah,
this
!” She drew out a periwinkle serge walking ensemble trimmed in braided black velvet.

The maid brought in Laurel’s breakfast tray. Returning shortly after, she carried in a ewer of hot water and laid out a fresh chemise and petticoats. When she left, Beatrice laced Laurel into her corset, jerking on the ribbons with an enthusiasm that cut her breath short.

“Perhaps you are uncertain of my brother because of all the other choices presented to you last night,” the viscountess teased. “Rather like a buffet, was it not?”

Laurel peeked over her shoulder at the other woman. “While I would agree I experienced no shortage of partners, most happily quit my side after just one dance. I am afraid I did not live up to your generous assessment of my ballroom skills.”

“You are too critical of yourself. Of course, I could not fail to notice that the one man with whom you did
not
dance never took his eyes off you all evening.”

A tingle whispered across Laurel’s nape. “Oh?”

The viscountess spun her about. “Why
didn’t
you dance with him? Was he such a cad that he never asked you?”

“Whom do you mean?”

“How coy you are. The Earl of Barensforth, of course. He is devilish handsome, isn’t he?”

“I suppose,” she murmured, turning away to hide her flushed cheeks.

With a knowing grin, Lady Devonlea helped Laurel on with her skirt and bodice, fastening the tiny buttons up her back. “They may decide to fight over you. I’ve seen them go at it before. Aidan . . . Lord Barensforth . . . typically wins, though occasionally he steps aside and allows George the conquest.”

“Why, you sound as though I am a trophy, or a piece of territory to be claimed.”

Lady Devonlea came around her and placed cool fingertips beneath Laurel’s chin. “My dear Mrs. Sanderson, as a widow of independent means, that is exactly what you are.”

“But I am not looking to marry again. Not this soon, at any rate.”

“You darling thing, you continue to enchant me. Surely you do not think I am speaking of marriage. My brother is already married. Aidan Phillips has sworn not to wed until the last possible moment. As for myself, you cannot imagine that I intend to spend the rest of my days in the company of one man only.”

“Oh, I . . .”

“I see that I have quite shocked you.” The viscountess placed a palm against Laurel’s cheek. “I’ve turned you pale as a ghost, and for that I am sorry.”

“No, no. How silly of me.” Suddenly finding something distasteful in the woman’s touch, Laurel drew away and lifted her jacket from the bed. “I fear I have too long been sequestered in the country, too long out of touch with the ways of society. I have grown naive and gauche.”

Lady Devonlea’s indulgent smile brought such beauty to her countenance that Laurel half believed she had somehow misunderstood the woman’s meaning, that they were not speaking of adultery and disgrace.

The viscountess’s next words proved that conjecture wrong. “We must reeducate you. As always, discretion remains an utmost necessity. Arthur and I have a perfectly civilized understanding that neither of us shall ever make the other look foolish. But think about it, my dear. As a moneyed widow you have the freedom to determine the course of your life. How young and raw you must have been when you married your squire. Have you not earned the right to enjoy the years ahead?”

Good heavens. Laurel wondered what Lady Fairmont would think of Lady Devonlea’s tutelage. Would she approve, or be as horrified as Laurel privately felt?

“Never fear, Mrs. Sanderson, I have no intention of tossing a lamb such as you to any of our masculine wolves.” Lady Devonlea helped her on with her fitted jacket. “It is your very innocence that I find so refreshing, and why I believe your influence would work as such a tonic on my brother. But come along, or we’ll miss today’s presentation.”

Minutes later, Laurel gazed out the carriage window at the Lower Town’s attractive lanes, where hints of medieval influence could still be seen. Even overcast skies and dampened storefronts could not diminish the city’s charms. Bath was a place of spires and turrets and grand proportions, a progression of styles from Romanesque to Gothic to the stately Palladian, all clad in the honey-warm tones of the region’s distinctive limestone.

In the short time she had been there, Laurel had fallen in love with the city. How she wished she were here with her sisters on no graver business than an early spring holiday.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Pump Room’s colonnaded portico on Stall Street. As a porter opened their door, Laurel felt the cool slap of rain-tinged air against her cheeks.

“Lady Devonlea, you never did tell me what was so special about today,” she reminded the other woman.

“Ah, yes. Monsieur Rousseau is to explain the healthful benefits of a new elixir he has developed, and he has promised to offer samples to all present at the Pump Room this morning.”

As the viscountess stepped down from the barouche, a frisson of alarm shot through Laurel. “Monsieur Rousseau?”

“Yes, the eminent scientist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Victoria had mentioned a man named Rousseau, an aristocratic turncoat responsible for countless deaths during the wars with Napoleon. He, the old king, and Victoria’s father had traded correspondence even as Rousseau had condemned fellow Frenchmen to the guillotine.

This scientist, of course, could not be the same Rousseau, for that evil man had eventually dangled from the end of a rope. But Laurel knew better than to discount a connection. George Fitzclarence stealing his father’s papers and coming to Bath at the same time that this man, Rousseau, was here seemed too convenient to be a coincidence.