Most Eagerly Yours (26 page)

Micklebee rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

Aidan ignored the man’s mocking tone. “People all but shoved one another out of the way to be first in line to invest. Even those previously invested in the project came out to sink more funds into it. People like the Marquess of Harcourt, Major Bradford, and my own relations, the Lewes- Parkers. Even cynical Geoffrey Taft seems to have miraculously overcome his misgivings, for he arrived eager to empty his pockets.”

“That rather does take suspicion off the man,” Micklebee interrupted.

“Yes, and I managed to sidle up to his mistress as she spent her time window-shopping up and down the street. The poor woman had circles beneath her eyes but a smile on her face. Do know what she said to me?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat, milord.”

Again, Aidan disregarded the sarcasm. “That due to the elixir, both she and Taft arrived home from the picnic in such high humor that neither of them were afforded much sleep last night.”

“Good God.” The agent studied him. “Did it have a similar effect on you?”

When Aidan didn’t answer, the front legs of Micklebee’s chair hit the floor with a thwack. “It did, didn’t it? Who was she? Some debutante fresh for the plucking? Or . . . a certain young widow, perhaps?”

“Unless you want to be found floating facedown in the river, you’ll discontinue that train of thought. Besides,
she
wasn’t anyone, because unlike Taft and pretty Margaret Whitfield, I didn’t act on the impulses brought on by Rousseau’s elixir.”

A partial lie. Yet he continued to wonder whether his ill-advised actions last evening had been caused by the elixir, or if he had simply lost all control when it came to Laurel Sanderson. Yesterday hadn’t been the first time. At the Theatre Royal, he had pressed her up against the corridor wall where anyone might have seen them, and had kissed her breathless.

But as he had lain awake last night, it had occurred to him that stolen kisses were understandable. Initiating sexual relations on an open carriage seat bordered on inexcusable, and would have been unforgivable had matters gone any further. Clearly, Rousseau’s elixir held more than curative properties.

“The high spirits Taft experienced seemed to have been shared by the others, myself included,” he told Micklebee. “Except for an initial warming sensation, the effects were subtle, not like being drunk or drugged. One felt . . . happier . . . and capable of performing extraordinary feats.”

“A kind of euphoria, but without any physical disorientation.”

“Yes.”

“So the same energy that kept Taft and his mistress awake last night might have sent all those others to the bank this morning.”

“Precisely what I think.”

Micklebee’s brows converged, all trace of humor gone from his manner. “So what’s in this formula to produce such enthusiasm?”

Aidan pushed out a mirthless chuckle. “I don’t expect Rousseau will offer up his secret recipe, and the whereabouts of his lab are strictly hush-hush.”

“Then you’ll have to find it on your own, won’t you, mate?”

Aidan answered the question with one of his own. “Anything on Laurel Sanderson yet?”

A glint of amusement sparked in the agent’s eye, but he shook his head. “Give it time. If your lady is hiding something, we’ll find it.”

“She is not
my
lady.”

Micklebee just smiled.

 

On Friday evening, Laurel learned the true meaning of opulence. She had thought the Assembly Rooms grand, the Theatre Royal ornate. Both paled beside Bath’s Guildhall, situated on High Street around the corner from Abbey Green, but worlds away in terms of sheer magnificence.

She had come with Melinda to attend a reception followed by a concert, and as they ascended to the Aix-en-Provence Room on the first floor, it was all she could do to keep from gawking at the carved ceilings and the expansive arches, the gilt-encrusted columns, and the intricate friezes.

“The city’s aldermen of the last century had wished to astound their guests with their Guildhall,” Melinda said, observing Laurel’s stupefaction. “This building stands as a monument to their collective pride.”

“It certainly does that,” Laurel agreed, having to remind herself not to let her mouth drop open.

Glittering with bejeweled women and silk-clad men, the reception room held a close-packed throng of some two hundred people. Along the walls, refreshment tables offered every tempting treat imaginable. A fountain in the corner captured Laurel’s attention.

“Why, it’s just like the one at the Pump Room, only smaller!”

“Yes, but this one dispenses champagne,” Melinda told her. “Is that not Aidan I see filling a glass for his cousin?”

“Oh . . . it is. . . .” It hurt Laurel to gaze upon him, to see him surrounded by friends and family and looking so handsome in sapphire tails and dove gray knee breeches, his intricately tied ivory cravat set with a diamond pin. He seemed . . . happy.

It had been two days since the picnic, and she had neither seen nor heard from him since then. Would he ignore her tonight? Yes, they had gone too far on the front seat of his cabriolet, but his abrupt retreat had been more than physical; it had been prompted by more than propriety. The emotional wall he had erected between them had been guilt- ridden. He had effectively stifled any chance of intimacy between them, and left her suspecting that he had scrambled to protect his solitary life.

Why?

Not that he appeared in any way solitary tonight. Acquaintances and admirers vied for his attention, including the two young cousins who each coveted the title of Countess of Barensforth.

Jealousy pierced Laurel’s side as she regarded the stunning twins, as she begrudged them their place at Aidan’s side, a place forbidden to her.

“Laurel, dear,” Melinda whispered behind her fan, “you must learn the rules of the game. To stare so openly at a man is to publicly wear your heart on your sleeve, and certain to set tongues wagging.”

Disconcerted, Laurel quickly looked away. The countess smiled tolerantly and linked arms with her, and they began a circuit of the room. They greeted Lady Devonlea and Julian Stoddard. Lord Munster kissed her hand but to her relief made no further overtures. For a few minutes they joined a group that included Claude Rousseau, who was discussing his elixir.

Laurel had learned from Lady Devonlea that the scientist would be attending tonight’s concert, and she herself had come for the specific purpose of observing the Frenchman and Lord Munster together. She hoped their actions might provide further hints into the nature of their relationship. Were they casual colleagues, or fellow conspirators?

At present she could determine little, and as the man answered questions about his formula, she allowed Melinda to draw her away from the group.

“You know, Laurel, I sense there is more to you than meets the eye.”

Laurel received this observation with a frisson of alarm. Was Melinda beginning to see through her masquerade? “I cannot fathom your meaning.”

“Then I shall enlighten you.” Melinda exchanged a greeting with an acquaintance, then continued. “I have known my godson all his life, and I can assure you that no quiet country widow has ever attracted his notice before. I am sorry to confess that his assignations are typically of the secretive sort, with socially unavailable women.”

“But Lord Barensforth has sought no assignation with me, nor I with him.” That might not have been quite true, but Laurel felt certain there would be no future trysts between them.

“Ah, but he is partial to you, Laurel. I see it in his eyes whenever he looks at you. I see it at this moment, for here he comes.”

His approach brought on a wave of astonishment and a smidgen of panic. What could he possibly want after the deplorable way he had left her outside her lodging house? Perhaps he was crossing the room with another destination in mind. Perhaps . . .

“Good evening, Melinda. Laurel. I trust you are both well?”

“Quite well, thank you, dearest.”

Aidan kissed Melinda’s offered cheek, and raised Laurel’s hand to the slightest graze of his lips. “I called upon you this afternoon,” he said to Melinda, “and was told you were not at home.”

“I must have been at the dressmaker’s. Why? Had you come to ask me more impertinent questions?” Melinda snapped her fan open and closed and said to Laurel, “Aidan has appointed himself champion of my affairs, and seeks foremost to protect me from the folly of my own ways.”

Sensing a private argument between them, Laurel didn’t know how to respond. She stole a peek at Aidan and was surprised to encounter a covert flicker of frustration, as if he sought her assistance in appealing to the countess.

“I wished to speak with you,” he said. “It is important.”

“I’ll wait with Lady Devonlea.” Laurel started away, but Aidan reached out, almost but not quite touching her arm.

“I’d like to speak with you both,” he amended. “But not here. Somewhere private. Tomorrow perhaps?”

“So inscrutable.” Melinda tapped his shoulder with her fan. “Come by for luncheon, and you may air whatever matter has turned you so somber tonight. You come, too, Laurel, since this appears to involve you as well.”

A quarter of an hour later, they proceeded into the next room, where rows of seats fanned out in a semicircle from the musicians’ platform. Laurel and Melinda found seats about a third of the way back and were joined by Lady Devonlea, Lady Harcourt, Mrs. Whitfield, and Lady Penelope Lewes-Parker, the mother of Aidan’s hopeful cousins.

Emily and Edwina sat farther along the same row in a group that included Aidan, Lord Munster, Lord Devonlea, and Claude Rousseau. Julian Stoddard sat a row behind them, and for a moment Laurel wondered why the striking young man seemed always to attend these social functions alone. Enjoying his time as a bachelor, she supposed.

She faced front as a chamber ensemble took to the stage and began warming up their instruments. The performance began with a Purcell sonata. Laurel found the nimble speed of the harpsichordist’s fingers over the keys a delight to watch. When the piece ended, she turned to Melinda beside her to convey her appreciation. That was when she noticed the empty seats at the end of their row.

Lords Munster and Devonlea, Monsieur Rousseau, and the bright blond head of Julian Stoddard were nowhere in sight. Other seats were empty as well, although she could not remember who had occupied them.

Aidan’s cousins were busily whispering and attempting to include him in their discourse. He nodded absently but turned his attention to the doorway leading into the Aix-en-Provence Room. The opening notes of the next piece filled the hall. Aidan spoke to his cousins, adjusted his coat, and made his way out of the row. He, too, disappeared into the next room.

The music faded beneath Laurel’s speculation. While it was likely the men had grown bored with the entertainment and had gone somewhere to play cards, her instinct prodded suspicions to the contrary. What about Aidan? Had he left to join them, or to follow them? Once again, her instincts supplied an answer, one that precluded any wrongdoing on his part.

She came to her feet, bending over to avoid blocking the view of those behind her. “Excuse me, Melinda. I’ll be right back.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. A loose stay is poking my side. I am sure a minor adjustment will set all to rights.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No need, truly. Enjoy the performance. I shall return presently.”

With that, she sidestepped to the end of the row, hoping her instincts weren’t about to lead her into the biggest blunder of her life.

 

From the gallery, Aidan heard the drumming of footsteps retreating across the marble hall below. He moved quickly to the landing and caught a glimpse of the backs of a half dozen men exiting through the street door.

Without retrieving his cloak and top hat, he burst out upon High Street to see the group striding briskly northward. A fog as thick as gruel crawled along the storefronts, swallowing their forms and muting their footsteps.

Darting from doorway to doorway and hugging the building fronts, Aidan trailed after them. He recognized the flash of Julian Stoddard’s blond hair, not to mention the walking stick he carried. Recently he seemed to be using it less, and some of the spring had returned to his stride.

From the silhouettes of their flapping cloaks, he also made out Devonlea and Fitz. A snippet of a French accent confirmed that the short one was Rousseau. Aidan strained to discern the other two. Taft? Perhaps. And possibly de Vere, but the mist made it difficult to be certain.

At the corner of Bridge Street, two of the group broke off from the others and headed east. The rest continued north. Aidan knew Stoddard had leased a town house farther along Northgate, and it appeared that four of them would be adjourning there, probably to drink brandy and play a few rounds of whist.

It was the direction that Fitz and Rousseau had taken that interested Aidan most.

Swiftly they made their way past the north entrance to the Grand Parade. The street was deserted. Between the shops lining Pulteney Bridge, the rumbling of a carriage echoed. A barouche came clattering over the cobbles, emerging onto Bridge Street to veer sharply south onto High Street. Fitz and Rousseau hastened their steps, all but disappearing into the viscous fog rolling over the river’s steep banks.

Crossing the road, they proceeded beyond the mouth of the bridge to the staircase that led down to the boat slips. The mist engulfed them, but Aidan heard their heels echo against the stone steps. Slipping from the concealment of the Grand Parade, he sprinted diagonally across the road.

He could see nothing down below, but pricking his ears, he thought he heard the swish of paddles maneuvering a craft beneath the one of the bridge’s wide arches.

“Spare a shilling, mate?”