Shirley Kerr

A
listair, Viscount Moncreiffe, peered into the window of the optician’s shop, caught by the glint of sunlight on the gleaming metal body of the eyepiece on display. With growing interest, he read the placard that described its polished glass attributes. Its magnification was much higher than any eyepiece he currently owned. His set of three eyepieces for his telescope was adequate, but he was tired of adequate.

The cacophony of the city, the cries of street vendors, clatter of passing hackneys, all faded as he imagined what he could do with an eyepiece like that. How much farther into the night sky he could see. Perhaps even find undeniable proof that, contrary to what so many people
believed, Ceres and Pallas were indeed asteroids, and not planets.

A swift tug on his arm brought him back from the Andromeda nebula.

“I’m
so
sorry to have kept you waiting, dear,” a woman said, tucking her arm through his as she continued walking.

Bemused by the most innovative way any female had sought an introduction, Alistair allowed himself to be towed along by the celestial being at his side, a young miss with sun-kissed blond hair and sky blue eyes. The swell of her full bosom was shown to advantage in her fashionably low-cut gown.

She gave a tinkling laugh, tossing her curls. Her smile was dazzling as she looked into his eyes.

Her direct approach was such a refreshing change from the simpering debutantes who’d practically drooled on his coat sleeves at the Knickersons’ rout last night, Alistair decided to play along. “You are forgiven, darling, as your timely arrival kept me from spending an inordinate sum on a new eyepiece.”

He hid a grin as her step faltered. She quickly recovered, though. “That’s just as well, since your old one does the job quite well.” She continued walking at a spanking pace, both hands wrapped around his arm as they dodged an orange cart and stepped in unison around a flower girl.

This was intriguing, but where was her chaperone? Footman, maid, outraged male relative…“Who—”

She cut him off. “I saw the most darling bonnet at the modiste’s just now.” She paused only long enough to show off her straight white teeth in a vacuous smile, then
continued. “It was a straw poke bonnet, adorned with grapes and feathers and even an ostrich plume. Can you picture how adorable it would be?”

Alistair pictured how it would droop and disintegrate under the slightest bit of rain. Judging by the clouds looming on the horizon, threatening to block the sun, it was just as well she hadn’t bought it.

The mysterious miss paused in her chatter long enough to furtively glance over her shoulder. She nibbled at her bottom lip, making it plump and red as a cherry.

“Who—”

She cut him off again. “So happy you agreed to accompany me this afternoon, darling. I love Auntie to death, but she can be rather a sourpuss at times, especially when her gout is acting up.”

The last words were said over her shoulder as she stared at the street behind them. Alistair cast a glance behind them as well, but saw nothing untoward, just the usual collection of pedestrians, shoppers, and vendors crowding the sidewalk.

They reached the corner, and Alistair allowed the woman to gently steer them toward the alley. Once around the corner, she picked up the pace even more.

“Just a couple more doors down,” she said, her voice now breathy from the effort of walking so fast. She patted his arm and looked over her shoulder. She came to an abrupt halt, staring back the way they had come, her hands falling to her sides.

They were alone in the alley, save for a cat eating its dinner near a pile of rubbish. The orange tabby looked up, a skinny mouse tail waving from between its jaws.

Alistair grimaced and turned his attention back to the young woman. “This has all been very entertaining, but who are y—”

She was gone.

Alistair swept his gaze around the alley. The only other living being in the vicinity was the orange tabby, now busily washing its face after its meal.

Voices drifted from the open door of a shop a few feet away. Alistair poked his head inside and peered past bolts of fabric stacked haphazardly, threatening to spill into the narrow passageway, which was littered with scraps of fabric and thread. He was about to step inside when the modiste’s assistant appeared from behind a curtained doorway, her arms overflowing with a rainbow of silks and velvets.

After a startled moment, she dropped a quick curtsy and motioned with her head. “Beg pardon, m’lord, but the entrance is ’round the front.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.” He gave her a nod, retraced his steps, and hurried around to the shop’s street entrance.

Though he loitered in the late afternoon sunshine near the dressmaker’s for a half hour, he saw no one leave who resembled the mysterious miss with the bouncing blond curls. Several fashionable young women entered with their chaperones, but the only person to emerge was an old widow, leaning heavily on her cane.

With a glance at his pocket watch, and one last regretful look at the dressmaker’s shop, Alistair hurried home to prepare for the Gatwicks’ ball.

Pity. She was the most intriguing encounter he’d had
in all of London during his reluctant participation in the Little Season, and he hadn’t even discovered her name.

Alistair stood next to his friend Nick and eyed the crowded ballroom with distaste. Beyond the swirling mass of humanity, the night sky was visible through the open balcony doors, beckoning to him. Clouds from this afternoon had cleared off, and the moon was in its last quarter, leaving the sky almost as dark and clear as it could get in London. Perfect for astronomical observations.

Father and Grandfather had other ideas, of course. Caring nothing for how few clear nights London offered in the autumn, both had insisted he attend this ball—each for quite different reasons.

But Alistair knew how to play their game. Just as he had done at so many other social functions, he’d entrusted his coat, hat, and the haversack containing his telescope and journal to a footman’s temporary care when he’d arrived at the Argyle Rooms. As soon as both relatives had seen him mingle, he would claim his belongings, climb up to the roof, and be able to get in a few hours of observation before he made a return appearance in the ballroom before the trip home.

“Come along, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Alistair stifled his groan and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Not you, too, Nick. Bad enough my father keeps bringing every lightskirt to my attention, and Grandfather every marriage-minded miss. Thought I was safe from all that nonsense with you.”

Nick shook his head, his gold earring winking in the
light cast by the many chandeliers. “Give me some credit. I’m introducing you to a man, not some miss.”

Alistair rested his hands on his hips. “I know you sailors are known to have some odd appetites, but I do not—”

Nick threw his head back and laughed, and grabbed Alistair by the elbow, pulling him along. They plowed through the churning crowd, dodging the dancers and duennas, and pulled up short at the staircase, where more new arrivals had just been announced.

“Blakeney, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Nick said, clapping a gentleman on the shoulder.

The man grinned as he turned. “Well, look what the wharf rats dragged ashore.” He and Nick continued their boisterous greeting, much to the sniffing disapproval of a matron who entered behind Blakeney. Alistair tugged the two of them away from her.

Like Nick, Blakeney was dressed appropriately for the occasion. And just like Nick, there was nothing untoward in his appearance or demeanor, yet there was something about him that declared he didn’t quite belong amongst polite society. Alistair liked him immediately.

Introductions formally performed, the three headed for the refreshment table.

“How is it that you know this old salt?” Blakeney took a swallow of the weak punch and frowned. Nick retrieved a flask from his coat pocket and splashed some into each of their cups, earning a smile from Blakeney.

“Nick was the school chum always getting us into trouble.” Alistair nudged Nick when he was stingy with the alcohol.

“Somebody had to be the one.” Nick took a swig straight
from his flask before tucking it away again. “Heaven knows it wasn’t you, always arguing with the teachers, or Tony, busy teaching the bullies a lesson. Though you were both willing to go along with my ideas.”

Alistair tasted the doctored punch. Much better. “And you, Blakeney? I take it you know Nick in his capacity as common sailor.”

“There is nothing common about me or my ship,” Nick huffed.

Blakeney emptied his glass in one swallow. “Let’s just say Nick saved me and Charlie from having to swim a time or two.”

Nick winked.

Realizing Blakeney was likely referring to work Nick had done for the Home Office during the war with Napoleon, sneaking his brig past the French blockade, Alistair settled in to hear a good yarn or two.

“Do you see him?”

“Not yet, Aunt.” Charlotte scanned the sea of dancers as she and Aunt Hermione stood at the entrance to the ballroom at the Argyle Rooms, hardly sparing a glance for its famed elegant décor. Her brother’s tall form should be easy to spot, if he was in the ballroom as he’d said he would be. If he was off on a secret meeting without her…He’d assured her he’d meet them at the ball, completely ignoring Charlotte’s protests at being left behind to help Hermione.

He’d rarely left her behind when they were working together in Paris, but it seemed all bets were off since they’d come to London.

As soon as her aunt had duly admired the Grecian lamps and painted ceilings, they stepped into the crowded, noisy ballroom. Steven was nowhere to be found amongst the colorful mass of swirling dancers.

Charlotte forced her fists to unclench as Hermione’s friend came forward to greet them.

“My, don’t you look lovely,” Lady Durrell gushed after she’d greeted Aunt Hermione. Charlotte pasted a smile on her face as Lady Durrell nudged her son at her side. “Doesn’t she, Elliott?”

“Yeth, Mama. You look ethpecially charming tonight, Mith Parnell.”

It took all of Charlotte’s willpower not to snort. She’d previously met the dandy at another ball, and knew his lisp was just as much an affectation as his seven fobs. The more he drank, the less he lisped. Aunt Hermione flashed her a pointed look, but Charlotte shook her head. Thirty thousand a year or no, she would not encourage the silly young earl.

Lady Durrell remained oblivious to Charlotte’s disinterest. “You looked just as lovely at your cousin’s wedding breakfast last week. Do you know when she and Lord Glavin will return from their wedding journey?”

Charlotte tried to not think of Marianne at all—it was her cousin’s fault that Steven was set on marrying her off. Just because Marianne was two years younger, Steven worried that Charlotte soon would be considered “on the shelf.” As if that mattered to her. She had more important things to do than worry about getting leg-shackled.

Luckily, Aunt Hermione stepped into the conversation,
and Charlotte swept the room again, searching for a sign of Steven. There he was, coming out of a side room. Since he’d actually made an appearance, she felt almost in charity with him again. Almost.

A few excruciating moments later, she and Hermione were able to work their way toward Steven. He greeted their aunt with a kiss on the cheek, oblivious to Charlotte’s close scrutiny. As soon as she saw him up close, she recognized that look in his eyes, the same look that was always there when he was working. Blast. He’d left her out of it, after he’d promised not to.

Well, if he was going to break his promise, she felt no compunction against breaking hers as well. She need stay only a little while, and then she could slip away. When Aunt Hermione had announced the location of tonight’s ball, it had seemed like a gift, an opportunity not to be passed up.

Steven leaned close to give Charlotte a kiss on the cheek, and whispered in her ear. “See anyone you like? I’ll arrange introductions.”

Just because Marianne had gone all silly at the prospect of marriage did not mean that she felt the same way. In fact, a husband would only get in the way of her work. She gave a disdainful sweep of the gentlemen present in the ballroom.

Her breath caught. There he was, the gentleman she’d accosted on the street this afternoon. He was easily visible despite standing amidst a group of men. Taller than his companions, with his wavy light brown hair no longer hidden by his hat, though she couldn’t see his sparkling
blue eyes from this distance. His elegant clothes were well-tailored to his trim form, though he was far from being a dandy.

She took a half step to the side, almost hiding behind Steven. Should she plead a headache and make her escape before he saw her?

As though he sensed her staring at him, he lifted his head, sweeping her side of the room. He froze, and then gave a small smile of recognition as he locked gazes with her.

Blast. Now what? If she left the ball, he might seek out Steven, ask questions that she didn’t want her half brother to hear.

Well, the gentleman had gone along with her outrageously forward behavior this afternoon, so he must possess a healthy sense of humor. She’d just have to arrange an introduction and give him some silly excuse for her earlier actions. And keep her brother out of it.

All in the line of duty, of course. And do it quickly, before he left his group of friends and started toward her.

If their conversation required the privacy of waltzing together, well, that was just a sacrifice she’d have to make. Remembering the feel of his muscles beneath his coat sleeve, and wanting to feel them again, had nothing to do with it.

“No, sorry, I don’t see any prospects here,” she said. Aunt Hermione dragged Steven into conversation and introduced him to a particularly vapid-looking brunette just then. “I’ll be right back,” Charlotte whispered, and slipped away before anyone could stop her.

Blakeney had left to greet someone or other, and Nick had wandered off with a widow who wanted to make merry, effectively abandoning Alistair to his fate amongst the matchmakers in the ballroom.

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