Slightly Wicked (20 page)

“Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked when their joined hands brought them close to each other for a moment.

“Exceedingly well,” she said, and he knew she meant it.

So was he. Enjoying a ball, which he had rarely done before, enjoying the slow minuet, which he had
never
done before.

There was something between them, he thought, like a strong current of energy, binding them and at the same time isolating them from everyone else in the room. Surely he could not be imagining it. Surely she must feel it too. It was not just sexual desire.

“
Do
you waltz?” he asked her.

“No.” She shook her head.

I will teach you one day,
he thought.

She lifted her eyes to his and smiled as if she had heard the thought.

He was, he knew, the envy of every man in the room. He wondered if she realized just what a stir she was causing this evening or just what sour looks she was drawing from her aunt.

“Perhaps,” he said, “if you have not promised every remaining set, you will reserve one more for me. The last?”

She looked at him again and for a few moments held his gaze.

“Thank you,” she said.

That was almost the sum total of their conversation all the time they danced. But there was that feeling of being bound, of sharing hearts and emotions, of words being unnecessary.

Perhaps, he thought, by the end of the evening she would be tired of dancing and they would sit together somewhere where they were properly in view of the other guests but where they could have some private conversation. Perhaps he could ascertain if her feelings toward him and his offer had undergone any change during the past two weeks.

Perhaps he would even ask her again tonight if she would marry him, though he rather believed he would prefer to ask her tomorrow, outdoors, where they could be entirely private together. He would ask her uncle for permission, take her down to that little lake, and then declare himself.

There was something about her manner—he was sure he was not imagining it—that encouraged him to hope that she would have him after all.

He amused himself with such thoughts and plans as he watched her dancing, that quiet glow of happiness—surely it was that—on her face.

And then the music drew to its inevitable end.

“Thank you,” he said, offering his arm to escort her back to her grandmother’s side.

She turned her head to smile at him.

“You dance very elegantly together,” his grandmother said as they approached.

Lady Effingham was behind her mother’s chair, Rannulf saw.

“Judith, dear,” she said, her voice cloyingly sweet, “I hope you have thanked Lord Rannulf properly for his kind condescension in leading you out. Mother seems very tired. I am sure you will not mind helping her to her room and remaining there with her.”

But Mrs. Law swelled up rather like a hot-air balloon, glittering and jangling as she did so. “I most certainly am not tired, Louisa,” she said. “The very idea of my missing the rest of the ball and leaving my dear Sarah to sit here alone! Besides, Judith has promised the set after the waltz to Mr. Tanguay, and it would be ill-mannered of her to disappear now.”

Lady Effingham raised her eyebrows but could hardly say anything more in the presence of Rannulf and his grandmother.

The waltz was next and he had been effectively forced into dancing it with Miss Effingham. He found her amusing, at least, he thought as he bowed and turned away to find her. Not that she would be flattered by the nature of his amusement, he supposed. And he had the last set to look forward to. And tomorrow morning. Though he must not be overconfident about that. If Judith Law did not wish to marry him, she would not do so merely because of who he was or because of his money.

She would have to love him before she would accept him, he suspected.

Did
she love him?

Insecurity, doubt, and anxiety were entirely new emotions to a man who had cultivated ennui and cynicism for most of his adult years.

J
ulianne was looking more flushed and brighter-eyed than she had all evening, Judith could see. But that look could be accounted for entirely by the fact that she was dancing with Lord Rannulf again. It was a reaction Judith herself could sympathize with.

More ominous was the fact that Horace was approaching Uncle George and drawing him a little apart from the group of older gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. Judith had refused an invitation to go with Mr. Warren, who did not waltz either, in search of a drink of lemonade, though she had smiled her thanks. She needed to stay in the ballroom. She watched, her heart pounding. Surely that nasty plot being hatched in Julianne’s dressing room this afternoon could not have been a serious one. Whoever would want a marriage with a husband acquired in that way?

But Julianne desperately wanted to be Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, she knew.

And Aunt Effingham was just as desperate to marry her daughter to him.

Horace was probably reveling, too, in the prospect of getting some revenge for what Lord Rannulf had done to him outside the summerhouse at Grandmaison a week ago.

Judith was only partly aware of the shocking, thrilling nature of the waltz, in which ladies and gentleman danced as couples, touching each other with both hands, twirling about the dance floor in each other’s arms. Under any other circumstances she might have been envious indeed of those who knew the steps and had handsome partners with whom to perform them.

She was only partly aware too of the nodding plumes of her grandmother and Lady Beamish, who sat in front of her enjoying the show and occasionally commenting upon it.

Branwell could waltz, she noticed in some surprise. He was waltzing with the elder Miss Warren, laughing with her, as if he did not have a care in the world.

But even the minor distraction of watching her brother proved almost fatal to Judith’s vigilance. When she found Lord Rannulf and Julianne again with her eyes, they had stopped dancing, and he had his head bent to hear what she was saying. She was rubbing one wrist, talking fast, and looking somewhat distressed. She pointed in the direction of the door.

Horace meanwhile was still talking with his father.

Judith waited no longer. Perhaps it was all meaningless though it looked very like the beginnings of the plot she had overheard. Perhaps after she had left Julianne’s dressing room they had changed the place. But she would have to take a chance on that. She slipped out of the ballroom as hastily and surreptitiously as she could, raced down the stairs, saw with relief that there was no servant to see her and wonder at her destination, and slipped into the library, which was so much her uncle’s private domain that she had never been inside the room before.

It was quite dark, but fortunately she could see enough to find her way to the windows and throw back the heavy curtains. It was a moonlit, starlit night, the clouds of the day having moved off some time during the evening. There was enough light in the room that she could see what she needed to see—two walls of bookcases crowded with books from floor to ceiling. She hurried toward one that was behind both the door and a heavy sofa.

The next minute seemed endless. What if she had come to the wrong place? What if Julianne had dragged Lord Rannulf off somewhere else to be discovered kissing her or otherwise compromising her?

And then the door opened again.

“It
must
be in here.” It was Julianne’s voice, high-pitched and anxious. “Papa gave it to me for my come-out ball and he would be dreadfully cross with me if I were to lose it. But even if he were just to see that I am not wearing it he would be hurt and upset.”

Judith could not imagine Uncle George being either cross or hurt or upset.

“If you know you left it in here,” Lord Rannulf said, sounding perfectly calm, even amused, “then we will recover it and will be waltzing again within two minutes.”

He strode into the room, without a candle, and Judith saw Julianne shut the door with a backward kick of one foot.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “that door always swings shut.” She went hurrying after Lord Rannulf and then exclaimed with triumph. “Oh,
here
it is! I
knew
I must have left it here when I came down for a little rest earlier, but of course I was terribly afraid that I was wrong and really had lost it. Lord Rannulf, how can I ever thank you for sacrificing part of our dance and slipping down with me before Papa noticed?”

“By putting it on your wrist,” he said, “so that I can take you back to the ballroom before you are missed.”

“Oh, this clasp,” she said. “There is not enough light. Will you help me?”

He bent over her while she held up her wrist, and she slipped her free arm about his neck and leaned into him.

“I really am most terribly grateful,” she said.

The door opened again as if on cue and Horace held up his candle, muttered an oath, and tried to block his father’s view of the room.

“Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all to come down here to get away from the noise,” he said loudly and heartily. “Come, Father—”

But Uncle George, as he was meant to do, had smelled the proverbial rat. He moved Horace aside with one arm and came striding into the room just as Julianne shrieked, jumped back, and struggled with the bosom of her gown, which had somehow slipped down and come very close to revealing all.

It was time to begin the counterplan.

“Ah,
here
it is,” Judith said, stepping forward with a large book spread open across both hands. “And here are Uncle George and Horace to help me adjudicate the winner. And that is Julianne, I am afraid, Lord Rannulf. It
was
a raven that Noah sent out first from the ark to see if the floodwaters had receded.
Then
he sent a dove. The dove was sent out three times, in fact, until it did not return and Noah knew that there must be dry land again. But still, it was the raven first.”

The way all four of them turned and gaped at her would have done justice to any farce. She shut the book with a flourish.

“It was a foolish thing to argue about,” she said, “and to bring the three of us downstairs in the middle of a ball to hunt for the answer. But Julianne was right, you see, Lord Rannulf.”

“Well,” he said with an audible sigh, “I suppose I must concede defeat, then. It is as well, though. It would have been ungentlemanly to crow over a lady if I had been right. Though I am still of the opinion that in
my
Bible it is a dove.”

“What the devil—” Horace began.

“Julianne,” Judith said, cutting him off as she put down the book, “are you
still
struggling with the catch of that bracelet? Can you not do it, Lord Rannulf? Let me try.”

“Hmph,” Uncle George said. “I came down for a moment’s peace and find that my library has been invaded. Does your mother know you are wearing her bracelet, Julianne? I daresay she does, though. A word of advice, Bedwyn. Never argue with a lady. She is always right.”

If she could have painted thunder in visible form, Judith thought, it would surely bear a remarkable resemblance to Horace’s face. She locked glances with him for a moment and saw murder in his eyes.

“I’ll bear it in mind, sir,” Lord Rannulf said. “That is definitely the last time I argue about ravens and doves.”

Julianne, tight-lipped and white-faced, pulled her arm away from Judith, fumbled with the catch of the bracelet, failed to do it up, snatched it off, and slammed it back onto the table where she had found it.

“Horace,” she said, “take me to Mama. I am feeling faint.”

“I suppose I had better return to my duty,” Uncle George said with a sigh.

A moment later all three of them had left, taking the candle with them and leaving the door ajar.

“What book
was
that?” Lord Rannulf asked after a few moments of silence.

“I have no idea,” Judith said. “It was too dark in the room for me to distinguish one title from another.”

“Are you
quite
sure,” he asked, “that the first bird out of the ark was a raven? I’ll wager it was a dove.”

“You will lose,” she said. “I am a clergyman’s daughter.”

“I suppose,” he said, “it was a plot to have Sir George Effingham believe I had seriously compromised his daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Careless of me,” he said. “It almost worked. I thought the chit silly and tedious but essentially harmless.”

“But Horace is not,” she said. “Neither is Aunt Louisa.”

“Judith.” He was coming toward her. “You have saved me from a miserable life sentence. How am I ever to thank you?”

“We are even,” she said. “You saved me last week in the summerhouse. I saved you this week.”

“Yes.” His hands were on her shoulders, warm, solid, familiar. “Judith.”

When had he started calling her by her given name? Had he done it before tonight? She fixed her gaze on his elaborately tied neckcloth, but only for a moment. His face got in the way, and then his mouth was on hers.

It was a deep kiss even though his hands did not move from her shoulders and hers did no more than grip the lapels of his evening coat. He teased her lips apart with his own and she opened her mouth to his. His tongue came into her mouth, filling her, possessing her, and she sucked on it, drawing it deeper.

She felt like someone who had been starved and then presented with a feast. She could not get enough of him. She would never be able to have enough of him. She could smell the familiar scent of his cologne.

And then his mouth was gone from hers and he was gazing at her in the moonlit room.

“We are going back upstairs,” he said, “before someone can make an issue of your absence. Thank you, Judith. The time between now and the last dance is going to seem tedious indeed.”

She tried not to refine too much on his words. He was relieved at his near escape. He was grateful to her. He remembered their time together when he had thought she was Claire Campbell, actress and experienced courtesan. That was all.

CHAPTER XVII

J
udith had very little time in which to gather her scattered thoughts and emotions. Perhaps very few people noticed her return to the ballroom on Lord Rannulf’s arm, but Aunt Effingham certainly did, and the look on her face did not bode well for her niece later. Julianne had somehow surrounded herself with gentlemen, the waltz having just finished, and was laughing and fluttering in their midst. Uncle George was back with his group of older gentlemen, engrossed in conversation with them. Of Horace there was no sign.

“But where did you go, Rannulf?” Lady Beamish asked when he escorted Judith to her grandmother’s side. “One moment you were waltzing and the next moment you were gone.”

“Miss Effingham suddenly missed her bracelet,” he explained, “and Miss Law was kind enough to help us search for it. Fortunately it was discovered in just the place Miss Effingham thought she might have left it.”

Judith’s grandmother smiled placidly, but Lady Beamish looked from one to the other of them with sharp eyes. Of course, Judith thought, she had been the one eager to promote the match between her grandson and Julianne. She must be disappointed that the courtship was not proceeding faster.

And then Lord Rannulf strolled away to ask a young lady to dance who to Judith’s knowledge had danced only once before during the evening, and Mr. Tanguay arrived to claim his set.

Judith smiled and gave him her attention, but it was very difficult to do when her heart was still pounding from the tensions of the past fifteen minutes.

She was laughing by the time the set ended. It had been a vigorous dance with intricate steps and patterns. But Mr. Tanguay did not have the opportunity to escort her back to her grandmother. Branwell appeared in front of them instead and took her arm.

“Excuse us if you will, Tanguay,” he said. “I need to talk to my sister for a minute.”

She looked at him in surprise. Though he had exchanged glances and smiles with her and even one wink in the course of the evening, he had been too busy enjoying himself with other young ladies to hunt out a mere sister for conversation. He was still smiling, though there was something stiff about the set of his lips. He was unusually pale. His fingers were digging rather painfully into her arm.

“Jude,” he said when they were on the landing outside the ballroom and he had looked about to ascertain that they could not be overheard, “I just wanted to let you know that I am leaving. Now. Tonight.”

“The ball?” She looked at him with incomprehension.

“Harewood.” He smiled and nodded at Beatrice Hardinge, who was passing on the arm of an unknown young man.

“Harewood?” She was further mystified. “Tonight?”

“Effingham just had a word with me,” he said. “It seems someone else came here a couple of days ago demanding payment of me for some trifling bill. Effingham paid him without even informing me. Now he wants the money back as well as the thirty pounds I owe him for the journey here.” He raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Of course I mean to pay him back, but I cannot do it just now. He cut up rather nasty about the whole thing and said some pretty offensive things, not just about me but about you too. I would have popped him a good one to the nose or even challenged him, but how could I, Jude? I am at Uncle George’s as a guest, and we are surrounded by other guests. It would be in the depths of bad taste. I am going to have to go, that is all.”

“But tonight, Bran?” She grasped his hand in both her own. Oh, she knew very well what this was all about. How dare Horace take out his anger and frustration on her brother in this way? “Why not wait at least until the morning?”

“I cannot,” he said. “I have to go now. As soon as I have changed my clothes. There is a reason.”

“But in the middle of the night? Oh, Bran,” she said, “whatever are you going to do?”

“You must not worry about me,” he said, reclaiming his hand and looking considerably agitated. “I have a—a lead on something. I’ll have my fortune made in no time at all, I promise you.” He flashed her a ghost of his old grin. “And then I’ll pay Papa back everything extra he has spent on me lately and you girls will be secure again. I have to go, Jude. I must not delay any longer.”

“Let me at least come upstairs with you,” she said, “and then see you on your way after you have changed.”

“No, no.” He looked around him again, obviously anxious to be gone. “You stay here, Jude. I want to slip away unnoticed. I’ll pay Effingham first as soon as I can, and then I’ll pay him back in a different way for what he said about my sister.” He bent his head and pecked her on the cheek.

She watched him go in some dismay and with a strong sense of foreboding. He obviously owed a great deal of money to a great many people, and now their number included Horace—obviously for a far larger sum than thirty pounds. Yet he was dashing off furtively in the middle of the night, convinced that at last he had found a way to make his fortune quickly and rid himself of debt. He was surely only going to dig himself a deeper grave.

And in the process completely ruin his family.

It was with a heavy heart that she returned to the ballroom. Even the prospect of dancing the last set with Lord Rannulf Bedwyn failed to cheer her.

She was to be further disappointed within a few minutes.

“Judith,” her grandmother said, taking her hand and squeezing it, “my dear Sarah is not feeling at all the thing. It is too drafty in here with the doors and windows open, I daresay, and too noisy. Perhaps you would fetch Lord Rannulf.”

“There really is no need to fuss, Gertrude,” Lady Beamish said. “I feel better already since you fanned my face.”

But looking at her, Judith could see that the old lady’s always-pale complexion had a gray tinge and her always-correct posture was drooping somewhat.

“You are weary, ma’am,” she said, “and it is no wonder. It is after midnight already. I shall certainly fetch Lord Rannulf.”

It proved unnecessary. He came even as Judith started to look around for him in the milling crowd between sets. He bent over his grandmother’s chair and took one of her hands in his.

“You are tired, Grandmama?” he asked, such gentleness in his face and voice that it felt to Judith that her heart turned over. “So am I, I must confess. I shall have the carriage brought around immediately.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “I have never left a ball early in my life. Besides, there are two sets left and two young ladies to whom you have committed your time.”

“I have not engaged anyone for the next set,” he said, “and Miss Law was to be my partner for the last one. I am sure she will excuse me.”

“Indeed I will,” Judith assured them both.

Lady Beamish looked at her, her eyes still sharp despite her obvious weariness.

“Thank you, Miss Law,” she said. “You are both gracious and kind. Very well, then, Rannulf, you may call the carriage. Gertrude, my dear, I am going to have to abandon you.”

Judith’s grandmother chuckled. “I have scarcely known how to keep my own eyes open for the last half hour,” she said. “After the next set is over, I will have Judith help me to my room, if she will be so good. Then she can return for the last set if she wishes. It has been a thoroughly pleasant evening, has it not?”

“Miss Law,” Lord Rannulf said, “would you care to help me find a servant to take a message to the stables?”

Someone of his rank and demeanor had no difficulty in finding and attracting the attention of a servant, of course. The message was sent in no time at all. Judith used the opportunity to ask the same servant to send Tillie up to her grandmother’s room. But Lord Rannulf had wished to speak with her privately. They stood outside the ballroom, on almost the exact spot where she had stood with Branwell just a short while earlier. He clasped his hands at his back and leaned a little toward her.

“I am sorrier than I can say,” he said, “about the last set.”

“But we are not children,” she said, smiling, “to have a tantrum whenever we are deprived of an expected treat.”

“Perhaps you are a saint, Judith,” he said, his eyes narrowing with the old mockery. “I am not. I could throw a tantrum in the middle of the ballroom right now, lying on my back, drumming my heels on the wooden floor, punching my fists in the air, and cursing most foully.”

She burst into delighted laughter, and he tipped his head to one side and pursed his lips.

“You were created for laughter and happiness,” he said. “May I call on you tomorrow morning?”

Whatever for?

“I am sure everyone would be delighted,” she said.

He regarded her with steady eyes, mockery still lurking in their depths.

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” he said. “I asked if I might call upon
you,
Judith.”

He could mean only one thing, surely. But he had asked before—in a manner she had found offensive—and she had answered quite firmly in the negative. But that had been two weeks ago. Much had happened since. Much had changed, though perhaps nothing more than her own opinion of him. His of her could not have changed much, could it? She was still the impoverished daughter of a never wealthy but now impoverished country clergyman, while he was still the son of a duke and second in line to the title.

“If you wish.” She found that she was whispering, but he heard her.

He made her a deep bow, and they returned together to the ballroom, where he helped his grandmother to her feet, tucked her arm protectively through his, led her toward Aunt Effingham, whose tall hair plumes nodded with stiff graciousness, and then out of the ballroom.

Judith sat down in the chair Lady Beamish had just vacated and wondered if the rest of the night would be long enough in which to digest all that had happened this evening.

“Do not worry, Judith, my love,” her grandmother said, setting one plump hand over both hers in her lap and patting them. “I have no intention of leaving the ballroom before the last bar of music has died away. But I did not want Sarah to feel that she was abandoning me. I fear she is quite ill and has been for some time past, though she will never talk of her health.”

And so after all Judith danced the final set—with Lord Braithwaite again—though she would have far preferred to retire to her own room. Upsetting thoughts of Branwell churned about in her head with anxious, euphoric ones about tomorrow morning’s visit, while at the same time she had to smile and respond to Lord Braithwaite’s mildly flirtatious conversation.

A
full-blown ball that did not finish until after one o’clock in the morning was rare in the country. Many of the outside guests left even before the final set ended. None of them lingered long afterward. Neither did the orchestra. Only the family, the houseguests, and a few servants were left in the ballroom when a small commotion was heard outside the doors.

Tillie’s voice could be heard raised above the softer, haughtier tones of the butler.

“But I have to talk to her
now,
” Tillie was saying, obviously agitated over something. “I have waited long enough. Perhaps too long.”

The butler argued, but Judith’s grandmother, who had just got to her feet and was leaning on Judith’s arm, looked toward the doors in some surprise.

“Tillie?” she called. “Whatever is the matter? Come in here, do.”

Everyone stopped to watch and listen as Tillie hurried into the ballroom, wringing her hands, her face distraught.

“It is your jewels, ma’am,” she cried.

“What about them?” Uncle George asked, exerting himself.

“Gone!” Tillie announced in tones a tragic heroine might have envied. “All gone. The box was open and upside down on the floor in your dressing room, ma’am, when I got there, and there is not a sign of a single piece except what you are wearing on your person.”

“Nonsense, Tillie,” Horace said, stepping up beside his father. “I daresay they were spilled earlier in Stepgrandmama’s hurry to be ready in time for the ball and you piled them into a drawer to be put away properly later. You have simply forgotten.”

Tillie gathered together her dignity. “I would not have done any such thing, sir,” she said. “I would not have spilled the box, and if I
had,
I would have stayed until every piece was picked up and put back where it belonged.”

Her mistress meanwhile was gripping Judith’s hand so tightly that all her rings were digging painfully into her granddaughter’s hand.

“They are gone, Tillie?” she asked.
“Stolen?”

It was as if everyone else had been waiting only for that word to be spoken. There was a buzzing of sound and a crescendo of excitement.

“There are no thieves in this house,” Aunt Effingham said sharply. “The very idea! You must look harder, Tillie. They must be
somewhere
.”

“I hunted everywhere, ma’am,” Tillie said.
“Three times.”

“There have been a number of outsiders here tonight,” Mrs. Hardinge pointed out, “and some of their servants.”

“
We
are all outsiders too,” Mr. Webster reminded her.

“We cannot possibly suspect any of our guests,” Uncle George said.