The Forbidden Lady (8 page)

“Hush those tears this instant, Priscilla.” The mother major shook a chubby finger at her. “Do you want Clarence to think ill of you?”

Priscilla lowered her handkerchief and sniffed. “ ’Tis not fair. Clarence is not as handsome as Quincy. He’s short and boring, and in few years he’ll probably be fat.”

Mrs. Higgenbottom loomed over her daughter. Overly plump herself and dressed in oversized panniers and skirts of scarlet silk, she was as wide as the settee where Priscilla sat. Her white-powdered wig added another foot to her intimidating height. “You listen to me, Prissy. If you want to be a countess, you will behave like Clarence is the most handsome man in the world. Understand me?”

Priscilla’s bottom lip trembled. “Yes, Mama.”

Virginia’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had emerged. She knocked gently on the door. “May I be of some assistance?”

Mrs. Higgenbottom whirled around with a huge swish of red silk skirts, like an enormous tomato and just as poisonous, although Virginia had serious doubts that tomatoes were actually poisonous. The woman’s eyes, heavily lined with lampblack, narrowed on her. “And you are?”

“Virginia Munro.” She stepped into the room. “I’m visiting my aunt, Mary Dover.”

“I see.” Mrs. Higgenbottom inspected her from head to toe. “Are you married?”

Virginia blinked at the woman’s bluntness, but realization soon followed. Mrs. Higgenbottom looked upon her as competition for her daughter. “I doubt I shall ever marry.”

“Umph,” Mrs. Higgenbottom snorted. “This young generation, so foolish to think you should do as you please. If you could keep my daughter company while I fetch some water to clean her face, I would appreciate it.” She barreled past Virginia and out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Virginia perched on the settee next to Priscilla Higgenbottom. “Are you all right?”

The young lady shook her head, her blond ringlets swaying with the movement. “I’m mortified. I shall never be able to show my face in public again.”

“Surely, ’tis not that bad.”

Priscilla dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “The sad truth is I actually like Quincy.”

“Then why did you humiliate him like that?”

“I didn’t mean to. His brother, Clarence, was spreading the news. Everyone would have known soon enough.”

“Clarence is the man in plum velvet?”

Priscilla nodded her head.

“And Clarence told everyone his brother is illegitimate? That was cruel of him.”

“No more cruel than I.” Priscilla sighed. “Poor Quincy. My heart breaks for him.”

Virginia felt a strange unease in her stomach. “You truly care for him?”

“I know some say he’s ill-mannered and arrogant, but he was always kind to me. He made me laugh.” Priscilla twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Now, I must forget about him and concentrate on Clarence.”

“For goodness sake, why?”

“My mother is determined I should live in England and have a title. She says the Colonials are about to destroy our lives.”

“Oh.” Virginia bit her lip. In her patriotic fervor, she had not considered how dismal the future might seem to a Loyalist.

“Mother has prepared me all of my life so I would be able to catch the man of her choosing. When I was fifteen months old, she put me in stays, and I’ve worn them night and day since.”

“You sleep in your stays?”

Priscilla nodded. “Aye, I cannot support myself without them now. I was dressed like a lady since the moment I could walk, so I was never allowed to play. I had to wear long gloves and a mask over my face to keep my skin white and pure.”

Virginia’s sympathy turned to horror. In comparison to this girl’s life, her childhood in North Carolina had been free and unconfined. Her parents had always given her love without question. Even her terrible fear of fire was indulged with gentle patience.

She excelled in sewing, embroidery, and all sorts of handwork. Her knowledge of gardening was extensive. She could read, write, cipher, dance, and speak French, but she could not perform any tasks that required a fire.

A woman in the hills of North Carolina was expected to know how to cook, make soap, and do the laundry without assistance. Servants were extremely rare. News of her inadequacies had somehow leaked out, causing the rumor that she was unfit for marriage.

Virginia sighed. “Surely your parents would not force you to marry against your will?”

“They know what is best for me.” Priscilla took a deep breath. “I must devote my attention to Clarence now.”

Virginia couldn’t help but wonder—if the well-trained and beautiful Priscilla had continued to pursue Quincy Stanton, would she have succeeded?

“W
here did you go?” Aunt Mary whispered to Virginia.

“I was talking to Priscilla Higgenbottom.” It seemed strange, but Virginia had made a new friend tonight, a Loyalist friend. Of course, most of what she felt for the girl was sympathy, but poor Priscilla needed a friend.

“Oh.” Mary sounded disappointed. “I thought perhaps you had discovered something useful.”

“Aunt Mary, what will happen to the Loyalists if—never mind.” She watched Priscilla dancing to “Sukey Bids Me” with Captain Breakwell. After encouraging her new friend to rejoin the party, she had asked William to dance with her.

“Are you having second thoughts about what we’re doing?” Mary asked.

“No, but it is more complicated than I thought it would be.”

Mary closed her fan with a sigh. “Aye, lass, it always is.”

Virginia scanned the parlors. Her sister was dancing as usual. She spotted the man who must be Quincy Stanton’s younger brother. Priscilla was right. He was shorter and a bit too stocky. Though still handsome, his pale, soft features did not compare well to the tanned, chiseled countenance of his older brother. “Did Quincy Stanton leave?”

“No,” Mary answered. “He was dancing a moment ago as if nothing had happened. The ladies seem more fond of him than ever. Nothing like a bit of notoriety to pique the interest.”

“I don’t see him.”

“Perhaps he stepped out for some air. It is stuffy in here.”

Virginia remembered the night of the Higgenbottoms’ ball. She had spied him in the garden with a curious, glowing object. “I believe I need some air, myself. Excuse me, Aunt Mary.”

She wandered to the glass-paned doors that opened onto the side of the Oldhams’ house. One last look about her reassured her that everyone was occupied with dancing, drinking, and gossiping.

She eased onto the colonnaded porch and stood perfectly still while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A cool October breeze caressed her shoulders and neck. It was a clear night, for a multitude of stars shone overhead. If she looked hard enough, she would spot the comet that everyone was talking about—when they weren’t discussing Quincy Stanton’s accident of birth.

Where was he?

She descended two brick steps into the garden. The scent of roses drifted toward her, along with the smell of rosemary and lavender. The light of the moon picked out the thick, lumpy outline of an intricate knot garden. She was alone.

She closed her eyes and listened, shuttering out the muffled sounds of dance music and laughter. The low murmur of voices emanated from the garden behind the house.

Quietly, she crept to the back, the ground hard and cold beneath the thin soles of her dancing shoes. A thick row of tall bushes grew close to the side of the house and rounded the corner to the back. She positioned herself at the corner, concealed by the hedge, and gently pulled back a leafy section at eye level.

There he was.

His back was to her. The moonlight gleamed off his powdered wig. He pivoted to the side, holding a paper in one hand, the glowing object in the other, a few inches above the paper. He murmured something as he pocketed the paper. With a faint snick of a sound, the glow disappeared.

Virginia blinked. What was that strange object? She had never seen anything that could glow in the dark, other than a few fireflies.

Quincy Stanton moved slightly, revealing his smaller companion. She recognized the boy from
The North Star
, just before he turned on his heels and sprinted away toward the far side of the house. Whatever secretive business these two were conducting, it had come to an end.

Quincy Stanton swiveled in her direction. She pulled back and dashed toward the colonnaded porch. Halfway there, she skidded to a stop.

Captain Breakwell and Priscilla were exiting the house onto the portico.

“I wonder where she could be?” William’s voice carried through the cool, crisp air.

Virginia backed up. How could she explain this to a British officer? But where could she go? She jumped when a leafy branch scraped her back.

The hedge.

It was tall enough to conceal her.

She slipped around the first bush and into the narrow space between it and the house. With her back flattened against the brick wall, she scooted sideways.

The gritty surface of the brick tugged at her silk gown. She winced. Hopefully, her dress could be repaired. She reached out, running the palm of her right hand along the grainy texture ’til she felt the sharp edge of the corner. She rounded the corner and continued for a short distance before stopping. Completely concealed between the back wall of the house and a seven-foot hedge, she took a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves.

All she had to do was wait, then return to the party. She could claim to have spent her time in the back garden.

A whispered curse sounded on the other side of the hedge. She froze, her back pressed against the cold, rough brick.

Quincy Stanton.

He must have spotted William and Priscilla standing on the porch. What would he do?

Just to the left of her, the hedge suddenly parted as two tanned hands reached through and shoved the leaves apart. Quincy Stanton squeezed through. He dropped his hands, and the branches snapped back together.

Virginia grimaced, closing her eyes. How could she explain her presence here?

It was an unlikely place to look for a chamber pot.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

V
irginia opened her eyes and peeked to the side. Quincy Stanton had recovered quickly from any surprise he may have experienced. He leaned against the brick wall, positioned as close to her as her wide skirts would allow. There was just enough light to see the sides of his mouth curl up and the dimples appear in his cheeks.

“I can explain,” she whispered.

He placed his forefinger in front of his lips in a warning to remain quiet.

She frowned in spite of the reprieve that allowed her a few more minutes to manufacture an excuse. The sound of voices drew closer.

“I don’t see her,” William Breakwell said from the other side of the hedge. “Do you?”

“No,” Priscilla answered. “Perhaps she’s still inside.”

“Her aunt told me she went out for some fresh air.” William sighed. “This is very disturbing.”

Not as disturbing as Quincy Stanton’s behavior. Virginia watched him as he tilted toward her and closely inspected the scarf that covered her bosom.

“I’m sure she’s perfectly safe,” Priscilla said.

Virginia glared menacingly at Quincy Stanton. He appeared not to notice, although the dimples in his cheeks deepened.
Why did the rascal have to be so handsome?

“You know,” Priscilla continued, “it is odd, but Quincy disappears every now and then, too.”

“Nothing odd about that,” William replied. “The cad has most likely cornered a poor, unfortunate female in the dark to take advantage of her.”

Virginia gave Quincy Stanton a questioning look to see if he was offended. His white teeth became visible as he grinned.

“Perhaps we should look for Virginia inside,” Priscilla suggested. “I do hope she’s all right.”

Quincy Stanton leaned in close, his breath warm against her brow.

“I worry about all gentlewomen, such as yourself,” William said. “I fear dangerous times are ahead.”

Virginia shoved Quincy back. He placed his forefinger in front of his smile, reminding her to remain silent.

“My parents agree with you, Captain.” Priscilla’s voice faded as the two wandered back to the side entrance of the house.

Virginia heard the click of the door shutting. She was alone with Quincy Stanton.

She took a deep breath. “Well, that’s enough fresh air for me. I believe I’ll be going now.” She moved to the right.

He reached across her, planting a hand against the brick wall to stop her. He eased himself in front of her, sandwiched between her and the hedge. “Why are you hiding here?”

She avoided looking him in the eye. “Why are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I hardly know you. Why should I talk to you?” She scooted to the left.

He blocked her movement with his other hand, pinning her in. “Fine, then I’ll do the talking. You cause British officers to faint, you wander about upstairs in homes where they quarter, and you hide from them behind a hedge. ’Tis an odd way for a Loyalist to behave, is it not?”

He knows
. Her breath caught in her throat, rendering her speechless, unable to defend herself. A horrifying vision crept through her mind of him dragging her back into the house and flinging her at the feet of the British officers as he accused her of treason.
Admit nothing that can be used against you
. “I . . . I’m trying to avoid one officer in particular, for personal reasons.”

“Captain Breakwell? As much as I would love for that to be true, I doubt your sincerity. The man’s too good a catch for a woman to pass up.”

“I don’t think he’s such a good catch.” She glared at him. “And I’m not interested in catching anyone.” She ducked under his arm and scooted away.

“Wait.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

“Let me go.”
Please, Lord, don’t let him turn me in.

“What do you mean you don’t want to catch anyone?”

Blinking, she stared at his face. His furrowed brow and narrowed eyes told her he was serious about the question. “I . . . I don’t see that it is any of your business.”

He leaned against the brick wall, frowning. He seemed unsure of himself again.

“Will you release me, please?”

He shook his head. “We have to discuss your . . . behavior.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my behavior.”

“You always hide behind hedges?”

“Aye.” She gave him a pointed look. “ ’Tis very popular tonight.”

“I believe you were spying on me.”

He
did
know. Her heart raced. “That’s—that’s utter nonsense.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

Give him an excuse and escape
. “I told you. I was hiding from Captain Breakwell.”

“Tell the man to leave you alone. I’ll do it for you, if you like.”

“I’ll take care of the matter, myself. Now, if you will excuse me?” She lunged to the right, pulling away from him.

He released her and followed her along the hedge. “Miss Munro, we have to talk about this. What you’re doing is far too dangerous.”

“Oh, aye, a hedge can be a very treacherous thing. I’m a wee frightened for it looks so big and fierce.”

“Saucy as ever.”

She shot him a look of disdain just before she reached the center of the back wall, where another brick porch jutted out from the house and the row of shrubbery came to an end. The porch was knee-high, so she lifted her skirts to step up.

He grabbed her around the waist to help her up. She squirmed to get away from him. Twisting to the side, she lost her balance when her wide skirt stuck in the branches of the hedge.

“Oh!” She grappled at the hedge to steady herself, but the branches merely gave way. She fell back against Quincy Stanton.

His chest didn’t budge. His arms swept around her for support. “I see what you mean. The vicious hedge has attacked you.”

“Let go of me!”

“No, you’ll fall and tear your skirt. ’Tis caught in the clutches of a treacherous hedge.”

“This is not amusing, Mr. Stanton.”

“I’m not laughing.” He rubbed his chin against her temple. “I see two possibilities,
chérie
. I free your skirt from where the hedge has snagged it or . . .”

“Or?”

“I remove your gown.”

“Ah!” She tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight while he chuckled. She elbowed him in the ribs. “You said you weren’t laughing.”

“Careful, sweetheart, or you’ll rip the skirt clean off. Of course, you could tell everyone I did it while I was ravishing you.”

“Get me out of here!”

“The problem is with the panniers. They stick out too far.”

She gritted her teeth. “I know that. They’ll collapse if you press on them.”

“Mmm, I thought you’d never ask.” His hand slid along her hip, groping in the dark in search of the branches that held her hostage.

She closed her eyes, agonizingly aware of his arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand exploring her skirts, his sturdy chest against her back. It expanded each time he inhaled. It vibrated when his deep voice rumbled through him. She trembled as she felt his breath against her ear.

“Are you cold?” he whispered.

“No.”
Get ahold of yourself. He’s a dandy, an oaf in high heels, not a strong, handsome man with his hand in your skirts.
“Why aren’t you wearing lavender?”

“I’ve developed a fondness for green.” He rubbed his nose in the ringlets about her ear. “But I like the scent of lavender. There, I have it.” He pushed her onto the porch, free from the hedge.

She dashed down the steps into the garden and shook out her skirts, examining them for damage in the moonlight.

“You will stop spying immediately.” Quincy Stanton stood at the top of the dark porch, a large, looming shadow threatening to swoop down upon her.

She froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He descended the steps, coming into the moonlight as he positioned himself in front of her. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll figure it out.”

She swallowed hard. Was he threatening her? “What do you want from me?”

“I shall call on you tomorrow and explain.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong! You will leave me alone.” She turned on her heel and marched toward the side of the house.

“Virginia.”

She halted and peered over her shoulder. “You know my name? And how do you know where I’m from?”

His eyes appeared black as night as he strode toward her. “Who could forget such a name? I consider it a challenge.”

She shuddered in the cool air as she faced him. “A challenge? How is that?”

He stopped in front of her and spoke, his voice soft and distinct. “To render your name obsolete.”

Her mouth dropped open as comprehension sank in.

“I know what you’ve been doing, Virginia, and you will cease the spying forthwith.”

She laughed, but the cadence sounded brittle and false to her ears. “Of all the ridiculous things to say. I do believe you’ve been drinking too much rum punch.”

“Is that your technique? You select an officer who’s too much in his cups, gaze at him with your beautiful green eyes, and the poor sot tells you everything?”

“I’ve had enough of your nonsense.” She whirled around.

He touched the back of her neck, curled his fingers around her scarf and gave it a tug. The ends of the scarf popped out of her neckline and she spun around, grabbing at it.

He yanked it off completely. His gaze dropped to her breasts and shifted back to her face. “What a shame,
chérie
. You are . . . exposed.”

She covered herself with a trembling hand, aware of the double entendre in his warning. Was this it? Did he intend to turn her in now? “What will you do?”

“Keep it close to my heart.” He tucked the scarf inside his coat.

She bit her lip. He was a Tory who accused her of spying, yet he planned to keep it a secret? Why? Did he want something in exchange? “Give me my scarf.” She reached for his coat.

He stepped back. “I prefer you this way.”

Her agitated breathing nearly caused her breasts to pop out of the tight bodice. His eyes glimmered in the moonlight as he looked her over. So that was what he wanted, blast him. The spurt of anger that shot through her came as a welcome relief. It gave her strength whereas her fear had made her feel weak.

She lifted her chin, glaring at him. “I will not play the tart to you, sir.”

His gaze quickly met hers. “I would not ask you to.”

“Oh, I believe it is quite clear what you have in mind.”

“I cannot deny I’m inclined toward certain . . . thoughts.” He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dark. “They do say I’m insatiable.”

“You’re insufferable!”

“You’re in error. I have another kind of bargain in mind.”

Did he intend to blackmail her? Red-hot rage burst inside her, burning her eyes with unshed tears.

She lunged forward and snatched the wig from his head. “There! I have something of yours. Two can play this game, Mr. Stanton. I know you sneak around in the dark, meeting that young boy, looking at papers with some sort of glowing object. You won’t say a word about me. You won’t dare. I can expose you, too.”

“Damn.” He grimaced. “Virginia, I would never harm you in any way. You must believe me.”

She crushed his wig in her fists. “You . . . you’re just saying that so I’ll stay quiet about you and return your wig.”

“No! I only want you to stop. I don’t want you in danger. And you can have the damned wig.”

“Well, you cannot have my scarf.”

He shrugged. “As you wish.” He stepped toward her.

She noted his hair was short and black, his appearance younger without the wig. She stepped back. “I dare not trust you.”

He removed the scarf from his coat. “I will not harm you.” He looped the silken material around her neck and pulled her gently toward him.

She shivered as cool silk pressed against the back of her neck, so much softer than the noose that would strangle her if he turned her in.

“You can trust me, Virginia. I’ll see you tomorrow. All will be well.”

Dear Lord, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe he was honest and trustworthy.

His dimples appeared as his fingers hovered over her neckline. “Shall I . . . tuck this back in for you?”

She ripped the scarf from his hands and jumped back. In response to his grin, she hurled his wig into the garden. Then, she wheeled around and fled to the side porch. As she entered the Oldhams’ parlor, she knew her escape from Quincy Stanton would not last long.

The man was not a dandy, and certainly not a lazy numbskull. He was a hunter, in pursuit of his prey.

And she was it.

Q
uincy wandered about the garden, allowing the time to pass, so no one would know he had been alone with Virginia. Thanks to a hedge, he had managed to hold her in his arms tonight. He smiled at the memory of finding her behind the shrubbery. The woman was full of surprises.

And suspicion. She didn’t trust him, that much was clear. Somehow, without exposing himself, he needed to convince her that his intentions were honorable.

He snorted. Honorable? Why would she ever believe that? Especially now, when everyone knew he was a bastard.

As he neared the portico on the side of the house, a sudden shrieking noise erupted from within. He bounded up the steps and entered the parlor. The music cut off abruptly as the guests crowded into the hall. He looked about but couldn’t spot Virginia and her family.

He peered over the heads of the murmuring crowd. Mrs. Ashford was escorting a hysterical Mrs. Oldham down the stairs.

“ ’Tis gone, my brooch is gone,” Mrs. Oldham cried.

Mr. Oldham dashed halfway up the stairs to his wife. “What has happened, my dear?”

“The diamond brooch you gave me last week,” Mrs. Oldham whimpered. “I wanted to show it to my friends, but when I went to my room, ’twas not there!” She collapsed on the steps in tears.

Her wails were soon drowned out by the excited speculations of the guests.

Clarence shouldered through the crowd and stopped beside Quincy. “A robbery, eh? This sort of thing happens often in London. Probably one of the servants.”