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“She what?” Coop turned to look at the flagway, hoping the chapbook had simply fallen to the ground once more. It wasn’t there, just the broken heel of Dany’s right shoe, which he quickly retrieved. “My God. Forward, cheeky and a pickpocket. What do you think we’ve gotten ourselves into, Darby? I won’t help with an elopement, and neither will you, if that’s what this is about. Oliver’s a friend.”
“And as our friend, we have offered our services to his wife, or at least to find out what’s going on so that we might warn him. It’s probably all a tempest in a teapot, anyway, knowing women, and easily put to rights, whatever her problem. If nothing else, it should serve to take your mind off your blackmailer for a few hours.”
Coop frowned. “Nothing will take my mind off the bastard,” he said, but as they wisely hailed a hackney to take them back to the Pulteney for what Darby had called “a wash and a brush-up,” it was thoughts of Daniella Foster that most occupied his mind.
He had originally come back to London to find himself a wife, there was that.
But surely not someone like Daniella Foster; he was too levelheaded to go that particular route, no matter how great the initial attraction. Wasn’t it enough his mother was also more than an Original?
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dd21ec38-3bd5-5de7-8305-154da001c05b)
IT WAS QUIET in the Portman Square drawing room now that the countess had retired to her bedchamber, led there by the promise of tea and freshly baked lemon cakes. She’d run out of complaints and threats, anyway, emptied her budget of Things Ladies of Good Breeding Do Not Say or Do and thrown up her hands in defeat when her sister grinned and asked, “So, are you breeding, Mari? You’ve been rather overset lately. Perhaps you haven’t been counting?”
Having successfully routed her sister at last, Dany looked across the room, to where her maid, Emmaline, had been told to take up residence on a chair positioned close by a front-facing window. There were two reasons for that. One, Emmaline would be able to watch out the window to alert her mistress when one of the carriages stopped in front of Number Eleven, and two, the carriage traffic would help muffle voices while Dany and the gentlemen spoke.
Oh, and a third: young unmarried ladies needs must be chaperoned at all times or else the entire world just might disintegrate into cinders, or some such calamity. Of course, were that true, Dany would have destroyed the world at least six times over by now. And that was just this year.
In any event, Emmaline was discreet. She’d kept many a secret for Dany over the years, either out of affection or because she’d be sacked on the spot for having allowed any of her mistress’s daring exploits, many of which had necessarily included her cooperation. Dany preferred to believe it was affection.
She glanced at the mantel clock, mentally calculating the time between their departure from Bond Street and now, and pulled the chapbook from her pocket. The thing was thin of pages, no more than thirty at the most, quite shopworn, and with luck she could finish it before the hero and his viscount friend arrived.
But first she’d look at the cover again. The baron truly owned one of the most pleasing collections of features she’d ever seen gathered together all in one place. Hair so thick and blond that it would have to be the envy of all the many women who both dyed their locks and supplemented them with itchy bunches of wool to help conceal the thin patches.
Not that Dany had that problem. When it came to her own hair, the true bane of her existence was its color. Not red, not chestnut, not even orange, thank God and all the little fishies. Her mother (believing herself to be out of her younger daughter’s hearing), had once described the curious mix of red and gold as trashy, the sort of hair that couldn’t possibly come from nature, and was favored by loose women who flaunt their bosoms and kick up their skirts to expose their ankles in the chorus in order to delight the randy young gentlemen in the pit at Covent Garden.
Although sometimes Dany thought that might not exactly be considered a bane on her existence, as at least the kicking up of her heels sounded rather fun. To date, the only thing growing up had proved to Dany was that the mere passing of years could turn a female’s life into one long, boring existence, with nothing to look forward to but purple turbans.
She’d marry somewhere in between some sort of hopeful kicking up of her heels and the turbans, she supposed, although she was in no hurry to please her parents by accepting the first gentleman willing to take her off their hands. She hoped for at least two Seasons before anyone was that brave, anyway.
But on to the baron’s eyes. The engraver had been a tad too generous with the green, but by and large, they were the most compelling eyes Dany had seen outside of her childhood pet beagle, which somehow had managed one blue and one brown eye. And they were sweet, and sympathetic, just like her puppy’s eyes when he wanted to convince her he deserved a treat. Winsome, yet wise, and not a stranger to humor.
Yes, she really did admire the baron’s eyes. They were nearly as fascinating as her own, she thought immodestly—she would have said truthfully—which seemed to change color with her mood or what she wore. Not that she was in any great hurry to be limited to dowager purple.
His nose definitely surpassed hers. She liked the small bump in it just below the bridge, which kept him from being too pretty. Hers was straight, perhaps a bit pert. In short, it was simply a nose. It served its purpose but would never garner any accolades.
And then there was his mouth. Oh, my, yes, his mouth. Her father had no upper lip, none at all, as if he’d been hiding behind a door when they were handed out. The baron’s upper lip was generously formed, and nicely peaked into the bargain, and his bottom lip full, just pronounced enough that there was a hint of shadow beneath it.
He didn’t favor side-whiskers, for which she was grateful, seeing that her brother, Dexter, he of the madly curling black hair, had taken to wearing his long enough to clump around the bottom of his ears, making him look rather like a poodle.
And he was tall—the baron, that is—so that the top of her head didn’t quite reach his shoulders. Ordinarily that would annoy her. She’d always thought she would be attracted to shorter men, so that she didn’t feel overpowered. But she didn’t feel small or powerless beside the baron. She felt...protected. Most especially when he had caught her as she fell and lifted her high in his arms. It had been quite the extraordinary experience.
“I suppose I can’t trip again, because that would be too obvious. Pity,” she said to herself, opening the chapbook. It was time to stop thinking and start reading. Time to see just what sort of hero the baron was, if he was a hero at all. She hoped at least part of the story would turn out to be real.
She had only two pages to go when the mantel clock struck the hour of one, but she pressed on, determined to finish.
The April day was made for Pic-a-nicks beneath the Budding trees, a day for Good Food, Fine Wine and Lovers. Instead, it was a Day for Killing and Dying, and by evening the green field would Run Red with blood and gore. The English soldiers looked out across the field, wondering if they would by lying there within the next few hours, Broken in body and Food only for the worms. This was not their Choice—it was their Duty—and they would Fight to the Death for both King and Country, for the Little Corporal had broken free of his prison and had marched nearly into Brussels, threatening the Entire World once again with his Insane Ambition.
The troops had hoped to reach the High Ground above them, and from there Defend their Position if an attack should come. But they’d been Too Late, and when a scout reported seeing French troops Advancing Toward Them, there’d been no choice but to take refuge in the trees at the Bottom of the hill, hoping the French would not Detect them until they’d come too far down the hill to Retreat without Tripping over one another.
But something was wrong. The Fates had placed a low Stone Wall and the Ruins of an old Kiln halfway up to the top of the hill. Several Small Figures huddled there inside the Kiln, at least a half dozen Children and a heavily veiled Lady who could be their nurse or their mother. Whether they hid from the English or the French could not be known. Either way, they were about to be Caught smack in the middle of a Battle.
It was the Worst of all possible Nightmares. How could the English fire, knowing the Children and a Frail Female were between them and the French? No man of merit would Dare such a thing. Even the officers had sent Whispered Commands down the line. Keep your positions! Hold your fire!
But one Brave Man broke ranks, tossing away his rifle and uniform cap, crouching nearly in half as he ran Up the Hill without regard to his own safety. Every last man held his breath as Captain Cooper McGinley Townsend seemed to be Arguing with the woman, convincing her to Leave her ill-chosen safe harbor.
And still the Enemy advanced. It was now possible to see the distinctive Brass Eagle topping a tall staff, and the French Colors flapping in the breeze. Their Full Force would crest the hill in Mere Seconds, hopefully stop to assay the land below. Could they See beyond the wall? Would the sunlit blaze of the captain’s Distinctive Blond Mane catch the sunlight and give away his Position?
With one breath, one silent collective thought, the troops prayed: Run! Run now, before it’s Disaster for all of us!
And run he did. Gathering the youngest against his chest even as he Threw the protesting woman over his shoulder, he motioned for the other children to Run on Ahead as he Raced across the field, out from behind the Fragile Safety of the Broken stone wall, and toward the trees, Throwing Himself and His Precious Burdens into concealment mere seconds before the first horse and rider could be seen Cresting the Hilltop.
The English General dismounted and began walking the Line. “Now that’s how to disobey orders, hmm? Bloody well done, Townsend. Today, gentlemen, we have witnessed the birth of a Hero. Now, what say we rid the World of a few of these hopping frogs, hmm? They’ll send Infantry first. Ah, and here they come a-marching, all smug and unsuspecting. Steady, men. Hold...hold...hold. First rank, Forward if you please. Kneel. Raise your weapons. Hold. Hold. Fire!”
Just as it was Coming on to Dusk, our Hero strode into the camp, bloodied but not bowed, the rescued Innocents, orphans all, skipping merrily behind him, a sweet, towheaded cherub no more than three perched on his Strong Shoulders, waving his small cap in Victory, but with the heavily veiled Lady Curiously Absent.
Huzzah! the assembled soldiers cried out, raising their rifles in Salute after Salute, for they had lost many Brave Men that day and the sight of the Children once again firmed their resolve to Fight On. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!
The women of the camp Raced forward, gathering the Children against their skirts and hustling them off to the cook tents to be fed, and our brave Captain was swiftly surrounded by his soldiers in arms, All of Them wishing to pat his back, shake his hand.
Huzzah! Huzzah! May the whole world Rejoice in such Modest Bravery!
...and thus, Dear Readers, is how the Baron Cooper McGinley Townsend, Hero, came to be.
There is just a bit More before we term this story Told, although it will not, alas, Satisfy the Curious among Us.
A bold Question from one of his acquaintance about the Scratches on his cheek, followed by the Assumption as to how they’d gotten there, elicited a Warning Green Flash from Townsend’s narrowed eyes before he smiled and Explained that a Holy Nun had been taking the Children to her convent for Safekeeping, but had gladly turned them over since food at the convent was limited.
A search of the area days after Bonaparte’s final defeat elicited No Nunnery in the area. There was, however, Dear Readers, a lovely Country Cottage, clearly quite hastily Abandoned, and a single remaining caretaker who Confirmed that a young woman, always Heavily Veiled, had been in Residence for some Weeks before rushing off, leaving behind nothing more than a Curious Signet Ring as payment, a ring now in the Possession of one whose Discretion can always be Trusted.
But not to fret, Loyal Readers, for our hero’s Daring Adventures do not end with this Single tale of bravery. Upon his return to our faire isle, now Baron Cooper McGinley Townsend, at the Behest of the Crown, has continued his Deeds of Bravery and Rescue, personally preserving the Honor of several damsels in Mortal Danger of their Virtue even while the Mystery persists—who is the Veiled Lady?
Dany let out a breath, not realizing she’d been holding it, and closed the chapbook. “A veiled lady? What a hum,” she said, for her interest lay more in the feat of derring-do than in anything so obviously fictitious as a veiled lady. And a signet ring, no less, also thrown into the mix, a perfect clue for someone with the interest to pursue its origin. But she supposed every story must have a lady in it somewhere, preferably veiled or beautiful or both, or else the gentlemen wouldn’t bother racking their brains and running their fingers beneath line after line to keep their place in order to not miss a word. Men were such children. And women, sadly, were possibly even worse, seeing themselves in the role of the rescued.
“Curricle, Miss Dany.”
With one last quick look at the cover of the chapbook—had she considered his wonderfully high, strong cheekbones in her initial inventory?—Dany quickly slipped it down behind the cushions of the overstuffed couch and ran her hands over her hair, bodice and skirts, just to be sure everything was still where it had been when she’d first arranged herself so carefully in anticipation of her guests.
She pressed a hand to her bosom once more, clearing her throat as daintily as possible, hoping the action might help regulate the rather rapid beating of her heart, and then lifted her chin, directing her gaze toward the doorway.
But no! She couldn’t look as if she’d been just sitting here, waiting on the man. Certainly a hero was already full enough of himself without thinking she’d been counting the minutes until his arrival. She shot to her feet as she heard Timmerly greet the visitors and direct them toward the stairs, looking about frantically for something she could be doing when the butler announced him.
Propping herself against the mantel was ludicrous, and reserved for gentlemen at any rate, not to mention the fact that she’d practically have to raise her bent arm above her head in order to rest her elbow on the thing. She spied her sister’s knitting basket and dismissed it in the same heartbeat. She’d rather be boiled in oil than found knitting, for goodness’ sake.
What to do, what to—wait, the flowers! There must be five huge bouquets scattered about the room, each more lovely the other. How impressed the gentleman would be when he saw her handiwork. She raced to a round table holding a perfectly arranged bouquet and yanked four of the blooms from the porcelain vase. In an instant, three of them were on the tabletop, dripping water onto her skirt, and one was in her hand as she posed in the motion of sliding it in with its fellow blooms.
“Ah, gentlemen,” she cooed, turning her head ever so slightly as Timmerly announced them, inwardly cursing the viscount for keeping good his promise to lend his help. She’d really rather he’d taken himself off somewhere, to amuse himself at somebody else’s expense. “How good of you to come. Timmerly, refreshments if you please.”
“Yes, Miss Dany,” the butler scolded, bowing. “But if you were to leave off playing with the posies, the countess would be that pleased. It took her ladyship and Mrs. Timmerly a good hour to arrange them this morning.”
The viscount’s bark of laughter accompanied the high-nosed butler’s exit from the drawing room, leaving Dany with nothing to do but pick up the other blooms and jam them back into the vase. Butlers could be such prunes.
“I suppose I’m caught out,” she recovered swiftly, wiping her damp hands against each other as she returned to the couch. “I was hoping to look accomplished, but the truth is, I have very few skills welcomed in polite company. Please, gentlemen, be seated.”
And the maddening viscount was at it again: “Such as picking pockets?”
She turned to the baron, who was looking, or so she hoped, at least slightly amused. Therefore, she would be amused. “Yes, my lords, although I’d rather call it retrieving what’s mine. I’ve now read it cover to cover, of course. How much is truth, sir, and how much could be termed a bag of moonshine? As for the signet ring, the tantalizing clue that just happened to be left behind to be found by your anonymous biographer? I would think both it and the veiled lady were only mentioned to encourage purchase of Volume Two. Do you by chance have a copy in your possession, or know where I might purchase one?”
The handsome, famous Cooper McGinley Townsend, who had been silent until now, his elbow propped on one arm of the chair, his chin in his hand, ignored the question to ask, “Where is the countess? I would have thought she’d had you bound and gagged and locked up in the nursery by now.”
“Oh, ouch,” the viscount said, wincing rather comically. “Did that hurt, Miss Foster? I rather think it didn’t, not from the width of that smile. We can safely ignore him, you know. He’s been locked in an unpleasant mood all day. Not that he’s ever particularly jolly, being by nature a calm, sensible, nearly boring man. My friends and I tolerate him because of his good heart, you understand. Plus, he’s managed to rescue us from most of our scrapes since our boyhoods with his good common sense. Haven’t you, Coop?”
Dany held her smile, but her heart had never been in it, so that her cheeks were beginning to ache. “The trials and tribulations of being a hero must weigh heavily.” She looked almost boldly into those suddenly dark green eyes. She felt he could look straight through her, and it was unnerving, if also faintly delicious. “I feel absolutely terrible, an encroaching beast and any other vile thing you can think of, but I fear I must hold you to your word. My sister truly does need a hero. She’s in a terrible pickle.”
Cooper got to his feet. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid the viscount is correct. My behavior, both now and on Bond Street, has been beyond reprehensible and far from anyone’s fault save my own ill humor.” He then proceeded to bow from the waist, rather elegantly, and add, “How may I make it up to you, Miss Foster?”
Dany knew herself to be many things, but a lack of backbone (or a mouth) had never been a problem. “A drive in Hyde Park today at five wouldn’t come amiss. Appearing with the hero would probably do my reputation no end of good, which should help placate my sister, who believes I’m nearly past saving even now. My lord Nailbourne? Laughing again? You are easily amused, aren’t you? Have you ever considered trotting into Society with a monkey on a chain? You could wear matching hats.”
Now, for the first time, Dany heard the baron’s laughter, clear and full and wonderfully charming. Even better, he laughed with his entire body—his smile wide, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling, his shoulders shaking as he showed his pleasure.
“Miss Foster,” he said as he seated himself once more, this time with his legs slightly spread, and resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her, “I would be delighted. But on the contrary, being seen with you will do my reputation no end of good, as I do believe you are going to take the Little Season by storm.”
Now Dany leaned forward, feeling more comfortable with each passing moment. “Now you see, that’s just what I said,” she told him earnestly. “Mari isn’t quite so sure, and I know my mother is sitting in her private parlor at home even now, making rash promises to our Lord if He will only keep me mute until some poor fool decides he can’t live without red-haired children.”
“Miss Foster, you are too candid by half. I think I adore you,” Lord Nailbourne interjected.
“Stifle yourself, Darby,” the baron warned quietly. “Ignore him, Miss Foster. He’s much more used to being the one whose every word should be considered a masterpiece of dry humor.”
“Wry humor,” the viscount corrected. “I am an observer, Miss Foster, and do occasionally delight in sharing those observations.”
“I see. And what are your observations of the situation as it stands at this time, my lord? With the three of us here, that is.”
Darby looked at his friend for a long moment, and then shook his head. “No, not today. I think I’ll wait. It might be safer.” He then got to his feet just as Timmerly entered the room with the teapot and some cakes. “I believe I now should recall that I have an appointment with my tailor. Or perhaps with my vintner. In any case, Miss Foster, I’m going to toddle off and leave the two of you to discuss her ladyship’s dilemma without me in the way. Coop, you can fill me in later if it turns out my earlier offer of assistance remains necessary.”
“Coward,” Coop murmured as the viscount preceded Timmerly out of the room. Then he turned back to Dany, who was hopefully striking her most innocent pose. One, sadly, she had never quite mastered.
“I know you’re young, and at least marginally innocent in the ways of the world, but I feel compelled to ask—did you set out deliberately to roust my good friend from the premises?”
Dany sat back against the cushions, one hand to her bosom. “Me? Do something as horridly underhanded as to all but point out that he wasn’t necessary at the moment?” She laid her hands in her lap. “Yes, of course. My sister made me promise not to share her humiliation with the viscount.”
“You could have asked him to leave.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now that, my lord, would have been impolite. Shall I pour?”
“Not for me, thank you, as I won’t be lingering much longer. You know what you are, Miss Foster? You’re the sister I’m so delighted my mother never birthed.”
Dany had been reaching for the silver teapot, but withdrew her hand, as she’d never played hostess before and she was more than a tad worried her hand might shake, giving away her true feelings now that she was all but alone with the baron (Emmaline’s snores were soft, but audible). She would have felt insulted, if not for the smile on the baron’s face. “My sister’s feelings, at least very nearly so. She has said she’d often wished I were the sister my parents didn’t have, or words to that effect. Of course, she says much the same about Dexter, our brother. But she doesn’t mean it.”
“Then I suppose I don’t, either. In fact, I’m going to convince myself you’re no more than a younger sister brimming over with good intentions. Can I safely do that, Miss Foster?”
“Oh, yes, yes. That’s exactly what I am. Not that I’m not madder than a hatter that she managed to get herself into such a predicament. Really. It sounds much more like something I would have done—at least our mother would say so. Except that I know I’m possibly outrageous at times, even a sad trial, but I’m not a complete looby.”
“My friend Oliver married a looby? You must understand that, as much as I wish to be of assistance to his wife, I refuse to do anything that would harm him.”
“Your friend Oliver married a smile as sweet as sugar, a pair of soulful blue eyes and a slim soft body he was attracted to as bees are to honey, and then found himself bracketed to a romantic ninny who believes she should continue to be courted day in and day out for the rest of their lives. I’ve told her, that sort of thing...wears off after a few years, and you become comfortable with each other, as our parents have done. But she doesn’t believe that. Mari...well, Mari needs attention. And...and drama.”
“Which the earl is no longer supplying? You’re putting me to the blush, Miss Foster.”
Dany shrugged her slim shoulders. This explaining business was more difficult than she had imagined. “As I’m not privy to their private lives, I cannot answer that, and you, my lord, should never have asked the question. I can only tell you that he forgot her birthday before heading north with his chums to hook salmon or shoot winged things, which apparently can only be considered a declaration of his disenchantment with his wife.”
Coop scratched at a spot just behind his left ear. “I should probably add this to the list I’ve been keeping on the perils of matrimony.”
“You keep a list? Do you have another on the benefits of the wedded state?”
“No, but if I ever think of anything I’ll be sure to write it down. Miss Foster, can we please get to the point? Your sister revenged herself on Oliver, didn’t she? What did she do? And please don’t tell me she took a lover, because I don’t have the faintest idea how to rescue her from anything like that, unless you expect me to kill somebody for her. Which I won’t.”
“Ah, such a sad disappointment you are, my lord. So it would be asking too much to have you insult the man’s ancestors or some such thing, then demand pistols at dawn? As a hero, I’ll assume you’re a fairly good shot, so it wouldn’t present too much of a problem for you.”
“And then I’d escape to the continent for the remainder of my days because duels are outlawed and I’d be hanged if I stayed?”
“Yes, I suppose that is too much to ask. What are you prepared to do?”
“Since I don’t know the precise nature of the problem, nothing. Again, I remind you, Oliver is a friend.”
“I was avoiding the details,” Dany told him, feeling fairly certain telling him the truth—that she was thoroughly enjoying their nonsense exchanges—would only encourage more, and she was having enough difficulty not melting each time she looked in his amused green eyes.
“Avoid them no longer, Miss Foster. Has the countess taken a lover she now wishes would disappear, preferably without a trace?”
Dany shook her head. “Nearly as bad, but not so dire as to contemplate a permanent solution meted out on the man. She began a correspondence with—and I say this with as much disgust as the words engender—a secret admirer.”
Now it seemed to be the baron’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “Is that all? I agree with you. If we were to line up the married ladies of the ton who have exchanged silly correspondence with supposed secret admirers, they’d probably stretch from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Twice. Simply tell the countess to stop fretting. I’m certain Oliver will understand, although why she’d tell him I have no idea.”
“If only it were that easy, my lord, we would not be having this conversation. My sister penned her innermost thoughts to the man, her complaints and misgivings about the beastly, horridly unromantic, probably philandering Oliver, who of course broke her heart into tiny pieces before going off with his male friends to do Lord only knows what. She bared her heart, my lord, her overwrought, melodramatic soul. And everything you can think of she should never have written.”
The baron slightly adjusted his posture. His lean cheeks colored slightly, which was so adorable, especially in a hero. “Hmm. Would this confession expand to include, um, matters of...of marital intimacy? Please say no,” he added quickly.
Even Dany knew she also should be blushing at this point. But perhaps because this all was rather old news to her, or in the light of her never experiencing “marital intimacy” and therefore not approaching the subject with the amount of gravitas she otherwise might, she answered in her usual amused way. “Or the sad lack thereof, my lord?”
“Not good, not good,” he said nearly under his breath.
“Why?”
“Why?” He looked at her directly now. “Because no man would ever wish his manhood questioned, that’s why. Who’s this secret admirer?”
Dany busied herself with a lemon square, shoving a bite in her mouth and mumbling around it, hoping not to be heard, but knowing she had to tell him the truth. “And therein, my lord, lies the rub. She’s never so much as met the man, or if she did, she didn’t know he and her admirer are one and the same. It’s beyond silly, actually, although she’s convinced Oliver won’t see the humor I see in the thing. To put it briefly, my lord—we don’t know.”
“She—she doesn’t know? For the love of heaven, Miss Foster, how could she not know the name of her secret admir— No, don’t answer that. Because then he wouldn’t be secret, would he? Women, you’re all to let in the attic, aren’t you?”
Dany felt it necessary to defend her gender, and perhaps even her sister in particular. “Now I may call you out. Women, by and large, are ten times more sensible than men. We wouldn’t have stupid wars, for one thing. Even my sister isn’t usually so empty-headed, if that’s what ‘to let in the attic’ means. She’s simply emotional at the moment. My God! I wonder if Mrs. Yothers was right, and she is— No, she’d know that, wouldn’t she? She’d have to know that, for pity’s sake.”
