Dancing With the Gull (Revenge of the Wallflowers, #14)

Chapter One

Penelope Barshaw loved three things to distraction: books, horses, and dogs. She also hated three things: dances, dances, and dances. Although that was one thing, she would argue that she hated it with the force of three. Unfortunately, although her class provided the privilege of access to the first, it positively demanded that she attend the last. She was two and twenty now, unmarried, and perfectly content with her lot in life. In her opinion there was no reason she needed to continue parading around London like a debutante. She’d spent six years on the Mart and accepted that she would never marry. She was too awkward of both body and temperament to marry a man of her class, and too proud to marry anyone else.

Only six months ago her mama suggested a particular merchant who might make a fine husband. A merchant! As though Penelope in any way had the temperament to be a cit! Her mother claimed only to be worried about a man to take care of her. As though Penelope couldn’t take care of herself, thank you very much!

It was, undoubtedly, precisely that attitude that made her unpopular with her own class. When she was younger she lacked the social grace to curb her tongue when a man said something outrageously stupid. She’d learned to remain silent, but was sure that her expressions spoke volumes.

Realizing she had more good sense than God seemed fit to give five men of the ton, she’d been saving her allowance for four years now. She assumed she was only a year or two from her father realizing that her dowry would be better spent by giving it to her to manage. She’d originally thought her father one of the better men of the ton, and while that might be true, he was still astoundingly slow at realizing his own daughter’s abilities. While they might not lie with dancing, flirting, or embroidery, the Good Lord help her, she was at least as good an estate manager as her father or his steward, and a far better household manager than her mother. Indeed, both of her parents would come to sorely miss her influence on their household once she established one of her own. And she would establish her own, because the last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of her life being treated like a wayward child while taking care of the people who birthed her.

All of that, however, lay far beyond this evening, an evening when she would yet again linger along the walls of a fancy household, avoiding most everyone and accidentally eavesdropping on conversations she’d rather not hear. Most conversations of her class were mindless, except for the ones where younger sons took themselves much too seriously and wanted to debate philosophy. In both instances her peers were simply exhausting.

Right now, however, she let her maid dress her hair. Something fashionable, but not too fashionable. Then select jewelry. Pieces that showcased her wealth without being ostentatious. There was an art, really, to being a perfect object for sale. If she were to stand perfectly still, not speak, and refuse to listen to what people said so that she couldn’t react to it, then she might attract men of her own class. Unfortunately, contrary to her mother’s goals, she had no interest in doing any such thing.

Ah well. One more evening in Society. What could it hurt?

***

LORD HENRY GREER LOOKED out over the ballroom floor with a bored expression. Not because he wanted to look nor even because he was bored, but because he knew what was expected of him. The rules of public behavior were so odd to him that he dared not deviate from what he knew. When confused he used to look to Kit, Lord Christopher Wilkins, for what to do. First, Kit had gone to the country to care for his ailing father. Now Kit was married. That left him in the company of Lord Warner Sharpe alone, and it was typically best to do the opposite of whatever War was doing.

For the last few months War had been most concerned over what a certain Ana Baxter was doing. Although when questioned, War refused to discuss her at all.

Henny kept his studiously bored expression in place even though his mind was churning. His Uncle Bernie, his mother’s brother, had passed recently and left him substantial assets. That was fine, except that his mother’s first comment was that it must be time for Henny to marry. Why must he marry? Women were mysteries to him, something reinforced by that unpleasantness with Lady Smythe some months ago. She’d been new to Town, recently widowed, and charmingly attractive. She’d been very forward with Henny, something he hadn’t taken too seriously because widows were able to flirt and be outrageous in ways that unmarried young ladies could not. But Sarah, now Kit’s wife, heard her saying she planned to marry Henny for his money, and that she had no use for him beyond that. War had warned her off, and he’d not seen her since.

Now he was expected to choose a woman to marry? People were difficult to understand in general, and young women of marriageable age were doubly so. He’d known that, but after having his friends rally around him because they said a woman meant to cause him harm made him realize that his own judgment was not to be trusted on the topic.

He sorely missed Kit and hoped the man might come back to Town soon.

“Hen, isn’t that Mr. McTavish?” War asked. Henny hadn’t heard him approach. Lord Sharpe slipped about like a cat, appearing at his side, and this evening was no exception. Henny hadn’t heard him approach.

“Yes, it is,” Henny confirmed. Mr. McTavish, or Mac as he styled himself at the stables, was easily recognized because of a scar through his left eyebrow.

“Interesting that he’s here,” War murmured. “I’d not think he would be on the invitation list.”

Henny frowned. “Because he’s a bastard?”

War gave him the raised brow look that Henny knew meant his assumption was wrong. “Because there are a good number of marriageable young ladies here this evening, and he is not to be trusted with any of them.”

That sounded awful and Henny didn’t really want to know more. Instead, he diverted his friend. “Which ones are the marriageable ones?”

War looked out over the dancefloor. “For you? Most likely all of them.”

None of them, as far as Henny was concerned.

***

YET AGAIN, PENELOPE found herself overhearing conversations she would rather not.

“I’ve heard that he’s quite dim,” the first voice said.

“Good,” the second said, her voice laced with humor. “He’ll be dim enough that he won’t notice me spending all of that lovely money.”

The first snorted. “His friends keep a keen eye on him, you might not find that as easy as you suspect. Further, his mother is not likely to think well of a girl hoping to elevate herself.”

“She’s never in Town,” the second said breezily. “What can she do once her boy is married?”

At that the first lady gave a sardonic chuckle. “Don’t forget that Lord Sharpe, who is ever in his shadow, is not precisely polite when warning off a woman.”

The second huffed. “Lud, Cissy, you could make a vicar swear! Let me dream.”

Penelope was quite certain who the voices belonged to, and who they were talking about. She turned to Mary and Cissy with a viciously sweet smile.

“Miss Coates! Miss Williams! How delightful to see you here. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Whoever could you be referring to?”

The two young women looked stunned, as people often did when Penelope decided to engage with them. Her mother described her mode of discourse at such times as ‘overbearingly charming’, rather a bit like the wolf in Red Riding Hood. Her mother was forever lecturing her that she should learn to do things by halves. Neither too quiet, nor too loud. Neither retiring, nor overbearing. The good Lord knew that if she could, she would. It would, however, not be in this lifetime, and certainly not to dangle lures for a husband.

Pen snapped out her pleated fan and fluttered it, looking over the men in attendance. “Hmm, dim. Could it be Lord Vance perhaps? Oh, wait, Lord Barnes. I could quite see you with Lord Barnes, Miss Coates. You would suit.” The man’s naturally protruding eyes and small mouth made him look like a perpetually surprised fish, which was precisely the expression Miss Coates herself had right now.

“L-lady Penelope,” Miss Coates stuttered. Mary Coates always stuttered when upset, how could Pen have forgotten? It was so uncommonly rare for Penelope to say anything, much less anything harsh, that of course it was surprising to the little viper. The girl blushed bright red and hid behind her fan as her more stalwart friend stepped in front of her.

“Lady Penelope, how very pleasing to see you.”

“You’re just now seeing me? I’m sure it was your nearsightedness again. I’ve been right over there all evening,” she said, blithely waving at a small chair.

Penelope was exhibiting the sort of behavior that gave her mother the vapors, but really! People had been chattering all night about Lord Greer receiving an inheritance, and they had no right. It wasn’t theirs to covet. And all the talk of trying to manipulate him out of it! They should be ashamed of themselves.

He wasn’t dim. She couldn’t put her finger on quite what she thought he was, but he wasn’t stupid. What time she’d spent in his company, she’d always found him kind and excruciatingly polite. He liked both horses and dogs, which she thought spoke quite well of him. His two best friends were the sort of foolish dandies that her mother pushed her at, of the stripe that gave her a headache. Lord Greer himself was simply nice, which of course the termagants of the ton assumed meant he was a foolish gull, ripe for their picking. Being deferential and pleasant was likely his greatest danger, accidentally allowing one of these biddies to entrap him.