The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 13

Christopher arrived at the Leftmores’ ball later than was fashionable, as he hadn’t -really wanted to come at all.

The Leftmore house was a sprawling monument of luxury built around a central courtyard that was, by the constrained standards of London, huge. The grand ballroom spanned an entire wing that bordered the courtyard. As Christopher entered and was announced, he saw towers of glittering cakes and sweet morsels, piles of tiny fruits dusted with sugar, and shining delicacies of unknown origin. Drink flowed as it was wont to do at these things, dispensed by black--clad servants who haunted the edges of the party, discreetly filling every glass. Lady Leftmore had decided on the avian theme for the evening: small birds flitted above the heads of the dancers in flashes of ruby red and deep turquoise, emerald green and the darkest purple. They gathered and tittered in the living boughs that had been installed along the high walls, chirping in strange counterpoint to the orchestra that was playing a waltz.

Christopher wondered how many guests would leave to night’s ball having been shat on. The thought made him smile to himself. And wish he’d brought an umbrella.

Dozens of peacocks were wandering about the room, and Christopher stepped over one, begging his pardon, to secure himself a glass of wine from a serving boy only too eager to be rid of it. He sipped slowly, knowing this would be his only drink of the night. If the society columns were to be believed, fêtes such as these often plied their attendees with wine and liquor until something frightfully interesting happened, and Christopher was resolved not to be too interesting tonight, his alabaster coat with the silver buttons notwithstanding.

“Winny,” came a familiar voice, “you made it.”

Christopher turned to find Chester wading through the flock of peacocks in his direction. He felt a surge of foolish relief at once again seeing a friend in the sea of strangers. They clasped hands and, for the first time in years, Christopher got a close look at Chester’s face.

“Dear fellow, are you all right?” he asked. “You look peaked.”

It was an understatement. Chesterfield looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, his eyes ringed with dark circles and his eyes a bloodshot hue. He appeared pale and wan and underfed. And despite the brave smile on his face, his every movement radiated the foulest misery.

“I’m terrible, actually,” Chester said, still smiling through clenched teeth. “I’m in love, you see.”

“Oh no.” Christopher clicked his tongue. “Bad luck, old boy. I do hope it clears up quickly.” He knew from experience what this meant for Chester. Back in their Cambridge days, Chester would fall in love every week or so, and every time it would end in tragedy. Christopher supposed that this sort of thing fueled a poet’s soul, and though he hated to see his friend tormented once again by love, he knew Chester would probably get a sonnet or two out of it.

“See here! You don’t understand. This isn’t another puppy dog infatuation.” Chester shook his head. “It’s the real thing, Winny, and it’s awful. And she feels the same, which is worse!”

“What’s the matter, then?” Christopher asked. “Simply ask her to marry you.”

“I can’t.” Chester seemed to shrink another inch into himself. “Her father won’t allow it. Says he won’t let his daughter waste her life on some poet. Oh, she’s too good for me, it’s true!” Tears sprang to his eyes, and Christopher patted his arm in awkward sympathy.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Chester said glumly. “I’m sorry, but I care for her too much. I won’t have her name bandied about.”

“I would never bandy,” Christopher said, “but of course I understand.” He wondered if his friend was right, and that this time, the love he felt for this mystery girl was real. A younger, more brash Chester would never miss an opportunity to expound on his love’s gentle voice or the color of her eyes. Perhaps he -really had matured. Still, his misery was palpable. “It’s a good thing you came to this ball,” he said. “It’s a chance to forget your troubles for a night, I suppose.”

Chester looked at him askance. “Hardly. She’s here.”

“She is?” Christopher gaped. He glanced at one of the serving girls, who was ineffectually trying to shoo a peacock off a table.

Chester followed his gaze and sighed, slumping further into himself. “Not like that. She’s here as a guest.”

“Oh. Oh!” This was new. And a bit strange. “Don’t you -usually—-? Erm.” There was no polite way to say it, but Chesterfield was well--known for flirting with the working classes and ignoring society ladies. He’d always said they were the more “natural” of their species, a view that Christopher felt was a bit condescending. A lady could no more choose the circumstances of her birth than Christopher could, and so he chafed at the idea that one must be more attractive than the other.

“I know.” Chester rubbed a hand down his face miserably. “Just my luck that the woman I fall in love with is—-well, suffice to say, I am beneath her in every sense of the word.” His eyes flicked up to the upper balcony that ringed the ballroom, where a swath of people were watching the dance floor in their bright finery.

Christopher did not examine the revelers above too closely, more concerned with keeping his old friend in one piece. He took him by the elbow and guided him away. “Come on, we can’t have her see you like this.”

“You’re right, of course,” Chester sighed. “I would hate to hurt any of her future prospects with my unseemly display of feeling.” He lifted his gaze to Christopher’s. “Oh, if only you could read her own poetry, Winny. She writes circles around me; I’ve told her a thousand times the world is poorer for not having her work published.”

This, more than anything, convinced Christopher that his friend was not going through another silly, short--lived bout of passion. He truly cared for this lady, and it seemed supremely unfair that she should return his feelings and yet be barred from his company.

“Would it help distract you at all if I told you I need an introduction?” Christopher asked. “Though if you’d rather not become embroiled in my little melodrama—-”

“Not at all. I adore your melodrama.” Chester picked up his head and fastened on a brave smile. “Who is it you want to meet?”

“Verbena Montrose. Do you know her?”

“Of course. One of her cousins married my brother. She’s practically family.” He used his superior height to scan the crowd. “Ah, there she is.” He tipped his chin past a pyramid of crystal goblets.

Christopher craned his neck, desperately trying to peer over the tops of the heads of the other revelers. Finally, he saw her.

Verbena Montrose was taller than he, though that wasn’t exactly strange. Christopher refused to be cowed by the fact that the woman stood half a head above him in her dancing slippers. He was not the first man of short stature to attempt to woo, and he did not think it practical to confine his search to prospects shorter than himself—-there weren’t many young ladies of such minuscule proportions.

Her height notwithstanding, Verbena also possessed a lush head of hair in the strangest, most striking shade of red. Christopher was reminded of warnings from Cook regarding women with red hair—-apparently she felt they were not to be trusted. When Christopher had tactfully pointed out that Cook herself was quite reddish in the area in question, Cook said that proved her point. Unlike Cook, however, Verbena Montrose had a willowy figure and a keen eye that seemed to settle on the faces of those around her with an air of amusement tinged with curiosity. She wore a gown of the color of mint dotted with dozens of crystals—-more likely cut glass, Christopher noted—-that caught the light and shone in constellations all along her hemline. Christopher was impressed with the cut and make of Miss Montrose’s gown. It was elegant without being ostentatious, fashionable without being too costly. It spoke of a wearer with a good head on her shoulders.

It was something of a miracle that Christopher could even catch a glimpse of her dress, as the woman was surrounded by a thick knot of admirers. There were men offering her cups of lemonade, men fanning her, men bearing tiny plates piled high with offerings from the buffet table. Miss Montrose accepted all the attention as a benevolent ruler might, nodding and blushing prettily at her subjects, protesting that they needn’t do this or that for her and then allowing it anyway.

Christopher gave a nod in her direction and whispered to Chesterfield, “Do you think you might introduce us now?”

Chester gave a weary sigh. “I don’t see why not. Just because I am destined to a life of misery doesn’t mean you should be.” He led Christopher over to the throng and elbowed a path through. Despite his poor spirits, he managed to muster a little poetic flair in introducing Christopher to the lady.

“Miss Montrose, if I may present to you my bosom friend, the elusive and altogether mysterious Earl of Eden.”

The throng of men surrounding the scene did not much like this turn of events and murmured as much to one another as they eyed Christopher’s coat buttons. Christopher, however, was not about to be deterred by some ill--concealed whispers from the mouths of oily rakes.

He took Miss Montrose’s gloved hand as she presented it and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Please forgive Chesterfield, miss,” he said. “I’m afraid he paints me as far more intriguing than I am. Though he did not, I see, do justice to your charms when he enumerated them for me.”

It was a prettily done piece of flattery, and the assembled would--be suitors puffed out their cheeks at hearing it. Christopher paid them no mind.

Miss Montrose, for her part, smiled warmly. “Do you dance, Lord Eden?” she asked, taking him by the arm and leading him, somewhat strangely, away from the dance floor.

“I can,” Christopher hedged. “I may not have had much practice, but I daresay I can make it through one reel without injury to myself or other innocent persons. Would you care to dance, Miss Montrose?”

“After that resounding endorsement?” She laughed. “I don’t think I would, even if I were able.”

“Oh.” Christopher frowned. This was not going as smoothly as he had hoped. “Well, of course if your card is full tonight . . .”

She lifted her arm in a graceful sweep and showed him the dance card that dangled from her wrist on a length of white silk decorated with the requisite bird feather. Christopher could see that the card was completely blank. “I do not dance myself,” she said. “I’m quite famous for it. Did you not hear?”

“No, I had no idea.” Christopher groped for a polite rejoinder. “I would not have asked if I’d known you eschewed dancing. Sadly, I spend all my time locked away in my country estate, as you may have heard, and I am not privy to the latest news.”

“Well, we must fix that, mustn’t we?” she said. “Gossip is the currency of the realm, after all, and if you are deficient in it, I fear you will find yourself unable to move through the world.”

They shared a laugh, although Christopher doubted she was joking. The mention of gossip and its undeniable power made sweat spring up along his spine, uncomfortable through his many layers.

“I would be much obliged if you would loan me some of that currency,” Christopher said. Then he steered their conversation to safer waters. “May I ask—-do you not enjoy dancing? Is that why your card remains empty? You don’t seem to be lacking offers.” He glanced over his shoulder, meeting the icy glares of approximately a dozen dandies who were following at a discreet distance.

“Oh, I enjoy it just fine.” Miss Montrose tossed her fall of red curls over her shoulder. Her eyes continued scanning the ballroom as they made their slow circuit of the festivities. “Unfortunately, I have a weak ankle. My family doctor advised me to do my best not to aggravate it.” She heaved a sigh that seemed to Christopher entirely theatrical. “It’s -really very tedious. How awful that I cannot participate in the dancing at these balls!”

“Is it?” Christopher looked back again at the angry storm cloud of young men who would likely be willing to kill Christopher if it meant taking his place at Miss Montrose’s side. “You seem to have persevered despite this setback.”

“It is kind of you to say so.” She flashed him a smile, then looked away, then looked back again out of the corner of her eye. Ah, an accomplished flirt. Christopher found her more cunning by half. While he could admire such a woman, he also was a little bit afraid of her. Whether this weak ankle of hers was an actual affliction or merely a white lie, Miss Montrose had managed to snag the attentions of half the eligible men at the ball. And a few of the ineligible ones, if the appraising looks from a viscount Christopher knew to be betrothed meant what he thought they meant.

He gave the viscount a cutting glance as they passed, ignoring his attempt at a greeting.

“Oh, well done,” Miss Montrose whispered as they swept by. “He’s been a thorn in my side all evening. It’s difficult to find a polite excuse to leave a conversation in my position.”

“Tell me all about it,” Christopher said. “In fact, tell me everything you think I should know. I put myself in your capable hands, Miss Montrose.”

“Well!” She beamed, clearly gleeful at the prospect of dispensing her hard--won knowledge. “Do you see them?” She tipped her head minutely at a pair of men standing by the towering cake, conversing in hushed tones. “The Ashton brothers. As close as brothers can be, or at least they were. Now they’re fighting over the same lady.” She made a gesture across the room under the guise of waving off a flitting songbird, pointing out a statuesque woman in a jade gown. “Katarina Polova. They say she’s the granddaughter of Bohemian royalty.”

“Ah.” Christopher looked at the lady briefly, not wanting to be impolite, but still curious about a woman who could tear apart two loving brothers. She was beautiful, he supposed, but no more beautiful than a hundred other ladies he’d seen in his life. There must be some hidden spark inside certain people, was his thinking, a thing that fueled desires and ignited them into flames. Perhaps he himself was immune—-except, of course, where a certain valet was concerned.

Miss Montrose continued to chat as they walked arm in arm, pointing out people of note and explaining this or that bit of gossip that involved them. Christopher, for his part, made the appropriate sounds of surprise or disgust depending on the circumstances, wondering all the while what someone like Miss Montrose would say should his own secret ever be revealed to society at large. Would she call him a woman who thinks herself a man? An unnatural sort of girl playing at trousers and cravats? How long would he feed the whispers if that was the case?

“Oh,” said Miss Montrose as they approached a group of revelers against the southernmost wall. “That poor dear. It breaks one’s heart, doesn’t it?” To her credit, Verbena Montrose sounded genuinely sympathetic to this unnamed person’s plight, which was enough to pique Christopher’s curiosity. He craned his head to survey the landscape and spotted what could only be the subject of Verbena’s comments: a young woman, pale with jet hair collected atop her head in a fairly simple tumble of curls, surrounded by laughing people and looking as miserable as a human could with a glass of champagne in hand. She was not engaged in what seemed a lively conversation that surrounded her, merely glancing -toward the doorways leading out into the courtyard every few moments as if yearning for a chance to escape.

Christopher quirked a brow in Miss Montrose’s direction. “Who is she?”

Verbena blinked. Several times. “You don’t know?”

“I’m afraid I am as ill--informed as you feared,” he said.

“Well! Eden Abbey must truly be cut off from the world; everyone had heard that sad tale, I thought. It was in all the papers.”

“I confess I do not read the London news with any regularity,” Christopher said. For the sake of his own well--being, he’d long ago decided to stick to fashion magazines. The lurid tales of city life were too distressing to endure on a daily basis. “Please, enlighten me.”

Miss Montrose led him away from the girl, waiting until they were a sensible distance before speaking in an eager whisper. “That is Lady Belinda Greene, youngest daughter of the Duke of Rushford. Though I suppose it is more accurate to say she is now the duke’s only daughter.”

Christopher felt his heart clench. “Oh, my word,” he murmured. He forced himself not to glance back at the hapless lady, as he was certain she had endured more stares than was reasonable. He abhorred being stared at himself. “What happened?”

Verbena leaned in closer. “The eldest daughter, Lady Constance, went missing about—-it must be a decade ago now.” She dropped her voice to an even lower whisper. “ ‘She fled to Gretna Green,’ they said. ‘She’ll be back in a fortnight, having married a secret lover.’ Except she never returned, and surely must be dead.” She shivered.

Christopher offered her a kind press of his hand, the only support he could give, as he agreed with Verbena’s macabre assessment. After ten years, what other conclusion could there be?

Verbena gave him a grateful look in return, though it fell from her face as they passed within view of their topic of conversation. “Poor Lady Belinda,” she said. “The loss plagues her still. She can rarely muster a smile these days, let alone the strength to entertain any offers of marriage.”

Christopher caught another look at Lady Belinda as they passed by a glass cage that contained about a dozen unruly parrots, her sorrowful reflection captured in the faceted panes. His heart went out to her, though she was a stranger. “A hellish fate for one so young,” he murmured, feeling a growing sense of dread as he spoke the words.

“Yes,” Verbena said. “And one so sweet. We are acquainted, as we are of an age, and she has always been nothing but kind to me despite it all.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine losing a sister in such a fashion? Shrouded in mystery, without even the truth for comfort?”

The words stopped Christopher in his tracks, though he did not register the way his feet froze to the floor. He did not register much at all, in fact—-at least nothing of the ballroom in which he stood. He was cognizant only of a phantom chill upon his skin and the swirl of unseen saltwater about his ankles.

“My lord?” The faint whisper barely penetrated the fog that had descended over Christopher. The scent of fine perfumes and sugared cakes faded. He could smell only the sea. He could hear only—-

“My lord.”

Only a scream. The one locked away in his own mind.

“Lord Eden!”

Christopher startled at Verbena’s voice, brought back to the waking world in a rush of color and sound. The ball. The party. Christopher attempted to take stock of himself now that the attack of nerves was at its end. His breath was fast and hard like he’d just ridden a mile at a gallop. His hands shook with faint tremors and a cold sheen of perspiration was on his brow. Verbena regarded him with concern, her hand still tucked into the crook of his elbow. He gave the woman a shaky grin and retrieved his handkerchief to mop his face.

“My apologies, Miss Montrose,” he said, “it seems all this excitement is too much for a country mouse like myself. Perhaps I have overindulged in the Leftmores’ good wine.”

Verena Montrose did not look convinced. A lady as clever as her wouldn’t be. “If I have upset you with my somewhat morbid talk—-” she began.

“No, please!” He patted her hand where it lay on his arm. “I am glad you informed me. I would hate to misspeak should I make the acquaintance of any Greenes.”

Verbena was somewhat mollified by this if her pleased, tentative smile was anything to go by. “Shall we take another turn around the room?” she suggested. “I’m sure there are many more pieces of news I can impart, if you have need of them.”

“I think I should take myself outside for a moment. Fresh air is what I need,” Christopher said, and gracefully extracted himself from Miss Montrose’s touch in such a way that it ended with them shaking hands. “Have an excellent remainder of your evening, Miss Montrose. I hope you find a suitable escort to not dance with you.”

She favored him with a knowing look. “Enjoy the air, my lord,” she said.

They parted just as the musicians struck up a new, lively tune and the dance floor flooded with all manner of revelry. Christopher headed -toward the open French doors that led into the garden. Just before he stepped outside, he cast a glance in Verbena Montrose’s direction, but her minty, sparkling skirt disappeared into the crowd. An extremely sharp girl, he wagered, one who would surely achieve what she desired, whatever that might be. All he knew for certain was that her designs would not include him. Miss Montrose was not a candidate for the title of Lady Eden. Anyone that well--informed and who dealt so deftly in gossip could not be his future helpmate, given his situation. He would say it was a pity, but he was certain she could do better than an earl anyway. A woman like that should settle for no less than a king.

He looked around the crowded ballroom for any sign of the topic of their erstwhile conversation, but Lady Belinda Greene was no longer standing against the wall looking depressed. Christopher could not see her anywhere, actually; she must have finally tired of the festivities and left for home.

Perhaps Christopher would follow her example soon. He could call for his carriage in no time; the hired driver and Har-ding, who had insisted on filling the position of footman tonight, were close by with the other guests’ vehicles. The thought of seeing Har-ding soon—-even a Har-ding dressed in his wretched livery—-buoyed Christopher considerably. He stepped out into the cool night air in the courtyard. His pulse was still racing. A quiet moment in the garden would do him good.

He stood on the veranda and searched for constellations in the night sky just for something to do. It was breezy outside, a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the ballroom, and Christopher could feel the sweat that had gathered along his back and under his arms cooling beneath his fine clothes. He dabbed at his temple with a handkerchief and wondered how much longer he would have to remain at the fête before he was able to make a polite escape.

A knot of young men tumbled out of the ballroom to ruin the muted quiet of the veranda. Christopher scowled at their antics; they were well and truly drunk, louder than Hades. He moved away before they could spot him and pull him into their inane conversation about some boxing tournament they planned to attend. Perhaps a brisk walk around the garden was in order.

Christopher was in the process of pretending to admire a stand of pink and red gladiolas when he heard whispers on the night breeze. As much as he was a novice at attending balls, even he knew that this was the sort of place where young lovers might meet in secret and exchange promises (or more) under the cover of darkness. Christopher didn’t begrudge them this opportunity; though he knew love was not in the cards for him, he thought it only right that others should have the chance to woo. Propriety was less of a concern for him than most, given his own unique situation, and so his attitude -toward trysting was rather more liberal than the average member of the ton.

Christopher had just resolved to leave the hidden lovers to their own devices, perhaps linger at the edges of the garden in order to engage any other wanderers in conversation so that he might keep the besotted pair from being discovered—-but before he could station himself as their protector, he heard one of the voices more clearly. And recognized it.

The voice, that particular blend of soft and low, could only belong to James Har-ding. Now, though, his voice was strained in its fervent whispering: “That is why I had to see you tonight, Bee. Please, won’t you at least hear me out?”

Bee? Christopher quickly stepped behind a topiary cut into the shape of a frog midleap, frowning at the diminutive. Whoever Har-ding was conversing with must already be on intimate terms with him, if pet names were being bandied about. The woman’s—-Bee’s—-voice replied in a rushed, breathless whisper such that Christopher could not make out her words, only her distress. From the cadence of her voice, though, and her upper--class accent, it was clear that she was no serving girl from the host’s household. She was of the ton.

A red haze descended over Christopher’s field of vision. The fact that his manservant was secretly meeting with a young woman filled him with the hot sort of rage he normally only felt when reading a poor translation of the Iliad. How could Har-ding dare to—-? He only required one thing of his manservant, one simple thing! And that was discretion. Conducting a moonlit affair with a genteel woman right under the noses of the whole of London society was very much not discreet.

Christopher ignored the little voice in his head that put forth the notion that any circumstances that included Har-ding wooing someone would enrage him all the same. That was not the point. The point was— Well, Christopher was too angry to think clearly but he knew that Har-ding had a lot to answer for!

He edged closer so that he could make out the conversation. The tremulous voice of the woman quavered as she said, “Not here. We risk being found too easily here.”

“The house then.” Har-ding’s voice sounded as determined as it did when giving Christopher unasked--for sartorial advice. “Tonight. It’s our only chance to meet alone. Leave the ball early. Beg off with some excuse.”

“And you will come to Grosvenor Square?” The lady sounded doubtful. “You promise?”

“I swear to you, I will be there at midnight.” A mere half hour from now, Christopher realized with a start. “Let me in through the side door, as we used to do.”

Christopher frowned at that. So this affair had been going on for quite some time, then? He supposed he shouldn’t be shocked. James Har-ding was well--liked by the people in the village, popular at Eden’s End. He recalled the night he watched him dance through the tavern’s window. How many other women had he . . . danced with?

Meanwhile, this Bee of his was making noises of agreement. “Midnight. I’ll be at the door. Now go, before you’re spotted or I am missed.”

Christopher strained his ears but could not hear any farewell kiss. There were only footsteps: one set leading away, and another heading right for Christopher’s hiding spot. He shrank back into the shadows of the shrubbery and waited. Soon the woman came into view, and it took all of Christopher’s willpower not to gasp aloud.

It was Lady Belinda, the sad girl who looked no less miserable now that she had made plans for a midnight meeting. Indeed, tears stood in her eyes, and as Christopher watched, she dabbed them away with the silk handkerchief she retrieved from her tiny reticule. Christopher wondered if the shock of meeting his valet after, it sounded like, some time apart had shaken her nerves.

Whatever the lady’s feeling, Christopher knew he could not let this stand. He watched as she made her way through the garden and back into the ballroom, no doubt to tell her father the Duke of Rushford that she had decided to depart early.

Christopher hurried to the exit. He could not allow this rendezvous to proceed at any price.