Four
Miss Danby lived in a very well-to-do house on Baker Street, just north of Portman Square. Before he even rapped on the knocker, Lyman had judged her to be excessively wealthy, but a glimpse inside confirmed it. The marble-tiled floor at the entry echoed each click of his shoes. Above him, an enormous chandelier cast light and shadow over the hall. It reminded him of the one that had hung in his old country house.
Don’t think of the house now. But it was too late. The thought had popped into his head, and once it did, it would follow him all day like a bad penny. His first meeting with Miss Danby hadn’t even begun and he already regretted it.
He was shown into a sunny pink drawing room where Miss Danby and her sister awaited him. The mysterious parents and brother were nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t mind me,” Miss Annabelle said, after their obligatory greetings. “I’m just here to make this whole endeavor more, er…proper. I won’t interfere with your work one bit.” With that, she returned to her seat, opened a book, and began to read.
“Don’t be fooled, my lord,” Miss Danby said, taking a place next to her sister on the divan. “She’s thrilled to join us this morning.”
Miss Annabelle pursed her lips, but refused to rise to her older sister’s bait.
Lyman took the armchair across from them. This room was as opulent as the rest of the house, boasting large windows overlooking their courtyard, a Persian carpet, and a smattering of paintings on the walls. They weren’t the amateurish product of a family member, either. He recognized a Fuseli among them.
“Would you care for some tea?”
“Thank you.”
Miss Danby rose to ring for the maid. Lyman studied her as she moved, though he couldn’t have said whether the instinct was born from a desire to regain the upper hand on the woman who’d outmaneuvered him recently or from a more licentious motive.
It was impossible not to notice how attractive she was. The sway of her generous hips drew his gaze as she walked away from him, despite Lyman’s best efforts not to be distracted. When she’d tugged the cord on the wall and returned to her seat, he was struck by that flawless face. Full, pink lips, always parted in a smile. The healthy flush of excitement on her round, smooth cheeks. And the most arresting part of her—eyes dark and full of mischief that was half challenge, half promise.
No good can come of this.
There was no denying Miss Danby’s beauty. Judging from her house, the family had money. Such a woman could have found herself a good match, if she put away her scandalous pastimes and applied herself to the task. Why hadn’t she? She must have been out for many years already.
“Do your parents know what you’re doing?” he asked. He’d never been one to mince words. Before his fall from grace, no one would have dared to remonstrate a wealthy and titled gentleman. The habit had lingered, even now that his status was diminished.
“Of course.” Miss Danby spoke as if it were obvious. Seeing his skepticism, she added, “They trust my judgment.”
No doubt this went a long way toward explaining how she found herself co-owner of a gaming hell and aspiring author of a book of ladies’ amusements. A bit more parental oversight might have done her some good.
The maid came in with their tea. Miss Danby looked at him expectantly. “Where shall we start, my lord?”
Was he meant to plan things out for her?
“It’s your project,” he pointed out. “You were adamant you could do it yourself.”
“And you were adamant you deserved twenty pounds of my profits, in exchange for a contribution that has not yet been revealed to me.”
“Would you prefer I left?”
Perhaps she would say yes and save them both some trouble. Then he could return to his own work, free of the unwelcome temptation she represented.
“No.” Damn. But then, he’d never been lucky. “If you’re going to take your cut, I would prefer that you earn it. Your experience must give you something to contribute. Maybe you can start by being a bit less critical. You did volunteer for this, you know.”
Miss Danby took a long sip of her tea while Lyman tried to ignore the way her upper lip formed a perfect Cupid’s bow as she brought it to the rim of her cup.
She wasn’t wrong. That was the most infuriating part. With a heavy sigh, Lyman replied, “I apologize, Miss Danby. I’m anxious to finish up my own work, and I’m afraid it’s coming through in my deportment. But you’re right, I agreed to help you and I’m being compensated for it, so I will try to show you greater civility from now on.”
There was no sense bickering with her every week. The time would pass faster if they got on.
His confession seemed to surprise Miss Danby, but her tone was warmer as she replied, “Thank you.”
“Why don’t we start by agreeing to some terms for my contribution that we both consider fair.” It was important to keep their expectations in step. “I can make time to meet with you once a week, for a half hour, to answer any questions you might have and to see how you’re progressing. In turn, you should aim to complete an initial draft in the next four to six weeks.”
There. No one could say he hadn’t given her a chance. He would educate Miss Danby as best he could. But there would be a limit, to prevent this obligation from entwining them without any end.
“That doesn’t sound like enough time.” She bit her lower lip as she considered, and Lyman’s eyes were stuck to the sight. This would be much easier if she were plain. Or if he hadn’t been quite so long without feminine companionship. That must be why she kept drawing him in so effortlessly. “I attend my chocolate house nearly every evening to supervise. My days are quite full.”
Her chocolate house. If he forgot himself in her presence for a moment, there it was to remind him.
He was tempting fate by forming any connection to such a woman. Hadn’t he learned his lesson?
“For you to decide if you have the energy to take on another commitment then,” he said briskly. “But I thought we agreed it would be a small volume. And you’re free to copy anything you need from my book for the overlapping subjects. There’s no need to spend months on something you’re only using as a tool to promote your other venture.”
“The idea may have started with Bishop’s, but if I’m going to do this, then I’ll do it properly. Could we compromise and say two months?”
“Very well.” At least she was industrious. Maybe she really would write the book.
“Excellent. Now, I was wondering how you compile your list of attractions. Have you selected every place in your guide from personal experience, or do you rely on the recommendations of friends?” She was watching him with such effortless trust that it made Lyman uncomfortable. Miss Danby presumed him to be wise, when he could barely hold his own life together. She must not have heard the stories. She would never look at him that way if she had. “I wouldn’t want to cut corners, but if I’m going to include shops, I can hardly go out and buy something everywhere to compare.”
“I could help you shop.” It was Miss Annabelle who spoke, her voice hopeful, but at her sister’s look she sighed and returned to her reading.
“I’ve been to every place I mentioned,” Lyman explained. “But I confer with friends as well, to make sure my experience matches theirs.”
“You can’t have been to every place,” she insisted. “You’ve included both White’s and Brooks’s, but surely you don’t have memberships to both.”
And they were back to gambling clubs again. They couldn’t seem to escape the topic for more than a minute.
“ Nearly every one,” he corrected.
“Which is your club?”
Was this how she sized men up? She probably thought of little else. A woman didn’t build her own club unless she’s been seduced by the game.
“Neither.”
“Beg pardon?” Miss Danby seemed not to believe what she’d heard.
Perhaps they’d best get this out of the way.
“I object to gambling.”
“Oh.” Understanding came over her face. “Is that why you dislike me?”
“I don’t dislike you,” Lyman replied, startled. She was so unguarded. Not merely plainspoken, as he was. It was as though she were incapable of shielding her heart from the slights of others.
He had a horrible premonition he would hurt her before this was over, if he hadn’t done so already. She seemed determined to seek out her own ruination, and what man was more apt to bring it about than him?
The room suddenly seemed not to have enough air.
“Yes, you do.” Miss Danby tried to laugh, but it rang hollow. Her tone was carefully light as she continued. “I must say I don’t care for it.”
No, she wouldn’t. She was in every way pleasing—her looks, her spirit, her wit. She probably had a collection of admirers. He should offer her some compliment to reassure her of her virtues and set their conversation back to right. But the words wouldn’t come.
“You make me uneasy,” he admitted. “That’s not the same thing.”
Her sister was watching them with something like shock in her eyes, but when Lyman spotted her, they darted back down to her book.
“Do you feel the same way about male gamblers, or is it because I’m a woman?”
“The same way about all gamblers.”
“You must avoid half of London then. And here I’d assumed the author of such a book must be a bon vivant.”
His father had used those words to describe him, once.
“We’re getting off track.” Lyman cleaned his spectacles on his handkerchief, mostly to give himself somewhere else to look. It was hard to meet her eye, suddenly. “This meeting is supposed to be about your book. If you don’t have anything more important to ask me, perhaps I should be on my way.”
Miss Danby exchanged a glance with her sister, as if looking for assistance. Lyman rose to his feet before she could find it. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Annabelle. Thank you for having me, Miss Danby. It would perhaps be helpful if you could prepare something for us to look over next week. An outline, or a first chapter, to keep our work focused.”
He bowed, donned his hat, and turned his back on Miss Danby and everything she represented.
***
“Well, that went poorly,” Annabelle said, the moment Lord Ashton had gone.
Della would have liked to argue, but it would be pointless. It had gone poorly.
“The worst part is, I do have an outline we could have looked at, if he’d asked me first instead of assuming I’d done nothing and rushing off.” Maybe she should have led with that. It was just that she grew so flustered under his scrutiny that she forgot what she’d planned. The viscount seemed determined to think the worst of her without giving her a chance to explain. But then, he was hardly unique in that respect. Even her own brother didn’t believe she could write a book. No one took her seriously. “Do you think it was rude of me to ask what club he belonged to? That’s not a personal question, is it?”
He’d been almost civil for a moment, until she’d asked about that.
“I think you’ve met someone who’s immune to your charms, and you don’t know what to do with him,” Annabelle replied, quite amused.
“That’s horrid. I’m not trying to win over Lord Ashton, nor do I charm every man I meet.”
“You don’t have to. They find you charming all on their own.” Annabelle closed her book without marking the page. She probably hadn’t read a word the whole time, the little busybody. “But not this one. So how do you intend to make him fall in love with you?”
“He’s married.” Only a second after this pronouncement, Della paused to revisit the memory of their first meeting. “At least, I think he is.”
“You don’t know?” Annabelle wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t it occur to you that it might be a good idea to clarify whether or not the gentleman you agreed to meet with every week is married already?”
“He said he had a wife. But he also said that they hadn’t spoken in years and that no one should ever wed, so I’m not sure if it was supposed to be an attempt at dark humor.”
“Why would that be a joke?”
“I don’t know. You had to be there. It was all very strange.” Della perused her memories of the two meetings that had preceded this morning’s catastrophe, searching for some clue that might tell her where she’d gone so wrong. “I’m not sure if he’d explain himself even if I asked. He seems terribly private. His card didn’t even have his own address on it! Isn’t that odd?”
She’d known gentlemen to put their club’s address on their card before, but that was always someone down on his luck, who didn’t want his friends knowing he couldn’t afford a town house in the West End. If the Viscount Ashton wanted to hide his residence, she could only conclude he must be too snobbish to want the riffraff knowing where he lived.
“Shall we consult Debrett’s?” Without waiting for her answer, Anabelle rose and left the room.
“Oh, let’s not.” Della scurried after her, down the hall to the library. “It doesn’t signify anything.”
It wasn’t as though she was hoping Lord Ashton was eligible. He was standoffish and arrogant and frequently rude.
No matter that she still found those spectacles adorable; that was just a personal weakness of hers.
Annabelle had already cracked the tome open and was flipping through pages by the time Della entered the room. “Ashton, Ashton… Ah, here we are. Oh look, he’s got a stag on his coat of arms. How dashing. Married 1830. Lady Mary Ellen de Villiers, second daughter of the ninth Earl of Eastmeath.” She looked up to favor her sister with a smug expression. “Looks like he wasn’t joking then.”
“If he is married, they can’t be very fond of each other,” she reasoned aloud. After all, couples didn’t live separately for years if there was any affection left. “He’s not really bound by it in the same way as if his wife were under the same roof.”
“Not bound by it how?” The judgment in Annabelle’s tone intensified. “Do you mean, would it still be bigamy if he married you? Because yes , it would.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Della scoffed. “Who said anything about marriage? You know I’m not in any rush to settle down.”
Having a fortune to her name already and more than enough to keep her days occupied, Della was in no hurry to wed. When her time came, she would no doubt be swept off her feet by a true romantic. A poet, perhaps. Or a diplomat with a seductive accent who would show her the continent in style. She’d always wanted to travel the world.
In short, she was saving marriage for a passionate soul like herself, which Viscount Ashton certainly was not.
A kiss, though.
She might like to kiss him, though she knew she shouldn’t. He’d done nothing at all to make himself agreeable to her. He and his friend Mr. Armstrong behaved as though he was doing her an enormous favor by deigning to visit her home, when he hadn’t even lasted ten minutes before storming back out. He was probably sitting in a town house the size of a small palace right now, judging her. Aristocrats were so insufferably superior.
Maybe that was why Della thought about kissing him. It would represent a victory; an admission that he’d been wrong to doubt her, and that she was worthy of his notice.
Oh dear. Annabelle might be right about my needing everyone to like me.
But a wife was still a wife. Unless she knew they’d both abandoned their marriage vows, she was wrong to fantasize about him.
“I wonder why they haven’t spoken in so long,” Della mused.
“Maybe she got tired of sitting at home alone while he sampled every amusement in the country, including the disreputable kind.”
“What do you mean, the ‘disreputable kind’?”
“Haven’t you read his book? There’s a part about where to find prostitutes.”
“There is not .” Della rummaged through her reticule, where she’d been keeping her brother’s copy permanently at the ready. She’d read it, of course, but her attention may have wandered during some of the longer chapters. There were thirty whole pages on the House of Lords, which she simply could not make herself care about, though not for lack of trying. Her eyes must have darted over certain sections a dozen times without committing anything to memory. “Show me.”
Annabelle flipped through the pages at a snail’s pace, no doubt enjoying the chance to have her older sister at her mercy. Finally, she turned the volume back toward Della, index finger poised on the offending passage. It was in the section on “Nocturnal Amusements,” which covered music halls, dancing rooms, and casinos.
Where it was once the custom for those seeking fast company in London to attend the Theatre Royal and stroll the houses of ill fame in the neighboring slums between acts, the fashion is now for casinos and dancing halls. Laurent’s Casino is the most recent addition, where licentiousness and other entertainments beyond the musical variety reign unchecked from half past eight until midnight for the entrance fee of a shilling. These vices, to rival anything found in Paris, exist within full sight of the law, which does nothing at all to stop them.
“He did say he had personal experience with everything in the guide,” Annabelle reminded her.
“That…might be about something else.” Della wasn’t entirely convinced by her own theory.
Goodness. She couldn’t imagine the straitlaced Lord Ashton in the embrace of a lady of pleasure. The very idea of pleasure seemed antithetical to him. Besides which, he’d condemned her for gambling. Surely adultery was worse, in the eyes of a moralist?
She read the passage again. She’d heard of the places he’d listed, but ladies didn’t go there, and the few gentlemen who spoke of them in her company only talked of seeing plays and listening to music. Even their brother, Peter, frequented Laurent’s Casino. Was this what he’d really been doing when he went out with his friends?
It was disgusting, really. Not the indulgence in carnal pleasure, of course. She could forgive that, for who among them had never been tempted?
But the lying . Behaving as though she engaged in the worst kind of depravity by allowing the ladies at her club to drink a little champagne and play games of chance in the company of their friends, when half the gentlemen in London were doing much worse every night of the week!
If there was one thing Della abhorred more than uselessness, it was hypocrisy.
“Why must men prove so disappointing when I wish them to be admirable?” she lamented. They always started off well. One could enjoy a new lover’s looks, his wit, his kind attentions as the connection was forged. But they rarely measured up to her ideals as time wore on.
At least Jane found her storybook ending . That proved there must be at least a few decent ones left.
“As I’ve been telling you for years, women are superior in every respect,” replied Annabelle smugly.