Chapter 1 #2
Her gaze snapped to his. For a moment the hum of the ballroom faded, leaving only the pulse at her throat and the bright, angry intelligence in her eyes.
"No," she agreed. "I am not."
"There," Miss Moreland said, satisfied. "Entirely immoderate. I approve."
Esme smoothed her expression as a passing couple glanced their way. "In any case," she said lightly, "Woodmere prefers his world orderly. Sisters neatly settled, columns neatly aligned, risks neatly avoided."
"And you," James said, "are not neat."
"I have no interest in being neat."
Miss Moreland took a thoughtful sip. "If the Season insists on treating you like a parcel, we must, at the very least, insist upon a scandalous bow."
James laughed. "Miss Moreland, will you come lecture at my club?"
"Only if they serve cake," she said. "I do nothing revolutionary on an empty stomach."
Esme's shoulders loosened. "I do not need a revolution," she said, half to herself. "Only a little room to breathe."
Something unfamiliar twisted in Redford's chest.
"If it is air you want," he said slowly, "perhaps what you require is not moderation but mischief."
Miss Moreland brightened at once. "Oh, I like that."
Esme narrowed her eyes. "What sort of mischief?"
"The harmless kind," he said. "No ruined reputations, no true cruelty, merely a series of small adjustments in your favor. Mischief like diverting an over-eager suitor here, rearranging a place card there. Enough to keep the dullest outcomes from catching you."
"You propose," Esme said, "a conspiracy."
"A society," Miss Moreland breathed. "The Mutual Mischief Society."
Esme gave her a quelling look, but a restless shine was back in her eyes. "A society sounds as though we ought to have rules," she said.
"By all means." James inclined his head. "Name them."
“In addition to no harm to reputations, and no true cruelty.,” she said. “If any of this results in my being forced to marry a man who lectures about columns before breakfast, I shall hold you personally responsible."
"Reasonable," he said. "I accept."
Miss Moreland bounced on her toes. "Then it is settled. Our first act… Ensuring Lord Watford spends the remainder of the evening discussing ink with someone who truly appreciates it."
James's gaze drifted to where Lady Honoria Worthington held court.
"I believe," he said, "we may have found our volunteer."
Esme's mouth curved into a delighted smile. "Lord Redford, that is appallingly wicked."
"Efficient," he corrected.
Within minutes, Watford was being gently nudged in Lady Honoria's direction with a few well-placed comments about her admiration for order.
Miss Moreland took the flank and James handled the front.
Esme, posted innocently by a column, did an admirable impression of a lady who had nothing whatsoever to do with any of it.
James didn't stay close enough to hear every word, but he saw enough. Watford bowed. Lady Honoria's eyes glittered, her fan snapped open.
A few minutes later, Watford retreated looking thoughtful. Lady Honoria, on the other hand, appeared invigorated, already whispering to her companions with relish.
Watching, Esme paused her fan as Miss Moreland caught her eye and nodded. Esme's lips curved, not into a society smile, but something smaller.
She shifted, as if to join her friend, then stilled when she noticed James observing her. Across the room, their gazes met.
Acknowledgment. Gratitude. Complicity.
James's chest went warm.
He ought to have left. The ballroom pulsed with heat, noise, and expectation. He had fulfilled his obligations, founded a society, and meddled in one evening. Any sensible man would retreat.
Instead, he walked toward the terrace doors.
The night air was cooler, scented with jasmine and London smoke. Lanterns hung along the stone balustrade, casting light over the garden. In the distance, a couple of dowagers discussed rheumatism.
Esme stood alone at the far end, gazing out over the clipped hedges.
"If you are plotting escape," James said quietly, "I should hate to miss the opportunity."
She glanced back, lantern-light catching her cheek.
"I am merely taking advantage of no one noticing I am gone. I would thank you not to ruin it."
"I excel at concealing inconvenient truths," he said, resting his forearms lightly on the stone ledge beside her. "Ask anyone."
She studied him for a moment.
"You founded a society in my name, rearranged the course of my evening, and perhaps ruined Lord Watford's hopes, all before midnight. I have seen your skill first hand.”
"Do not forget rescuing you from ink," he said. "History should be accurate."
Her lips twitched. "I am not entirely ungrateful, you know."
"Dangerously close to praise. Your brother will be appalled."
Her expression cooled a little. "My brother has had a word with you, I suppose."
"A very measured one," he said. "You will be relieved to hear that your welfare has been thoroughly itemized. You are to be handled like an expensive vase."
"I would make a terrible vase," she said. "I would develop opinions about the flowers and be hurled into the street."
"I cannot imagine anyone casting you out," he said before he could stop his protective impulse.
Odd that.
She blinked, the sharpness in her eyes thinning.
"You might be surprised," she said softly.
Silence stretched between them, filled with distant music and the murmur of voices.
"At any rate," she said briskly, "I am perfectly capable of distinguishing between assistance and interference."
"And which have I offered tonight?" he asked. "Assistance, interference, or something more alarming?"
"For now," she said, "you are entertainment."
"Only entertainment?" He pressed a hand to his heart. "Cruel."
"Accomplice would require criminal intent."
"Oh, I have that," he said. "I simply prefer my crimes small and well-dressed."
Her mouth curved. "You make very poor metaphors when rattled, Lord Redford."
"I am not rattled," he said, entirely rattled.
They stood side by side, looking out at the neat garden.
"I meant what I said," he added quietly. "No wagers that treat your life as a stake. Only wagers made with you."
She turned her head, studying him.
"You recall my rules," she said.
"I am not entirely frivolous," he said. "Occasionally, I listen."
She considered. "Very well. For the moment, we may be... allies."
"Allies," he echoed, "until such time as you decide you have had enough of mischief and wish to become perfectly sensible."
"Do not hold your breath."
"Never."
Inside, the orchestra slid into another lively piece. Laugh rang out. The Season waited.
Between the lanterns and the dark, Lady Esme lifted her chin.
James realized, with a faint sense of dread and delight, that in founding his little society he might just have stumbled into the most interesting complication of his life.
Or perhaps the first worthwhile one.