Chapter One #2
“Let go, you brute!” the maid cried even though the gentleman had his hands raised in the air.
Faye’s screams were drawing attention, the exact thing that Janelle didn’t need. Still, she didn’t run yet. Not until Faye hissed, “Go, ya daft fool!”
Whenever Faye dropped into her Irish, Janelle knew it was time to obey.
She ducked her head and dashed to the nearest hackney.
She leaped inside and bellowed, “Go!” in a most unladylike manner.
Thankfully, this was a hackney outside a whorehouse.
The driver knew what was what and flicked his horses to a fast trot while Janelle peeked through the rips in the curtains to see if Faye would be all right.
What she saw reassured her. Faye was in rare form as she screamed and occasionally hit the gentleman on the chest as she punctuated her words.
The man was fully absorbed in dealing with the “hysterical” woman while the crowd of onlookers grew.
This had happened once before, and Faye had made it home within fifteen minutes of Janelle, and yet she still worried.
A lot of bad things could happen to a lone woman in London, and this was not the best area of town.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to do but pray.
Once she was away from the Rose Garden, she stuck her head out the window and gave specific directions to the cabbie.
Then she did what she always did in a hackney.
She pulled out a hand mirror from her bag and repaired the damage to her hair and face.
No measly reticule for her. She carried a full carpetbag that included everything she needed to appear a well-pampered young lady of the ton.
Unfortunately, her efforts inside a bouncing carriage would not be effective for a ball. Certainly not one thrown by her aunt who would inspect every aspect of her body and attire.
The hackney stopped at the location she indicated. It was an alleyway a few houses down from her own. There, waiting for her, was Nanny who was much too old to be standing out in the cold waiting for her. Which was the first thing the woman said when Janelle exited the carriage.
“I’m too old for this,” the woman muttered. “What were you thinking?” They rushed through the alleyway as Nanny wended a bright gold chain through Janelle’s hair. She’d gotten very adept at dressing Janelle’s hair on the fly.
“It’s not my fault,” Janelle answered, as she stripped off her gloves and shoved them into the carpet bag. “It was a footling breech—”
“I don’t care,” Nanny snapped. “Today of all days. Do you know you’re three hours late? Three hours! You were supposed to be at dinner—”
“I told you what to say. I’m a delicate maiden overcome by—”
“I said it,” Nanny snapped as she ducked in the back door of the house. “Nevertheless, your father is furious. Your aunt has sent missives from her home—”
“I know. I’ll apologize.”
“It won’t work this time.”
Janelle winced. “I’ll do better.”
“You won’t be able to do anything at this rate. She’ll never forgive you. You’re supposed to open the ball!”
“Me? Whatever for?” That was her aunt and uncle’s job.
“Does she tell me these things? She does not. You cannot keep being Betty in London! You’re supposed to be a debutante.”
“So I should let a laboring woman die so I can attend a party? It was a footling breech.”
This was an old argument between them. It had been hard enough to keep her activities secret in Devon where the population was relatively sparse and nobody kept track of her comings and goings.
No one cared that Janelle Caddick spent the day wandering alone or that Mrs. Sundy’s niece Betty with the stooped shoulder and the perpetually dirty face had a busy day.
Since her father spent the bulk of his time in London, she’d enjoyed near autonomy there.
It had been a surprise last Season to realize that London gave her even more anonymity. Most people didn’t look beyond the dark cloak. So long as she paid well, the cabbies didn’t care who was sneaking about or where she went.
That had worked well for her last Season, but this time things were different, or so Nanny said.
Janelle acknowledged that her father did seem more interested in her activities this year.
Also more determined than ever to share teatime.
But that would pass. His interest in her was limited to making sure she upheld the appearance of being a proper young lady.
Unfortunately, today she was a proper young lady who had missed both teatime and dinner, so she rushed upstairs through the back servant’s entrance.
Hot water was waiting, but she didn’t have time for a bath.
Nevertheless, she stripped down and ran the sponge over herself as quickly as possible.
Then it was into the gown while Faye—who had just returned—brushed a very modest amount of color into her cheeks and lips.
They were all very experienced in this task, and she soon descended the steps.
“Remember,” Nanny hissed, “you’ve been overcome with a mild illness after visiting your friend. Stomach upset from the excitement of the new Season.”
Parties were not something that caused her to be overwrought. Having to deal with idiot midwives brought her fury up, but for tonight, she’d pretend to a tetchy stomach. Unfortunate, really, because she was starving.
Their butler nodded to her, his expression grave, then he threw open the parlor door. She entered with her customary, “Oh Papa, it’s so good to see you,” only to pull up short.
Papa was not alone in the parlor. Why hadn’t anyone told her that?
Right over his shoulder, standing at the mantle, was a tall man with an annoyed expression.
He had been glaring at the ticking clock when she entered and now turned to her with brows arched over piercing hazel eyes.
She knew this man or at least had been introduced to him.
He was somebody important to her father, but she couldn’t place him.
Two other people sat in the room as well. The man’s parents? She would know if she placed the man by the mantle. Damn it, why couldn’t she remember?
“You’re late,” her father said from his chair. He sat to her right, a few inches from her elbow, but his voice came to her from a distance.
“I know, Papa, and I’m so sorry,” she said, the words tripping off her tongue because she’d said them a thousand times before. “The Season can be so overwhelming at times. The pace is so different from Devon.”
Normally, he would respond with a grunt as he returned to whatever he was doing. Reading the paper. Drinking his tea. Readying to go to a ball so he could disappear into the card room. But this time, he simply leaned back in his chair.
“The pace isn’t overwhelming, you just like wandering off. I’ve been much too lax with you, daughter, but that ends tonight.”
That wasn’t his normal response, and it was startling enough for her to pull attention away from the man by the mantle.
“Papa, you needn’t ever wait for me. You and your friends shouldn’t be detained because of my thoughtlessness.
” She let her shoulders sag in a false sign of regret.
“If I am forced to miss my entertainments, then it is my fault alone.”
Her father grunted in his usual way, and then he waved to the hazel-eyed gentleman behind him. “Go on. Get it over with. As she said, it’s her own fault.”
Alarm started to ring through her. She didn’t even know who these people were.
Her father hadn’t bothered to introduce them.
And here came the tall man with his expression tight and his lanky walk somehow regal.
He was a titled gentleman, that was definite, but who was he?
His age, which she guessed to be at most ten years her senior, put him in the most coveted group of aristocrats—old enough to be established, but young enough to still have all his teeth.
As was appropriate, she dropped down into a graceful curtsy. “My lord,” she intoned.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” the man said. His voice had a smoothness to it that fit his refined exterior. And though she guessed he was impatient with her—she would be too if she were him—she detected irritation with the situation more than with her specifically.
She rose slowly, choosing her words with care. “I seem to be more ill than I thought. My mind is scattered.”
“Not your mind,” he said, a touch of humor entering his tone. “Your memory.”
To the side, her father huffed out a breath. “I’ve spoken to you about him several times, Janelle. This is Lord Benedict, son to the Earl and Countess of Atterbury. If you’d been here for tea, I would have explained everything.”
Doubtful. At the last three teatimes they’d shared, her father had approved of her attire, grunted his delight at the tea, and then informed her of the parties she would attend in her search for a husband.
He and her aunt had regular discussions about that.
She simply went where they told her to go.
Meanwhile, the earl and countess rose from their seats to greet her. To be excruciatingly correct, the earl would have already gained his feet when she entered, but he was very old and clearly unsteady as he gripped his cane in a shaking double fist.
“My lord,” Janelle said. “Please do not trouble yourself—”
“Not going to trouble long,” he said, his voice genial though somewhat weak. “Don’t want to miss such a happy event.”
What happy event? Meanwhile, she made her curtsey to the countess.
If ever a woman was the opposite of her husband, that was Lady Atterbury.
Where he was stooped and frail, she was tall and intimidating.
Her brows were mostly painted on, but they arched in an imperious way such that her every expression appeared condescending.
This look increased when added to her pointed nose and pinched lips.
“Tardiness is a thoughtless vice,” the woman said by way of greeting.