Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
“ I am not a complete ninnyhammer,” said Harriet, still watching the sensuous sway of Camille’s hips as the French lady and Amirault strolled through the crowd and disappeared into the card room. “Of course I realize the Comte has ulterior motives for trying to seduce his way into my good graces.” The real question was whether Jack understood the import of his own warning.
“Seduce—hmmph! Had he leaned in any closer to your bodice, his nose would have been in your cleavage,” he muttered gruffly. “What were you discussing?”
“The fabric and cut of my gown. Amirault, for all his faults, is very au courant about the latest fashions.”
Another grunt.
“And,” continued Harriet, “we discussed the hairstyles. He was of the opinion that the new fringe of ringlets frames my face rather nicely.”
Jack looked a little nonplussed. “I...” His eyes narrowed. “I noticed that you had cut your hair. But...”
“But what?” she inquired, hoping to keep a note of disappointment from creeping into her voice. It was silly to expect a compliment from Jack. His tongue was made of razored steel, not sun-kissed honey.
“But I thought you wouldn’t want me to waste time making a fuss about it.” Jack shuffled his feet, as if the parquet beneath his shoes had suddenly turned to red-hot coals. “Dash it all, Harry. You’ve always been different than other girls. You don’t need all that silly simpering over the color of a ribbon or the flutter of a flounce. You’re practical and sensible?—”
“In other words, very brick-like,” she murmured.
“I can talk to you.” He essayed a note of humor. “I can’t talk to a brick. Or rather, I can, but it won’t answer back with your intelligence or insight.”
She heaved an inward sigh, deciding she was fighting a losing battle. In his eyes, no matter how many layers of fancy silks and frothy lace she donned, she would always be a humdrum sort of building block, useful but hardly something that sparked any deeper passion.
Intelligence and insight were not the first compliments a lady might long to hear at a fancy ball, but they would have to do.
Jack cleared his throat with a cough. “Er, speaking of intelligence and insight, did you bring your notes?”
“Yes,” replied Harriet. “Much to the dismay of my maid, who thought this large reticule ruined the lines of my gown.”
With naught but a wordless grunt in response, Jack retreated a step deeper into the shelter of the potted palms, taking the sheets of papers she had slipped into his hands.
She was only vaguely aware that the music was starting up for a new set of dances when a soft hail drew her attention away from Jack’s pensive profile.
“Excuse me, Miss Farnum, but might I ask you to dance?”
Oh, surely Addison, the Adonis of Mayfair, wasn’t asking her to step out with him. He was not only notoriously good-looking but also notoriously choosy in whom he deigned to lead out on the dance floor.
Harriet drew in her breath to answer?—
“Go away, Addison,” snapped Jack.
“My apologies, Leete. I didn’t realize you and the lady were engaged for this gavotte.” To Harriet, he added politely, “Then may I get in line for the next one.”
“She’s taken for that as well. Now run along and stop pestering us.”
Addison opened his mouth to speak, but on catching Jack’s scowl he seemed to think better of it and backed off without a word.
“That,” she huffed, “was exceedingly rude.”
Paper crackled as he turned a page. “He’s a pompous bore.”
“Be that as it may, how did you know whether or not I wanted to dance?”
“Do you?”
Harriet looked longingly at the couples twirling across the polished parquet, their laughter twining with the capering melody of the violins. She thought of her beautiful gown and how, in the privacy of her room, she had spun round and round in front of the cheval glass, marveling at how the gossamer silk had floated in soft, sensuous, lighter-than-air undulations.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
When he merely went back to reading, she was sorely tempted to stamp her foot in frustration—that, or aim a swift kick at his lordly posterior.
Wretch. That he seemed oblivious to the wiles of Camille made her even more furious. Fine—let him be ensnared by her sultry charms. If he insisted on playing the fool, it was none of her business. She had done her part in piecing together his dratted puzzle. Now he was on his own.
Looking around, Harriet felt a rush of relief on spotting Theo at the refreshment table.
“Excuse me, I shall be back shortly.” Without waiting for a response, she lifted her skirts and glided off, though it took all of her self-control to keep from stomping her delicate, ribbon-trimmed dancing shoes loud enough to wake the Devil.
“Have some champagne.” James pushed through the palm fronds. “I am tired of drinking alone.”
Thrusting the papers, inside his coat, Jack accepted the wine. The crystal was cool against his fingers, and the sparkling fizz of the tiny bubbles stirred the sudden realization of how thirsty he was.
“A toast,” muttered James, clumsily clinking glass to glass. “May a great gaping hole open up in the middle of the dance floor and swallow all the prowling peacocks.”
“Peacocks don’t prowl,” scoffed Jack before letting a mouthful of the pale gold liquid course down his throat.
“Ha!” James cocked a nod at the refreshment table. “Take a look for yourself.”
A sputtering choke set the leaves to chattering. “What the devil are they doing?”
“Do you mean ‘they’ as in Theo and Harriet, or ‘they’ as in all the fribbles and jackanapes buzzing around their skirts?”
Jack squinted through the greenery. “Both.”
“The ladies are merely looking... magnificently alluring. While the gentlemen are making cakes of themselves with all their outrageous flirting and flatteries.”
“Damnation,” growled Jack.
“Damnation,” echoed James, as he drained his glass and slumped a shoulder against the wall. “Did you notice their gowns?”
“Yes,” muttered Jack. “I noticed.”
“S’not right. All those fellows drawn to the fancy new clothes and the...” James paused. “No, it’s not just the clothes, lovely as they are. It’s more than that.” Looking thoroughly bewildered, he grimaced and shook his head. “Though I can’t for the life of me say what it is.”
Jack watched the men flitting around Harriet and Theo, dark moths drawn to the firebright flame of their allure. He couldn’t quite articulate it either. “It’s as if by some perverse magic, Harriet and Theo suddenly came to see themselves differently—and now, so do all the bucks of the ton who never gave them a second glance.”
“Aye,” agreed James glumly. “Those fellows see the outward elegance and grace but they don’t know the real essence of our ladies. How they are thoughtful and easy to talk to, how they are kind and compassionate, how they have a sly sense of humor.”
Jack regarded his friend with a quizzical stare. “You do realize that you are thoroughly cupshot.”
“Yes.” James slid a few inches lower on the wall. “Not making any sense, I know. So I think I shall toddle off to the street... and puke on cobbles rather than on one of Lady Henning’s priceless Aubusson carpets.”
Jack offered a steadying hand, but James waved him off. “S’all right. Can see m’self out. In no mood for company.”
As his friend staggered away, Jack angled another glowering look at the crowd around the punch bowl, where it seemed every man in the room was busy drinking in the sight of Harriet and Theo sipping their champagne. James, for all his wine-garbled babbling, had hit upon the essence of the matter. All the other men only saw the outer glitter, not the inner gold.
He blinked, and all of a sudden had to lean back and brace himself against the sliver of wall James had just vacated .
Ye Gods, how long had he been blind to the truth?
How had he ever imagined that he might be in love with Camille? Her allure was like a curl of smoke. There was a certain fascination to its undulating beauty, but in the end, it was no more substantial than a puff of vapor. While Harriet was a like a blade of sunlight, strong, substantial and radiant with warmth.
She pushed, provoked him, and infuriated him, all the while challenging him to be more than he thought he could be.
He wasn’t sure he was capable of love and all its emotional complexities, but friendship was perhaps even more elemental.
Jack drew in a measured breath, trying to figure out just when it had happened. Impossible to pin down the exact moment when Harriet had crept under his defenses, under his skin and become a touchstone, a way of keeping hold of the better part of his nature. The bond of friendship—the trust, the laughter, the sharing of thoughts—now felt so natural that he couldn’t imagine himself without it.
Placing his glass in one of the terra cotta pots, Jack pushed his way free of the shadows.
As the musicians began tuning their instruments for the opening notes of a waltz, Harriet heard Theo turn away yet another request for her hand.
“I thought you were enjoying the dancing,” she murmured.
“I am,” replied Theo. “I—I just don’t quite feel like waltzing.”
Neither do I , thought Harriet, quelling the urge to look for Jack among the swaying trees across the room.
They had moved from the refreshment table to a quieter spot near the bevy of chaperones seated by the arched windows. Yet even the proximity of the Dragons hadn’t kept some of the gentlemen from following and pressing for a place on their dance cards.
“Though I confess, it is very romantic to twirl across the floor to such a lilting melody.”
“That depends on your partner,” pointed out Harriet, reminding herself that she was still cross as crabs with Jack.
Theo sighed and started to hum along softly under her breath. The sound masked the light tread of steps approaching from the rear.
Which explained why she nearly jumped out of her skin when the touch of fingertip grazed against her bare shoulder.
“Sorry. But may I have a word with you?”
“Why?” she asked, turning slowly to face Jack.
In answer, he took her hand, his grip surprisingly gentle, yet firm, and drew her with quick-footed steps between two massive urns filled with roses. The heady perfume filled her nostrils, making her feel a little light-headed.
“You did say you wanted to dance,” he murmured, shifting his hold. Through the butter-soft leather of his glove, she could feel the calloused contours of his palm, the tapered strength of his fingers as they slid over her hip.
“Y-yes, but I didn’t say I wanted to dance with you .”
The smile that curled up the corners of his mouth made her heart lurch up against her ribs.
“I don’t blame you. I’ve been acting like an arse.”
Heat flared at the small of her back as his hand came to rest and pulled her closer. Their thighs touched in a rustle of wool and lace, setting off sparks that seemed to melt into the very marrow of her bones.
His hold tightened. “Are you alright?”
“It’s a trifle overwarm in here.” Harriet fanned her face. “I’m fine. It’s passed.”
Jack led her the few remaining steps to the perimeter of the dance floor. She was grateful for the intermittent shadows that hide the flush she knew was creeping to her face.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked quietly, all trace of sardonic humor gone from his voice.
“F-for what?”
“As I said, for acting like an arse.”
“You have been doing that ever since I can remember.” She tipped her head and their eyes met. “But yes, we are friends, Jack. That’s a bond hard to break.”
“Even for an arse?” Amusement danced in his dark eyes.
She nodded, not quite trusting her voice. Her throat seemed to have tightened for no reason, and the rest of her body was reacting with strange little shivers of fire and ice.
“Then raise your arms. The dance is about to begin.”
Harriet knew the proper position—one hand on his shoulder, the other lifted to fit against his palm. Intimately aware of the breadth of muscle, the contours of his shape, she pressed against him, feeling her flesh mold to his through the thin layers of fabric. She could picture all the little nuances that had come to be so familiar—the ridged scar along his knuckles, where he had cut himself helping her brother William climb down from a barn roof, the lump on his collarbone, a memento of a fall from his horse.
The sense of connection—two as one—nearly took her breath away.
Jack seemed to feel it too. A tiny tremor pulsed along the line of his jaw, and as he angled his head, the fringe of his lashes couldn’t quite hide the oddly vulnerable look in his eyes. In contrast, his body moved with a confident grace, his step sure, guiding her through the first few spins.
She relaxed, letting the natural harmony of their movements match the melody of the lovely music. Her anger had long since ebbed away. However maddening his moments of sarcasm could be, it was impossible to ignore the comfortable camaraderie that lay beneath all their banter and bickering.
Friendship wasn’t easy. But maybe it was easier than love.
“Still seething?”
“No.” Her skirts ruffled against their legs as they glided round and round through a circling turn.
“Shall I continue guessing at your emotions? You aren’t usually so quiet, so something must be holding your tongue.”
“I’m simply enjoying the moment,” answered Harriet.
Jack quickened his steps, the elaborate patterns turning fluid beneath their feet. “As am I. You dance very well.”
She accepted his words with a smile. “A compliment from you? Have a care—I may swoon on the dance floor.”
“I did notice the cut of your hair, and how the ringlets curl around the curve of your jaw and tickle the shell of your ear. Just as I noticed how the color of your gown captures the deepest hue of your eyes, and how its design makes you look light as a feather floating on a puff of sun-warmed air.”
Harriet stumbled, and only his strong hands kept her from falling.
“But as I don’t have Lord Byron’s gift of language, I did not attempt to say so.”
The thrumming in her ears was almost loud enough to drown out the music, but somehow she managed to follow along.
“So now,” he went on, “I’ll stop spouting nonsense and move on to far more important things.”
Like his feelings for Camille?
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Harriet said, “You may not wish to hear it, but before we do so, I too, have a word of warning.”
“You wish to point out that Madame La Rochelle may be using me for her own ends.”
“It seems a possibility,” she answered carefully.
For an instant, it appeared his attention was focused on some far-off spot in the room. Then his gaze came back to their twined hands, bright in the crystalline flicker of candlelight. “Like you, I am not blind to the wiles of my French friend.”
A knot seemed to loosen in her chest, and suddenly it was easier to breathe.
“If all this talk about Pierre’s disappearance is an elaborate farrididdle,” he added, “then the question is why?”
“Why, indeed,” Harriet mused. “Does it matter? You could simply walk away.”
“I’m a stubborn fellow. I don’t like leaving conundrums unsolved.” Another graceful spin, though she was aware of his muscles hardening. “Especially when they involve a betrayal of loyalties. Something havey-cavey is afoot, and now that I’ve been drawn into the mystery, I mean to learn what it is. But you need not feel compelled to help any longer. You’ve done enough already?—”
“Of course I’m going to help,” she cut in. “I’m just as stubborn as you are. Maybe more so.”
A grin slowly softened the taut planes of his face. “I was hoping you might say that. Your counsel and camaraderie would be most welcome.”
“There’s just one thing I need you to answer honestly, Jack. Are you in love with Camille La Rochelle? It will affect how we hunt for the truth, and I’d rather know now if it will be an issue.”
“No.” His answer came softly yet swiftly, without a hint of hesitation. “I’ve come to realize she never really touched my heart.”
Harriet wanted to ask how he knew, but before she could frame the question, his next words drove the thought from her head.
“But the fact is, I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone, seeing as I don’t much like myself.”
Their hands were pressed palm to palm, and she slowly curled her fingers, entwining them with his. Warmth pulsed between them as she gave a small squeeze. “Why?”
The question seemed to take him by surprise, and for several long moments, she thought he didn’t mean to answer. But then it was her turn to hear something unexpected.
“At times,” Jack said, “I feel like a rudderless ship, at the mercy of the buffeting winds and swirling currents when storms arise, rather than able to steer my own course.”
“Where do you want to go?” asked Harriet quietly.
“Ah, there have been a great many questions asked tonight, but precious few answers have sounded in return.”
Harriet refused to be diverted. “Yes, answers are hard to find. But if you put your hand on the tiller, and choose a direction to follow, you may surprise yourself.”
“You make it sound easy,” said Jack.
“It isn’t. But if you believe in yourself, anything is possible.” She paused. “Look at me, and Theo. We thought it beyond the realm of imagination that we might ever learn the art of appearing poised and graceful. However, several wise acquaintances counseled us that the first lesson was to believe we could do it. And lo and behold, we are, I think, making a little headway.”
“So that is the magic,” he murmured.
“No witches or warlocks, no potions or spells.”
A noiseless laugh ruffled her curls. He said nothing more, but tucked her closer and whirled through a set of spins that left her a little dizzy.
Or maybe it was the scent of him—the light fragrance of bay rum, starch and some earthy, elementally male essence—that was overpowering her sense.
Somehow, Harriet kept her feet moving, moving...
“Jack.”
“Hmm?” His lips were close, so the sound feathered against her ear. But for some reason, he sounded as if he were very far away.
“The music has stopped.”
“Has it?” He slowed to a stop, and yet his body still seemed to be thrumming with some silent arpeggio only he could hear.
“ Jack ,” she hissed, trying to slip free from his hold. People were beginning to stare.
He opened his eyes. “Damnation, the music has stopped. And we still have a battle plan to draw up.”
“Perhaps that ought to wait until tomorrow.” Harriet was not confident that she could think straight at the present moment.
“You may be right.” Jack finally roused himself to escort her off the dance floor. “I shall come around to your townhouse in the early afternoon. We can take a stroll through Green Park, which will afford plenty of privacy for discussing plans. There were several points in your notes that bear further thought.”
“I have a better idea,” she replied. “Let us visit the new painting exhibit at the Royal Academy.”
He frowned. “There will likely to be a crowd.”
“Yes, and among the visitors will be Amirault. He told me so earlier tonight.”
“Harry, I would rather you stay away from him.”
“Oh, come. The fact that Camille turned to him can’t be coincidence.”
His jaw tightened.
“It’s key that we learn what they are up to, and I’m the one who can do that. Both of them were asking some very pointed questions about my father. If I play along with their game, I’ll be in a position to uncover some answers of my own.”
“You didn’t mention the queries,” said Jack, looking unhappy at her revelations.
“I—I didn’t have a chance.”
“If we are to do this together, we cannot have secrets from each other,” he insisted.
“I agree,” answered Harriet. But inwardly she feared that despite their best intentions, the secrets within secrets might take on a life of their own.