Chapter Three
MURIEL’S KNEES WOULD NOT CEASE their jumping as she stood in the reception line in the Hughlots’ grand foyer on Kensington Gore with Sir Alexander and Lady Ingram. The thought of meeting the Prince Regent of England was all too much. Don’t think about how many failed seasons you have behind you, and you will do just fine. She scowled at her step-grandmother’s words, which were always there, ready to cut her down if Muriel ever gained a dash of confidence outside of the kitchen. She shook the thought from her mind and whispered to Lady Ingram, “How ever did you manage to get us an invitation to a marquess’s dinner party hosting the prince?”
Lady Ingram’s lips twitched. She flipped open her painted silk fan, hiding their whispers from view. “We are courtiers of the king, my dear. I’ve known the Prince Regent since my marriage to the captain, the date of which event I will not confess, lest I reveal my age.”
Muriel swallowed. She would be quite the outsider.
Sensing her discomfort, Lady Ingram patted her arm. “Don’t fret. Sir Alexander has long been a favorite of the Prince Regent, even before Alexander was knighted, and we know him to be quite kind. I know you are nervous but remember your goal. In order for you to put the messy business behind you and your family, you at the very least need a subsidiary title. Aim for a duke, of course, but that is a rather lofty ambition with there being a limited number of dukes. You may settle for a viscount, although I would rather your children, besides the firstborn son, to be given more than just the courtesy of being called ‘honorable.’ I suppose the goal here is, of course, for you to secure a title.”
Muriel’s head spun as the music grew with each step forward in the line. It was one thing to plan such a daring venture with her bosom friends and quite another to attempt to do so … especially without them at her side and in the unfamiliar ballrooms of London. She should have accepted their help. However, she had gotten herself into this mess alone, and it was her responsibility to fix it alone. At least, that is what Grandmother Fletcher had said when she strictly forbade Muriel from bringing such pretty, eligible friends. Doing so would greatly increase the competition and narrow her options for a good match. Of course Father at once stood against his mother with a ready defense of his adopted daughter, and he again assured Muriel that she didn’t need to leave Kent. However, it was because of her love for her new family that Muriel had to prove she was more than what everyone in society saw—a baker out of her kitchen and out of her element.
She knew Kent society had blamed her lack of decorum and abiding by societal norms on her common upbringing. Muriel had been born in a clean, albeit small flat above the bakery where she and her mother worked until just before Muriel turned seventeen. That was when Mother and her new investor, Mr. Fletcher, met and fell in love over baked goods. Much to the chagrin of Kent’s polite society, they married, and Mr. Fletcher moved mother and daughter to his freshly updated country estate, Fletcher Manor. All of which allowed Muriel a debut in polite society’s ballrooms. After only a year of etiquette lessons and training, she had been an unmitigated disaster.
Despite her stepfather’s sweet reassurances, Kent society would always view her not by her stepfather’s heritage but as a parvenue, courtesy of her mother’s marriage to the wealthiest untitled gentleman in the county. Father’s position was not enough to smooth over the apparent flaws in his choice of a wife and stepdaughter. But now that she was in London, where nearly no one knew of her beginnings, Muriel knew she could at last hide behind her stepfather’s fortune long enough to interest a respectable titled suitor … that is, if she managed to follow society’s guide. She was nearing five and twenty, and she well knew a wallflower did not propose to a gentleman. Her only excuse was temporary madness brought on by Vivienne’s well-penned romance novels, published under her nom de plume. Those tomes would forever skew Muriel’s outlook on love and marriage. So I might argue this is all Vivienne’s fault.
“You have been trained to be a lady from the moment you were seventeen. You will not shame yourself in the royal court if you only remember your etiquette.” Lady Ingram continued her encouragement as the line before them shortened, and they approached the marquess and marchioness of the four-storied residence, the aloof Hughlots.
Muriel fluffed the sapphire tulle at her shoulders, knowing the pearls sewn into the tulle and sprinkled across her bust were perfection. To complement them, along with the graceful trio of ivory egret feathers in her high, loose bun, Muriel’s maid, Charlotte, had sewn pearls into her coiffure that would take an hour to remove. Staying close to Lady Ingram’s elbow, she found they were next, her palms instantly growing clammy. She brushed her fingers against her father’s ring on the delicate gold necklace and drew a deep breath. She greeted the hosts with her most brilliant yet demure smile, gathered her glimmering skirts of sapphire, and curtsied in a cloud of perfection.
With her greetings exchanged without tragedy and a compliment directed toward her ensemble from Lady Hughlot, she released her train to fall behind her and was ushered into the grand salon. In the corner, a quartet was assembled beneath a succession of paintings depicting the generations of the marquess, each one taller than she. The lively quartet was already enticing guests onto the hardwood dance floor. Muriel looked around as surreptitiously as she could manage. Though older than her stepfather’s manor, this house bore its age with a level of opulence that every society lady in the county would envy. The platinum silk wall coverings shimmered in the flickering candlelight of the gold chandeliers, which also illuminated the gold leaf moldings and fine artwork around the room that was obviously created by the masters. She studied the nearest cluster of paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough, and Reynolds. She pressed her hand to her chest at the elegance surrounding her, then, feeling her lips part, quickly remembered herself. “Where is the Prince Regent, Lady Ingram?”
“He appears two hours into the party, just before dinner is served,” the portly Sir Alexander interjected as he joined them, kissing his wife’s cheek and bowing to Muriel. “I believe the food to be his favorite event of any evening.”
“Mine too,” Muriel whispered, her stomach already rumbling.
“That and the music. He has a fondness for it. Do you sing, Miss Beau?” Lady Ingram inquired.
“Miss Beau!”
Muriel’s heart plummeted at the sight of the dowager viscountess of the last noble family they had called on that morning. She doubted Viscountess Traneford had forgiven her for damaging the settee and costly rug by dropping her iced sponge. Behind her stood a gentleman, stunning in his own right, who winked … at her?
Muriel glanced over her shoulder and found only a gangly hobbledehoy sipping his punch. This Corinthian was indeed smiling at her. She straightened, her pulse hammering. This was it. She well recognized the signs of an eligible, advantageous match being proposed, but never had it happened to her. With her two fiancés, it had been all arranged contracts with no wooing, yet this man appeared as if he was actually eager to make her acquaintance. He could be just the nobleman to take her mind off the dashing Baron Osmund Deverell for good.
“Miss Beau, may I present to you my son, Lord Tristian Traneford, Viscount of Traneford.”
Muriel dipped her head and curtsied, her practiced conversational tidbits nowhere to be found.
Lady Ingram clasped his hand in both of her own. “My dear, Tristian. So good to see you again. Your days at the university kept you away from us for too long.”
He grinned, his tanned cheeks stark against his bright smile and ebony hair. “When I was offered the fellowship to travel and study in Cairo, I couldn’t pass it up, even if it meant keeping myself from attending lovely gatherings such as this.” His gaze lingered on Muriel. “And now, it seems that my waiting has rewarded me with being present for this beautiful country rose’s first ball with us.”
Well, that did it. Any thought she had composed flew from her head again.
“Would you do me the honor of a dance?” He bowed to her, extending his hand.
Did he sway just slightly?She managed a demure nod and allowed him to sweep her onto the dance floor, where the back and forth of the reel permitted her a moment to gather herself. He had been quite animated over the mention of his studies, so she cleared her throat and ventured, “What did you study in Egypt? I’m imagining it had to do with the pyramids?”
His grin flashed, momentarily blinding her senses to all else in the room. “The lady speaks! I am an entomologist and was studying beetles.” He shrugged. “It may not have been the lordliest way of spending my time, but I am hopeful the book I am composing about my discoveries will turn a tidy little profit to help support my family and enable me to return to the site.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I’m certain you were made aware of the Traneford family’s situation.”
The hopping motion of the dance required them to part. When they met again, she queried, “Situation?”
“No need to be coy, Miss Beau.” He whirled them about the perimeter of the floor. “I’ve heard all about how forward you country girls can be, and I hear you take the cake.”
She stiffened, her blood pounding in her ears. “And what exactly did you hear about me?” She kept herself from searching the crowded room for someone she recognized who could possibly have borne the dreaded tale all the way from Chilham.
He leaned down to whisper in her ear, the liquor on his breath making her fight a gag. “That if I pause with you under the chandelier, you will be unable to keep yourself from proposing, saving me the trouble of offering you a jewel to tempt you into an engagement with me.”
Her jaw dropped. Here she had been feeling inferior due to her lack of station, when this man was nothing but a self-absorbed blackguard. At her frown and no doubt scalding cheeks, he had the nerve to laugh and direct them toward the center of the room, where he paused under the chandelier with an impish grin.
“I’m waiting.” He laughed again, lifting his eyes to the chandelier surrounded by a fresco imitation of the discoveries at Herculaneum.
“This is not amusing in the least,” she hissed, tugging against his hand, which held hers in a vice. He was too strong for her. The memory of Baron Deverell under the chandelier was crushing her lungs. Her proposal was supposed to have been glorious, treasured forever, and now it was tainted by the mocking of all who heard of it. No one viewed it as she had in the powder room that evening—a moment of precious hope and true love taking wing. “Please,” she whimpered, tears of frustration threatening at her lashes. “You will ruin everything.”
He leaned down to her once more. “I have the title you want, and you have the funds I need to continue my lifestyle. Shall you get on one knee, or shall I?”
“Cease this at once.” She attempted to tug free once more, smiling through clenched teeth for the benefit of the curious onlookers and blinking furiously to keep her tears in check. Her reputation would not be ruined because of one inebriated, entitled man who wished to make sport of her for his own entertainment.
A giant of a man stepped between them with his back to her. He gripped the viscount’s shoulder, his fingers discreetly cinching on his collarbone and forcing the cad to release his grip on her wrist with a grunt of pain. The mysterious gentleman enveloped Muriel in his arm, drawing her away from the horrid viscount and into the reel once more. She looked up to thank her rescuer and gasped. In the dazzling splendor of the court with the candlelight blurring as they whirled, she would have thought she imagined him if not for the obvious sling and the lump still visible beneath a dark curl on his forehead. “Erik?”
“Ariel?” he breathed, holding her upper waist with one arm while her free hand rested on his shoulder as his other was in the sling. “What are you doing here?” His mind churned through their earlier encounter. She had been wearing an overlarge apron, and, while he had gotten a good view of her delicate train before he darted over to help her in the pantry, women’s fashion always eluded him. Certainly, he chased down spies and smugglers on the high seas, capturing them in traitorous acts, but the thought that a certain fabric might be too fine for a baker had never entered his head.
And besides, once they’d been dusted with flour and he’d had his senses knocked from him, all he noticed were her pretty eyes and her delightfully winning manner. She had been beautiful coated in flour, and now she was stunning, with dark chestnut curls framing her face and one spilling over her creamy, almost-bared shoulder. There was no mistaking her status in tonight’s finery.
“Actually, my name is Muriel. You misheard me earlier. And I am not the Ingrams’ cook. I am their guest, Miss Beau.” She worried her full bottom lip, remorse flooding her features. “But please know I wasn’t having a lark with you. Everything else I divulged was true. And in my defense, you assumed my role as much as I did yours, and I didn’t wish to be rude by correcting you on my station.”
“Indeed—”
“Wait a moment.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you are a gentleman attending a ball, what were you doing in the kitchen with a delivery? Was that a falsehood as well? Are you some criminal nobleman who uses the ruse of delivering crates to fool unsuspecting staff into allowing you into homes of elite members of society to spy on them?”
Criminal nobleman?He fought to keep his grin steady as the dance drew them apart.
When she reached his side once more, she lowered her voice. “I do not wish to leap to conclusions. Sir Alexander was a captain, and he’s told me tales of his time in the war and of finding traitors where you least expected them.”
“I never claimed I was a deliveryman. As you said, you assumed … like I assumed you were the baker since our clothes were covered in flour when we met. However, I truly was delivering a gift to Sir Alexander, who happens to have been my first captain. He has a fondness for exotic tea.” Which I intercepted from Requin on its way from Burma.
Her brows lifted as suspicion fled her features. He lifted his good arm and she twirled beneath it. “Your captain? Well, you must be of a high rank now, given you are at a nobleman’s ball, and yet, I do not even know what to call you. Using your Christian name at this point would be unforgivably forward.”
“Would it?” he teased, thoroughly enjoying her unbridled conversation.
“You know of my former life, and I don’t even know your surname. That is hardly fair.” She laughed and leaned toward him, whispering, “We should do as polite society insists and have a proper introduction lest rumors begin to swirl about the ballroom after your gallant rescue. Maybe you should fetch Sir Alexander to introduce us and forget our little encounter in the kitchen.”
Forget the beauty covered in flour who had rendered him unconscious when no man had ever accomplished that feat? Never. He bowed his head to her as they continued their dance. “True, but as we have already been seen dancing, we cannot allow anyone to witness an introduction as it would be out of order. I’m Captain Erik Draycott, Earl of Draycott.”
Her eyes widened at his title. “So, not only are you not a deliveryman, but you are a captain and an earl?”
“Would you rather I were a deliveryman?”
Her lips quirked. “Mayhap. Well, when I curtsy at the end of the dance, know it is in conclusion but also in greeting. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir—I mean, my lord. Honestly, in Chilham we only ever had gentry to address, other than visiting noblemen, so I didn’t study the proper addresses as I should have.”
He chuckled at her stumbling over his title. “Please, call me Captain Draycott.”
“Very well, Captain Draycott. I’m Miss Beau, Baker of Chilham.”
He swallowed his laughter at her introduction and shifted his hold on her slender waist. One-armed dancing was more difficult than he had anticipated, but to have her near made it worth the stares they were receiving. “It is an honor, Miss Beau, Baker of Chilham. Do you answer to Lady Baker?”
“Apparently, as well as Ariel. Alas, I am afraid you must address me as Miss Beau, lest people think I am giving myself a title or knowledge of my former occupation circulate.” Her lips quirked in mirth once more. “Shall you keep my scandalous beginnings a secret?”
“You will be pleased to learn that I’m rather adept at keeping secrets.”
“Thank goodness.” She cleared her throat and asked more seriously, “How could you tell I was in trouble with the viscount? While it felt like an eternity that I was held captive by him under the chandelier, I know it was only a few bars of music.”
“I knew the viscount when we were lads in school. He was a rascal then and grew up to be even more of a rake.” He frowned. “And when I saw a lady attempting to tug free of him, I knew I had to aid said lady before he caused further damage.”
“I thank you for your service, my lord.” She smiled up at him, her chocolate eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Two gallant acts in a single day with an injured arm, which I am guessing has a much more exciting tale behind it than you disclosed, with you being a captain and all.”
“Mayhap.” He laughed and skirted the topic. “I hope you will not judge all English noblemen by your experience with Tristian Traneford.”
“How could I when I have such a chivalrous knight before me now?” She smiled up at him.
“Say much more and you shall have me blushing, my lady baker.” While her words would have seemed coquettish coming from any other lady tonight, Erik’s chest swelled with the sincerity of her praise. As the dance ended, he bowed to her and escorted her off the dance floor as guests cast him curious glances.
Long before Erik had discovered he was to inherit his uncle’s lands, he had dreamt of working aboard a ship, and had done so for nearly twenty years in total under Alexander Ingram. After his aunt died and he was told he was to inherit, he had studied for years to prepare himself for the task, both on land and while at sea. By the time his uncle died, Erik had reached a position of authority, had already signed his second contract to work on behalf of the Crown, and was actually making a difference in the war against Napoleon.
His continuation of work after his uncle’s death led his neighbors to believe that he did not possess the funds to attend the season or even host at home … a story that was no doubt perpetuated by the dilapidation of his London residence. However, Erik had allowed the rumors of his dwindling wealth to circulate unchecked, for it kept the English ladies far from his castle’s doorstep. He had no time for a relationship and had little desire to take a wife, considering the secrets there would be between them. His second identity had nearly overtaken him when his uncle died. Erik had returned only long enough to install a steward he trusted before returning to his call of duty. At sea, the Earl of Draycott was no more, as he chased French smugglers and seized their ships as the infamous privateer Captain Warrick, a nom de guerre whose reputation had been built by a succession of men.
He cast a glance down at the inimitable lady beside him and felt the smallest fissure in his resolve to keep himself apart from all single, unattached females during his time on land in his desire to better acquaint himself with Miss Beau. Unlike the ladies who had attempted to lure him into matrimony before, Miss Beau possessed a strength of character that could only have been brought about by hardship. And such a lady a gentleman did not meet every day, especially one who baked with such skill.
Before he could properly request to escort her to tonight’s dinner, gentlemen he had known since he was a young shaver swarmed her. At once, he observed her draw herself into the prim lady she thought society wished her to be—demanded she be—and Erik couldn’t help but grin that he alone knew the real woman behind her mask … at least, for now.