Chapter 4 #2
Henry pushed away from the table and crossed his arms. “I will not accompany you again.”
Her head snapped toward him. “You will not?”
“No, Liza. I do not relish Papa’s wrath. You are his only daughter. It is different for you.”
She laughed, though it rang slightly hollow. “You are afraid of our father?”
“No.” Though Henry’s brow furrowed and his ears reddened as they always did when he was lying.
The room grew still.
Before she could fashion a retort, her uncle spoke. “Enough.”
His tone was not loud, but it carried authority forged long before illness weakened his limbs.
Eliza turned toward him at once.
“My dearest niece,” he said gently, “your father may be traditional. He may be rigid. He may frustrate you beyond endurance. But he remains your legal guardian. And on top of all of that, he loves you very much, my child.”
She folded her arms defensively. “I am three and twenty.”
“And unmarried,” her aunt interjected softly. “Which grants him complete authority over your person and fortune.”
The truth struck like cold water.
“You must consider that reality,” she continued. “Independence achieved through recklessness is fragile.”
She looked away, jaw tightening. “I am not reckless.”
“You are bold,” her aunt said softly. “Boldness requires caution if it is to endure, my dear. You were lucky today that he did not recognize you immediately. Though I must admit…only time will tell.”
Eliza exhaled sharply. “I do not see why the mere act of commerce should be considered scandalous.”
“Because society does not share your reasoning,” her uncle answered.
Silence settled once more.
Her aunt moved to the sideboard and began arranging small jars as though the matter were settled.
Then she glanced over her shoulder. “Will you attend the Redington ball on Thursday?”
Conversation over.
Eliza blinked. “Of course.”
“And will you conduct yourself with restraint, or do you have a plan in place already?”
Eliza rolled her eyes lightly. “I always conduct myself with restraint.”
Henry coughed pointedly.
She ignored him.
“The London Season holds little appeal,” she went on. “An endless parade of identical conversations and identical intentions.”
“Marriage is not identical for all,” her aunt observed.
“It is for most,” Eliza replied. “A negotiation disguised as romance.”
“And you intend no negotiation?” her uncle asked.
“Heavens no! I intend enterprise,” she declared as she rose from the table and swept toward the center of the stillroom, lifting her arms as though already standing beneath a ballroom chandelier.
“I shall attend,” she said grandly, executing a light spin that caused the hem of her gown to flare. “I shall smile. I shall curtsy. I shall endure compliments about my complexion.”
Henry laughed despite himself.
“But I have no intention of chasing husbands,” she continued, completing another turn. “My future does not lie in flattering mediocre minds. It lies here.”
She gestured toward the jars, the herbs, the ledgers stacked neatly upon the shelf. “In knowledge, trade, and healing.”
She spun once more for emphasis.
Mid-turn, she caught the look exchanged between her aunt and uncle.
It was brief, but enough so that her movement faltered. “What is it?” she demanded.
Her aunt’s expression softened. “Nothing, dear.”
“That was not nothing.”
Her uncle sighed faintly. “We only hope your ambition will be permitted to flourish.”
“Permitted?” she repeated.
Henry shifted uncomfortably.
“You speak as though I require permission,” she said.
“You do,” her uncle answered simply. The rebuke had been a rare one from her uncle.
She lowered her arms slowly.
And she suddenly felt as if the room had grown smaller.
“I shall make my own path,” she insisted, though her voice lacked its earlier brightness.
Her aunt approached and rested a hand lightly upon her shoulder.
“Then make it wisely.”
Eliza drew herself upright.
“I always do.”
Chapter 4
Four evenings later, the lamps of Redington Hall’s ballroom blazed against the London dusk, throwing ribbons of gold across polished marble and silk-clad shoulders.
Alistair stood at the entrance with his sister’s gloved hand resting lightly upon his arm.
“Remember,” he said quietly.
Beatrice looked up at him, her expression bright but steady. “I am to smile, converse with intelligence but not dominance, decline only when necessary, and never accept a third dance.”
“Correct.”
“And you, Brother, are to cease glaring as though every gentleman present intends treason.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” she replied serenely.
He offered her the faintest smile. “You are the focus tonight. I want it to be perfect for you.”
Beatrice’s first Season had officially begun. At seventeen, she possessed a freshness that society adored. She was neither calculating nor na?ve, but something more dangerous. Hopeful.
Lydia remained at home. The headache had returned with renewed force early that morning. The laudanum had dulled her speech by afternoon. Alistair had left only when she insisted.
“Go,” she had murmured. “Bea must not feel my absence.”
So he had come.
The ballroom was crowded but not oppressive. Lady Redington prided herself upon exclusivity without vulgar excess. Crystal chandeliers caught in the facets of jeweled hairpins. Musicians tuned quietly near the raised platform. The hum of conversation swelled and softened in waves.
Alistair positioned himself along the perimeter, precisely where he could observe without intruding.
He monitored Beatrice’s posture as she was introduced to Mr. Townsend. He noted the ease of her laughter. The restraint of her replies. He cataloged each man’s lineage and fortune with silent efficiency.
No impropriety. No rash entanglement. No whispers.
He turned his head only because something in the movement across the floor disrupted the pattern.
A flash of deep blue silk.
The color was not timid. It was saturated. Intentional.
The woman attached to it moved with fluid precision through the opening measures of the cotillion.
He recognized her before he understood how.
The alley returned to him at once. Damp brick. Veil. Irritation.
The same posture now refined beneath candlelight. The same intelligence in the tilt of her head.
The veil had been replaced with a carefully arranged cascade of dark curls pinned high, revealing a neck that caught the light with pale clarity. The blue silk molded to her figure without excess ornamentation. A choice that suggested confidence rather than display.
She was no longer disguised, but now elevated.
Alistair’s gaze sharpened.
“Do not tell me you now stare at the dance floor in admiration,” a voice murmured beside him.
Charles Redmayne joined him with easy familiarity. At thirty, Charles possessed a warmth that disarmed most and an intelligence that concealed itself behind good humor. He had been Alistair’s closest friend since Cambridge, and perhaps the only man permitted to speak freely in his presence.
“Who is that woman?” Alistair asked without preamble.
Charles followed his line of sight until his gaze landed on the woman in blue.
“Ah,” he turned to face Alistair again. “That would be none other than Miss Eliza Westleigh.”
The name landed with quiet force.
“Westleigh?” Alistair repeated.
“She is the daughter of Baron Hartmoor.”
He absorbed that information quickly. “And do you know if she frequents Clerkenwell?” Alistair asked before he could stop himself.
Charles lifted a brow. “How do you know to even ask that?”
“I encountered her there—Only once. Though it seemed like she knew her way around that maze.”
“Hmm…” Charles smiled.
“What is it? What do you know?”
“Well, all I know is that your expression is a foreign cross between irritation and intrigue, my friend,” Charles chided.
Alistair ignored that. “Westleigh,” he said again.
Charles nodded. “She is a most…peculiar creature. She is clever, though some would say she is almost too clever.”
“Why would anyone say that?”
“Well, it is the talk of Boodle’s, Alistair,” Charles said cooly. “She has dismissed more suitors than most ladies receive. I think it has been around seven.”
“Seven! For what reason?”
“Obviously, none of her victims know, but it seems she enjoys making sport of them all.”
Alistair’s gaze returned to the dance floor.
Miss Westleigh executed a flawless curtsey as a young gentleman approached. Mr. Hartley, if he recalled correctly. Earnest. Harmless.
“Rumor has it that she possesses odd scholarly interests,” Charles continued.
“She reads excessively, which is quite accomplished. She speaks of subjects beyond polite tolerance, nearing scholarly uncouth knowledge. I suspect that she is not just clever, but she is far too smart for any of the boys of the ton.” Charles laughed. “She frightens them intentionally….”
Alistair watched as Hartley offered his hand.
She accepted.
The dance began.
Perhaps she requires the steady confidence of a man…His mind wandered without permission, and he shut it down quickly as he continued to watch her movements, assessing for a flaw.
For the first measures, she moved with technical perfection. Steps aligned. Timing impeccable.
Then, precisely as Hartley attempted a turn, she trod squarely upon his polished boot.
He stumbled.
Her face transformed at once into apologetic sweetness. Her lips formed an expression of delicate regret.
The next sequence approached.
She repeated the offense.
Hartley flushed.
“Surely that was not accidental,” Alistair murmured.
Charles suppressed a laugh. “She has been known to discourage enthusiasm with the same strategy of a commander of troops at war.”
“She humiliates them.”
“No, no, no,” Charles said laughingly, and at his friend’s oddly quick defense of the woman, Alistair turned with an arched eyebrow.
Can Charles be interested in her?
His friend continued, “No, Alistair, she is in full command of every situation. You can see it even now,” Charles corrected.
A third misstep occurred.
Hartley attempted gallantry, clearly uncertain whether to persist or retreat. Miss Westleigh’s expression remained luminous and entirely composed.
Alistair felt something slither down his spine. It was almost as if his instincts were trying to wrench themselves out from the grip of his control. He exhaled.
A lady of rank deliberately sabotaging a gentleman’s dignity was unacceptable. And yet the precision of it—He had half a mind to walk over there and cut in if only to show her just how fruitless her efforts were in the game were she to play with a man instead of these boys.
She did not smirk or sneer. She merely adjusted her footing as though the error lay in physics rather than intention.
Hartley bowed at the conclusion of the set with visible relief.
She curtseyed perfectly.
“I have seen officers maneuver troops with less calculation,” Alistair said quietly.
Charles chuckled. “You have not taken your eyes off of her.”
Alistair shot Charles a warning look, and even though he lifted his hands in defeat, his grin was obvious with enjoyment. “Never mind.”
Though his eyes did drift back toward Miss Westleigh, who withdrew to the edge of the floor, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing footman. For an instant, her expression dropped. Not into cruelty. Into something sharper. Something observant.
She scanned the room.
Her gaze passed over him without recognition, or so he believed. And the urge to test that assumption surfaced with unexpected strength.
He straightened.
Charles watched him with open amusement. “You cannot possibly intend—”
“I wish to know whether she recalls our prior encounter.”
Charles sighed. “If you leave this floor limping, I shall only make fun of you for the rest of your life.”
Alistair ignored him and crossed the ballroom with measured strides.
Several heads turned automatically. His title preceded him like a herald.
Miss Westleigh noticed the shift before she noticed him.
Suddenly, their eyes met. He watched as recognition flared unmistakably across her expression.
He stopped before her and bowed. “Miss Westleigh,” Alistair said evenly. “May I have the next dance?”
For the briefest instant, she stilled.
It was not visible to anyone who did not know what to look for. A fractional tightening of the fingers about her glass before she set it down. A flicker in her eyes.
Then she curtsied. “Your Grace,” her voice was composed even through her shock. “With pleasure.”
The musicians had begun the next set. He offered his hand. She placed hers within it without hesitation.
Her grip was neither timid nor bold as they took their positions among the other couples.
The first measures began, and he waited until they were in motion before speaking. “I did not expect to encounter you again so soon,” he said quietly.
“London is small,” she replied. “Particularly when one strays from the correct districts.”
Her eyes lifted briefly in challenge.
He matched her tone. “Indeed. Certain districts are not intended for ladies of refined sensibilities.”
“Refined?” she repeated mildly. “Is that what we are calling ourselves this evening?”
The turn approached. He guided her through it with precise control.
“Why were you in Clerkenwell?” he asked.
“Why were you?”
Her answer came without pause.
“I was conducting an investigation.”
He saw her eyes flicker with something akin to fear, but only for a moment, before she recovered. “How industrious of an excuse, Your Grace.”
“It was an investigation into those who prey upon the desperate, if you must know.”
She did not miss a step, though she tried. “Quite a noble cause.”
“Do you object?”
“I do not. I do find it curious,” she said evenly, “that a gentleman who clearly finds trade distasteful felt so compelled to inspect it.”
He met her gaze directly. “Because association with questionable merchants is a hazard to a young woman’s reputation.”
“And yet,” she replied, “Your Grace navigated the alley without finding any.”
A couple nearby shifted slightly closer, as though drawn by the undercurrent of their exchange.
The next sequence required proximity. His hand settled at her waist. Her posture remained impeccable.
“Ladies of your station,” he said, “do not frequent such quarters without consequence.”
“Gentlemen of your station,” she countered softly, “appear there more often than one would think.”