Chapter Five #2
Earlier this evening, an associate of Harris’s, Neville’s manager friend, had come to the back entrance of his London home. He’d used his vast collection of pastes and powders to transform Neville’s face while Neville’s valet looked on in worried disapproval.
To Neville’s own eye, he appeared leaner, harder, and older. But should he have to face a close friend—or old enemy—directly, he doubted that friend would be fooled.
“Ah,” he said. “Looks as if the royal box will remain empty tonight.”
“What a shame,” she replied. “Seeing a Royal is ever so exciting, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” he answered dryly.
He’d told her before that Lord Eltenham’s box—the one his son Lord Willard would likely use—was two boxes down from the specially appointed box the Prince Regent would occupy, should he or his family choose to attend.
He waited for her to find the right location, forcing himself to stay calm.
Though people in boxes were always more concerned with people in other boxes than the riffraff below, he had to take care. He must keep himself angled away from Willard’s box as much as possible lest he be recognized.
“What a fine neckcloth you’re wearing this evening, love!”
He slanted her an alarmed glance. They’d been friendly, of course, to cover the nature of their association, but she’d never called him love.
“Makes me want to—” She leaned forward while trailing her fingers along his collar. “There are several men in the box,” she whispered. “I—I am sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t recognize any of them.”
Ah. Neville’s heart sank.
He’d been certain she’d identify Willard.
Subtly, he glanced over to Eltenham’s box.
He didn’t need a long perusal to pick out at least four of them as the pups that had accompanied Willard on the prior evening. However, Willard himself was not present.
He pursed his lips, leveling his gaze at the orchestra. Could the three empty seats in the box’s front row mean Willard had yet to arrive?
Absently, he touched his chest.
The paper she’d given him crackled reassuringly beneath his fingers.
Odd, that. He hadn’t even been sure Mrs. Cartwright could write.
Apparently, she could. She’d not only sacrificed precious paper but gone to great length to deliver the letter in a clandestine manner. He wondered if he’d made other assumptions about the woman that would also turn out to be wrong.
Right now, however, he had to grant her his trust. She was his only clue—the only person who’d answered the notice he’d put in The Times seeking information on Miss Wilson. But his moment of doubt had strengthened his feeling of unease.
“That’s enough.” He lifted her hand from his neck.
The older woman beside Mrs. Cartwright sent Neville an approving look, while her escort gave him a curious, why-would-you-be-such-a-stick glance.
“Later, my dear,” he forced.
He sent the man a jealous, and violently silencing, look, when the man turned toward his female companion and shrugged.
Neville kissed Mrs. Cartwright’s fingers and whispered back, “No, he’s not there. At least not yet.”
“Later,” she agreed. After sharing a sultry, intimate smile, she drew back.
Again, his stomach lurched. Never in his life had he acted falsely with a lady.
And, for her part, she’d almost made him believe she wanted him. Lies, nothing but lies. He knew very well they were not lovers, nor had any intention of future intimacy.
At least he hoped he had not created such an expectation.
Futile or not, his heart was engaged elsewhere.
Unrequitedly, yes, but engaged.
Willard had best arrive tonight. He could not possibly playact this farce again.
*
Lord Willard’s carriage inched ever closer up Bow Street, heading toward the Theater Royal’s entrance at a pace so slow a snail would be frustrated. Meanwhile, Millie gripped her neatly folded hands tightly together, and, again, refused to give into her vulgar impulse to cover her mouth and nose.
In her experience, ladies were the ones who applied cologne with a too-liberal touch.
As an illustration, Lady Asquith’s perfume occasionally made Millie’s eyes water as they were watering now.
But men, she’d thought, were not prone to the same excess.
Neville, for instance, had been wearing a very subtle scent this afternoon…
Bergamot, of course. With just a touch of clove.
Instinctively, she inhaled, only to be forced to wrinkle her nose in a desperate attempt to stifle a sneeze.
Neville’s fragrance had been nice, indeed, and lightly administered, too—much as she wished to deny any commendation of the presumptuous clod. By contrast, Lord Willard’s cologne saturated the close confines of his lavishly appointed conveyance.
And she’d nowhere to turn to take a deep breath!
To her right was a tufted wall, also heavy with scent, and, to her left, an imposing male with his legs spread wide.
If Lord Willard had taken the back-facing bench instead of directing his mother to the seat, Millie might have been able to appreciate his cologne’s aroma of…
She couldn’t say.
Something nutty? Earthy? Animal, almost. Just—she sucked in her lips to prevent a scowl—male. Perhaps she was simply smelling Willard.
Between the thickly pillowed bench, the walls, her petticoats, and his legs, the two of them were stuffed closer together than plums in a pudding.
“You had, I think, some trouble convincing Lord and Lady Redver to allow you to attend?” Willard asked.
“I wouldn’t say trouble,” she answered, breathing through her mouth. The question sounded conversational, but she detected a deeper interest. “At first, however, Eliza suggested we were not yet well enough acquainted for such an outing.”
“Did she?” He further spread his legs.
Why must he take up so much room?
“For my part,” his voice was deep and warm, “I feel as if I have known you for an age.”
She could not say the same, though she would never be so impolite as to tell him. So, she continued, “After Eliza objected, Adrian pointed out to her that they had become fast friends. And—”
She stopped herself.
Adrian had also noted that Millie had never made such a significant request. But telling Lord Willard as much felt…wrong.
She flashed him a look.
She’d wanted an evening out without her usual retinue. And, though she intended to commence a slight flirtation—one she might use for her own purposes—she didn’t want to give rise in Lord Willard the same expectations her request had, apparently, implied to Adrian.
“And?” Lord Willard prompted.
“And,” she skipped ahead, “when Lady Eltenham told Eliza you had never requested her to serve as a chaperone before, Eliza said her concerns were fully satisfied.”
Lord Willard slanted a glance across the carriage and made a tsking noise. “Mother, have you been tale-bearing?”
Lady Eltenham tore her gaze from the window, briefly glanced between them, flashed a non-committal smile, and then, just as quickly, turned away.
What could the lady find so fascinating?
They’d hardly moved. She supposed his mother was trying to give them the illusion of privacy.
Lord Willard felt comfortable enough to tease, in any case.
But surely, Lady Eltenham would intercede if Lord Willard did anything truly beyond the pale.
After all, she’d told Eliza how happy she was to be escorting so darling and demure a young lady.
Eliza had nearly spit up her tea.
“After my mother’s reassurance, your sister made no further protestation?”
“Actually, she’d granted provisional permission even earlier, after I told her you and Asquith have been known to one another since childhood. She’d sent word, but he never answered her summons.”
“Indeed? And what of Lord Redver?”
What about her words had made Lord Willard smirk? “Adrian, while conceding he had not had the pleasure of a long acquaintance with you, gave his blessing as well, saying he had served on the continent with your uncle and thought him the best of men.”
“Geoffrey?” Lady Eltenham interjected, a strange expression on her face.
“Yes, mother.” Lord Willard leaned forward and placed a soothing hand on her arm. “Uncle Geoffrey was the best of men.”
“The best,” the lady repeated, mirroring Lord Willard’s nod. “You will take me to his lodge as you promised, won’t you?” She glanced out the window. “He was happy there, so close to Brighton.”
“One day, mother.” Willard’s features tensed. “One day.”
Millie bit her lip, instantly regretting the mention of Lady Eltenham’s deceased brother.
Lord Willard leaned back in the seat, yawned, and stretched, placing his arm across the back of the bench, just behind, but not touching, Millie’s head. Uncomfortable, yes. A touch overfamiliar. But not beyond the pale.
He leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. She is fine. Still grieving, you understand.”
For three years? Millie glanced doubtfully at the older woman.
While perfectly pleasant, Lord Willard’s mother did not seem fine.
Still, Millie was relieved he did not appear to assign blame to herself for her faux pas in mentioning his mother’s loss. Neville would have scolded her with his most contemptuous gaze.
She cleared her throat. She needn’t worry about Neville tonight.
She angled her head so she might better see Lord Willard. In the dim light—he had not lit the inside lamps—she could not read those stunning eyes, but, beneath her scrutiny, the corner of one of his lips turned up.
Why did he always smile so when she studied him? Almost as if her attempt to fix his character by observation amused him.
With his free hand he reached around and touched her cheek. Though he left plenty of room between them, his gesture felt like a brief embrace.
Reassuring, in a way.
Lord Willard’s care felt like a force, his esteem potent. Even when she blundered, she still felt as if he approved. Having not experienced much approval in her life, she hadn’t realized a man’s approbation, his favor, his liking, could engender physical warmth.
Then again, perhaps the warmth she was feeling was simply from proximity.