Elizabeth Powell (5 page)

“No apologies are necessary,” he said with a smooth smile. “I can only consider it a stroke of luck. You find yourself without a escort, and I find myself without a partner for the next set. Perhaps this is Fate.”

Amanda recognized the gentleman from the country dance set. With his athletic figure, raven hair, and deep brown eyes, she supposed him very handsome. His predatory gaze, though, disturbed her; he regarded her as if she were a sweetmeat ready to be devoured.

“I beg your pardon,” she replied with more confidence than she felt, “but we have not been introduced.”

The man’s expression turned calculating. “A mere formality,
easily remedied. I am the Marquess of Bainbridge, at your service.” He raised her fingers to his lips.

“G—good evening, my lord,” she stammered, nonplused. “I am Mrs. Seagrave. But if you will excuse me, I really must—”

“How unchivalrous of your husband, ma’am, to leave you alone in the middle of this crush.” Lord Brainbridge kept hold of her hand, ignoring her protests. His gaze caressed her body with almost physical force.

Amanda wished that Harry hadn’t left her alone, after all. A warning, a sense of imminent danger, raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. “That was not my husband, my lord, merely a friend. I—I am a widow.” Again she tried to pull her hand away.

Lord Bainbridge did not release her. He arched a dark eyebrow. “Indeed,” he murmured. A devilish smile lit his handsome features. He turned her hand over and drew his thumb across the palm. “Do you miss your husband very much?”

“Miss him?” Amanda blinked. Really, he was standing far too near for comfort; her brain had turned to treacle. She tried to assume an air of frosty detachment. “You are impertinent, my lord. Let me go.”

The marquess drew closer, so close that Amanda could smell his musky citrus cologne and the faint scent of cheroot smoke. His eyes were dark, potent pools of persuasion. “Forgive me if I seem too bold. I had the impression that you need someone to lift your spirits. If that is the case, I will gladly volunteer.” He pressed his lips to her palm. His touch seemed to burn through her glove and scorch her skin.

Alarmed beyond the boundaries of reason, Amanda snatched her hand away. “My—my spirits have no need of lifting. Pray excuse me.” She lurched backward and nearly tripped over her own hem.

He reached out for her again—to steady her? She thought not! Amanda skittered away and dodged into the crowd.

Lord Bainbridge’s resonant chuckle rippled like water
over velvet. “Oh, you are a treat! I must have you,” she heard him declare. “Come back, little nymph.”

Was he following her? Feeling very much like prey, Amanda darted through the crowd. Her breath came in frightened gasps, her face was flushed, and her skin tingled where Lord Bainbridge had touched her. What on earth was she doing here? She didn’t know how to swim with barracudas, either. She spotted an alcove shielded by a broad-leafed potted palm and dashed into it. There, in the semi-darkness, she gulped for air and tried to calm herself. Without Harry she was free to continue her search, but she was also in danger from rakes like Lord Bainbridge. This wasn’t her world; she didn’t belong here. She shivered. The evening was getting more dangerous by the moment—and given what she had yet to do, it was bound to get worse.

Captain Jack Everly had but one thought as he sipped his lukewarm champagne: he was a sorry excuse for a spy. In the hour since his arrival he had followed Admiral Locke from one end of the room to the other, listening to the man’s conversations, but he had heard nothing even remotely suspicious. He was beginning to wonder if he was on some sort of wild-goose chase. Everly didn’t know the admiral, but Locke was reputed to be a competent officer. The thought of this man in the middle of a traitorous conspiracy was mind-boggling. To look at him—in the prime of life, replete with honors and decorations—Everly would have considered the suggestion absurd had it not come from St. Vincent himself.

At the moment, Locke was occupied in an animated exchange with a small cluster of naval officers. Some of them Everly knew, but none of them seemed suspicious. Neither was their conversation. At present they were arguing the merits of another captain’s promotion.

Everly stood just behind this little group, eavesdropping with one ear while engaged in conversation himself. He realized early in the evening that he would need to blend into the crowd to cover his activities; to do so, he needed to socialize, something he dreaded. At
one time he had felt at ease in the ballroom, for his handsome face and charming manner had attracted women to him by the score. Well, he was still handsome, he supposed, despite the thin scar that graced his cheek—but he could not disguise his shuffling, syncopated gait, no matter how hard he tried. Bad enough that his infirmity made him stand out in a society that celebrated physical perfection. He wished more people were discreet about their stares and whispered speculations.

Even so, Everly had to admit that he was not the social pariah he had expected to be. He was no longer the hero of the moment as when he first returned from the Adriatic, but society still remembered that he had been granted a hereditary baronetcy for his victory at Lissa. His lips quirked in a sardonic smile. The
beau monde
was a fickle lot. Even if some had forgotten the circumstances of his elevation, they hadn’t forgotten his fortune. Prize money had made Everly a very wealthy man.

Unfortunately, plump pockets and a title had also turned him into a target. This evening he had had to sidestep more than one overzealous matron who wished to introduce him to her daughter. Or daughters. Everly shuddered. Just now the Honorable Mrs. Denton Claremore had attached herself to him like a remora and proceeded to expound upon her progeny’s virtues. If Admiral Locke didn’t move soon, Everly would have to find another method of escape. At present, all he could do was nod politely as Mrs. Claremore rattled on, all while stretching his senses to catch fragments of the admiral’s conversation.

After another minute Locke excused himself—at last!—and headed toward the doors at the far side of the room. Relief surged through Everly.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Claremore,” he said, interrupting the lady’s monologue, “but I am promised for this dance. Perhaps I could meet you daughter some other time.”

“Oh, a moment, Captain!” The feathers on Mrs. Claremore’s turban quivered with excitement. “Here is Georgianna now—allow me to introduce you.”

Everly pretended not to hear her. Locke traveled quickly through the crowd, and Everly had to be discreet in his pursuit. To his dismay, the woman’s brassy voice made discretion impossible.

“Captain! Yoohoo, Captain Everly! Just a moment, if you please. My daughter is most eager to make your acquaintance!”

Heads turned in their direction, but Mrs. Claremore was undaunted. She scudded after Everly like a ship of the line under full sail, her voluminous tangerine satin skirts billowing out behind her, one plump hand firmly clutching the wrist of her equally plump daughter as she towed the mortified girl in her wake.

If he didn’t keep moving, she’d get close enough to loose her boarding hooks.

Ahead of him, Locke detected the commotion and turned, a slight frown on his face. Everly’s heart plummeted into his polished evening pumps. Now this was a pickle. He couldn’t trail Locke without the man’s notice, but if he stayed where he was the redoubtable Mrs. Claremore would overtake him. A strategic retreat was in order. Everly ducked around a large cluster of guests, sidestepped behind a Grecian column, and slipped into an alcove that was half hidden by a potted palm. He watched the women approach and prayed that they had not seen him decamp.

Whatever deities heard his impassioned plea took pity on him; the woman surged past, skirts flapping like unchecked sails as she dragged her protesting progeny behind her.

“But I don’t
want
to meet him, Mama!” the girl wailed. “He’s only a baronet, and that dreadful limp—I cannot bear to look upon him. I—I vow I shall faint!”

Mrs. Claremore shushed her daughter and stared into the crowd. “This is no time for the vapors, girl. He’s rich as Croesus, and don’t you forget it. A fortune makes up for a host of defects, even such as his. You must marry a wealthy man, you know that, and beggars cannot be choosers.”

In the alcove, Everly’s broad shoulders drew tight, his
jaw clenched, utterly appalled to hear these sentiments spoken aloud. He had hoped never to hear such terrible words again. Felicia’s rejection had thrust like a dagger through his heart. To his dismay, the blade was still there, and now it wounded him afresh.

Mrs. Claremore, determined in her pursuit, scudded with her daughter into the nearby refreshment room. To guard against discovery, Everly faded further back into the shadows of the alcove. He was completely surprised when he shouldered into another warm body.

The stranger, equally startled, uttered a little gasp, teetered, and fell against him. Everly found himself with an armful of jasmine-scented silk—and a nicely rounded armful it was, too. In the dim light, he was aware of disarrayed dark curls, immense eyes, and one of the finest bosoms he had ever seen in his life. He couldn’t resist staring.

“I beg your pardon!” the young woman exclaimed. She quickly extricated herself from his embrace and backed away from him, her eyes wary.

Everly shook himself, and remembered his manners enough to bow.

“No, it is I who should beg forgiveness, for I am entirely at fault,” he replied with a jaunty smile. Poor girl— she looked like she expected him to eat her. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I had no idea someone had laid prior claim to this alcove.”

His gambit worked; she hid her face with her fan, but not before Everly spied the deep dimples in her cheeks. Egad, dimples!

“You—you startled me, that’s all. Are you a fugitive, as well?” Her soft voice grazed his senses like the brush of a feather.

“A fugitive? Well, not exactly—” Everly broke off as the impatient Mrs. Claremore reappeared a short distance beyond the alcove, her hands planted on her ample hips, her head thrust forward, her narrowed eyes scanning the assembled throng of guests. The plump matron’s chins quivered in testament to her agitation.

“By God,” he muttered, “give that woman a commission and she’ll have Boney at bay in no time.”

With a smothered laugh, Everly’s companion put a gloved finger to her lips, cautioning him not to speak further. Everly needed no second warning and fell silent.

“Drat the man!” exclaimed the garrulous woman. Her words carried well above the general din of the room to grate on Everly’s ears. “Wealthy or no, he is exceedingly rag-mannered. A sign of ill breeding. Hero he may be, but I have half a mind to box his ears.” Taking her daughter once more by the wrist, the large woman barreled back toward the ballroom floor.

“So you are indeed a fugitive,” Everly’s companion declared, her face alight with merriment. “You were wise, Captain, to avoid being broadsided by such a warship. I vow she boasted ninety guns, at least. She would have blown you from the water.”

Everly found himself grinning at this description of the imposing matron. “An interesting turn of phrase, coming from a young lady,” he commented.

She ducked her head, embarrassed, and a few ebon curls swayed loose from their moorings to dangle tantalizingly over her shoulder. Everly resisted the urge to reach out and twine his fingers in them.

“My late husband was a lieutenant on the
Nereide
,” she replied at length. “He fell at Grand Port last year. I’m afraid I picked up more than my share of nautical vocabulary from him. I do hope I haven’t shocked you.”

“Not at all.” Everly’s smile lost some of its luster. An officer’s widow, here among the fribbles? Perhaps she felt as out of place as he, perhaps that was why she sought respite in a darkened alcove. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you pain.”

“You didn’t,” she said quickly. Everly didn’t believe her.

A long silence spanned the gap between them. More than anything, he wanted to restore the lady’s good humor. “Truth be told, ma’am, I must say I found your analogy remarkably apt. Ninety guns, eh?”

She nodded, and rewarded Everly’s efforts with a tiny
smile. “Certainly large enough for a second-rate ship of the line. Although perhaps she has aspirations of being first-rate.” She glanced at him from under lowered lashes, a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes.

Everly grinned again. “But I have reached safe harbor, for the moment.”

“For the moment. Let us hope she does not signal the rest of the fleet for assistance.”

Who was this lovely young woman? Her sense of humor was delightful, her artlessness refreshing. If he discovered nothing else tonight but her name, he would consider himself fortunate. He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance. I would certainly have remembered that remarkable smile.”

The remarkable smile faded. She hesitated a moment, then curtsied. “I am Mrs. Seagrave, sir.”

Seagrave? He had never heard of a Lieutenant Seagrave on the
Nereide
, but that didn’t matter. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Captain Sir Jonathan Everly, at your service.” This was the first time Everly had ever introduced himself with his title, but now he rather liked the way it sounded. He took her gloved hand and raised her fingers to his lips.

The lady uttered a sharp gasp, and Everly looked up, startled. Surprise and shock were written on her elfin face; he could see that clearly even in the shadows of the alcove. Her eyes widened to saucerlike proportions; her body stiffened.

“Captain … Everly,” she echoed. She pulled away from him.

Her sudden change of mood baffled the captain. “I hope you give no credence to the newspapers, madam,” he said with an attempted laugh. “The press is prone to exaggeration.”

“Exaggeration. Of course.” Her face had become deathly pale, so pale that he feared she might faint.

“Are you unwell, Mrs. Seagrave? May I fetch you something to drink?” His desire to please her took him by surprise. The lady made charming company, and the
few minutes that he had spent with her had been the most enjoyable in months.