Nicola and the Viscount (4 page)

“Don't get yourself all in a tizzy,” was all Nathaniel would say about it, however. “It isn't as if you
wanted
to dance with him. Why, in that color, he looks exactly like a grape.”

“Still,” Nicola said crossly. “You hadn't any right to—”

“Living with the Bartholomews,” Nathaniel went on as if she hadn't spoken, “certainly hasn't done much to sweeten your disposition.”

“I could get in trouble if—”

“I didn't hear you protesting overmuch,” Nathaniel pointed out, and Nicola was forced to admit that that much, at least, was true. Dancing with anyone—even a poetry hater like Nathaniel Sheridan—was preferable to dancing with the Milksop.

“Besides, he won't tell anyone,” Nathaniel said confidently.

Nicola glanced over her shoulder at her cousin, who was fuming in the far corner of the room. “How do you know? Don't tell me
Harold
was at your college at Oxford, too.”

Nathaniel grinned. Nicola was disturbed to note that when he grinned, Nathaniel was almost every bit as handsome as the God. It was a most dissatisfying discovery, as she was determined to hate Eleanor's brother for his negative attitude toward Lord Byron…not to mention oarsmen.

“Not hardly,” Nathaniel said. “Let's just say I know his type.”

Nicola reflected that the Milksop's type was readily apparent in the way he was behaving at that very moment. He had stomped over to a refreshment table and was cramming as many confections as he could grab into his mouth, while all the while glaring moodily in Nicola's direction. It was exactly the way he'd used to behave when they'd both been much younger, and Nicola had refused to play with him, due to his tendency to have a tantrum whenever she beat him at games. Only then it had been Nana's famous ginger cake he'd stuffed himself with endlessly.

“How did you happen to become trapped into agreeing to dance the Sir Roger with Harold Blenkenship in the first place?” Nathaniel wanted to know.

Forgetting that she was piqued with him for his disdain of poetry, Nicola found herself describing to Nathaniel—whenever the dance allowed them to get close enough for speech to be possible—that morning's interview with the Grouser.

“You aren't going to sell, are you?” Nathaniel asked, as they stood opposite one another in the dance formation.

In spite of all her antipathy toward him, Nicola thought she could have kissed Nathaniel Sheridan. He was the first person to react to the news the way she had.

Though of course she could not act on her impulse. For one thing, it would be hugely scandalous to be caught kissing anyone at Almack's. And for another, she was in love with Sebastian Bartholomew, who probably wouldn't like it if he saw her kissing someone else. Or so she hoped, anyway.

“Of course not,” she said indignantly. “I would
never
sell. Even if it
is
twelve thousand pounds.”

“That's probably why your father left the property to you,” Nathaniel observed. “He didn't want the land parceled out, and knew your uncle probably wouldn't scruple to do so.”

“He isn't my uncle,” Nicola replied, out of force of habit.

But there was something to what Nathaniel said. It was highly unusual to leave only a title, with no land, to one's heir. Was that why Nicola's father had made out such a curious will? Because he didn't trust his cousin Norbert? Nicola couldn't say she blamed her father: she didn't trust Norbert Blenkenship either.

“The real question,” Nathaniel said, “is why anyone would be willing to pay so much for what is, from what you describe, a fairly unspectacular piece of real estate.”

“That's true,” Nicola said. “The abbey hasn't much to recommend it, really.”Then, with yet another spurt of irritation, she added, “Really, but it's inhuman of the Grouser to expect me to sell. Beckwell Abbey is all I've got.”

Nathaniel, who had not received instruction at Madame Vieuxvincent's, and so felt no guilt over shrugging, did so. “It's more than that, isn't it?” he asked lightly. “It's home.”

He was right. Beckwell Abbey
was
home. Nicola had never known another. She had enjoyed staying at Madame Vieuxvincent's, and had always loved visiting the Sheridans. And certainly it was nice living with the Bartholomews. But Beckwell Abbey was, always and forever, home to her.

With a burst of feeling, Nicola recited, “‘I traveled among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; Nor England! did I know till then, what love I bore to thee!'”

Nathaniel looked pained.

“Would it be too much to ask,” he wondered, “that we forgo Wordsworth during the Sir Roger?”

Nicola, though she tossed her head haughtily at this, could not help thinking, with a pang, that while he might claim to despise them, Nathaniel, at least, knew his poets….

Which was more than she was beginning to think she could say for Lord Sebastian.

But then the Sir Roger ended, and the God came to claim her for the last dance. And at the sight of Lord Sebastian's beautiful blue eyes, Nicola forgot all such disloyal thoughts. It wasn't for nothing she'd christened him the God, after all.

“Papa,” Lady Honoria Bartholomew cried, bouncing a little in her carriage seat—something that would have appalled Madame Vieuxvincent, who had been very strict about bouncing, declaring it decidedly unladylike. “Where are we going? Just tell me.”

But Lord Farelly only smiled knowingly and said, “But if I tell you, it won't be a surprise.”

Lady Honoria let out a little shriek of frustration—Madame Vieuxvincent had also had some strong opinions on ladies who shrieked at anything but the occasional mouse—and turned to Nicola, who sat on the carriage seat beside her.

“Isn't he the most tiresome old thing?” Honoria wanted to know. “Aren't you
dying
to know where we are going?”

Nicola, twirling a white lace parasol—Madame had never said anything against twirling—that she was using as protection against the fierce midday sun, only smiled and said, “Indeed.”

The truth was, she was almost as excited as Honoria. Lord Farelly didn't spend a great deal of time at home during the day. Nicola, not knowing much about fathers, having no memory of hers, supposed the earl was at his club, which was where wealthy noblemen in London seemed to spend most of their leisure time—although Honoria had mentioned that her father kept an office on Bond Street, though she had not been exactly sure what he did there.

So it had been quite a little shock when his lordship had appeared just before luncheon and announced that he had a surprise for them all.

Still, Nicola was determined not to let her excitement show. At least, she would not shriek, let alone bounce, as the Bartholomews' open carriage made its way through the crowded streets of London toward a yet-unknown location. That was because the God was trotting along beside the phaeton—he'd wanted to use the opportunity give his new mount's legs a stretch. Nicola was therefore doing her best to appear cool and collected…a difficulty, given the summer heat. Still, the parasol helped a little.

And she certainly knew that, in her second-best white muslin gown, along the hem of which she'd spent all week sewing blue silk forget-me-nots, she looked very well. She'd sewn ribbons matching the shade of the forget-me-nots onto her white straw bonnet. Though her ensemble cost a fraction of the amount Lady Honoria's did, Nicola knew it appeared every bit as stylish and neat. And, careful as she'd been to keep her face in the shade, even her freckles seemed finally beginning to fade.

“Why, I know where we're going now,” Honoria declared, looking about. “Euston Square.”

Lady Farelly, who had come along for the ride most reluctantly, as she disliked missing luncheon, and besides, had a dressmaker's appointment later in the day, looked about without enthusiasm. To her, London began and ended with Mayfair, and anything outside of it was simply tiresome.

“I hope, Jarvis,” she said to her husband, “that wherever we're going, there aren't going to be monkeys. You know how I feel about monkeys.”

Lord Farelly laughed heartily, and assured his wife she had nothing to fear.

And then the carriage pulled to a halt beside a large crowd all clustered around something in the square that Nicola couldn't see. But others seemed to know what it was, since Lord Sebastian, dismounting, gave a knowing laugh, and said, “Good show, Father.”

Nicola wasn't able to see what the surprise was until—the God escorting her and his sister most obligingly, while Lord and Lady Farelly trailed behind—they had made their way through the crowd. It was then that Nicola was met by a most curious sight. A track, in a circular shape, had been laid upon the grass, and upon it, down at one end of the circle, sat a monstrosity of a machine, with a barrel body and a stack jutting up from its top. Attached to the back of it were several low boxes about the size of pony carts, to which wheels had been attached, wheels that rested on the metal track. Nicola, recognizing it from pictures she had seen, gasped.

“Why,” she cried, “it's a locomotive!”

“Indeed,” Lord Farelly replied, beaming. “Aren't you surprised? Isn't this diverting, my dear?”

Lady Farelly looked as if she wished the surprise had been champagne and strawberries at the Vauxhall. But she managed a small smile and said, “Excessively, my dear.” Lady Farelly made no secret of the fact that she found her husband's obsession with locomotives almost as odious as she found monkeys.

Nicola, however, was quite impressed. She had never seen a locomotive before. She understood that one was used to haul coal at the colliery near Beckwell Abbey, but she had never actually seen it. Now here sat one before her, not one mile from the center of London!

“It's called the
Catch Me Who Can
,” Lord Farelly informed them, as proudly as if he had built it himself. “Man named Trevithick set it up. And look.” He pointed. “He'll let you take a seat on it. One shilling per person per ride.”

Nicola gasped as she saw several people, giggling excitedly, take seats in the little pony carts. A minute later, the engine gave a snort, and then, billowing white smoke from its snout and making a hideous noise, it began to pull the carts around the track. The people sitting in the carts laughed and waved at those watching from the crowd. They were traveling quite fast, about the pace of a horse at a brisk trot, and as they circled, the pace grew ever quicker.

“Oh!” Nicola cried. “May we ride it, Lady Farelly? May we?”

Lady Farelly looked shocked. “Certainly not!” she cried. “What an idea!”

Nicola, a bit miffed at this, pointed at the people on the train as they went by. “But look, Lady Farelly. There are children there. It seems perfectly safe.”

Lady Farelly gave a delicate snort. “Safe,” she said. “But hardly respectable.”

“I highly doubt,” Honoria agreed with her mother, “that Madame Vieuxvincent would approve, Nicola.”

While this was undoubtedly true, Nicola could not help but feel disappointed. The
Catch Me Who Can
looked such fun! She longed to ride it.

Feeling someone's gaze upon her, Nicola tore her own from the little locomotive, and saw the God looking down at her.

“Do you really want to ride it, Miss Sparks?” he asked, looking faintly amused.

“Oh, yes!” Nicola cried enthusiastically.

Lord Farelly was digging into his pocket. “Fortunately,” he said, “I happen to have a few spare shillings.”

Lady Farelly glanced sharply at her husband. “Jarvis!” she cried. “You can't be serious.”

But Lord Farelly, looking sweetly sheepish, only shrugged. “In a few years we'll all be crisscrossing the country in them like it was nothing, Virginia,” he said. “It's only a matter of time.”

“Not me,” Lady Farelly declared with a shudder.

Nicola looked up at Lady Farelly appealingly. “Please, my lady,” she begged. “Look, it's slowing down. If we go now, we can get a seat for the next go-round.”

Lady Farelly looked heavenward—a sure sign, Nicola knew already from the short time she'd been staying with the Bartholomews, that the woman was softening.

“Well, if you must, I suppose I can't stop you,” Lady Farelly said unhappily. Then, as the God took Nicola's hand, eager to get to the line already forming for the
Catch Me Who Can
's next trip, she added shrilly, “But if the thing should go careening off into the crowd and kill you, don't come crying to me!”

Excitedly, Nicola hurried—not running, because, of course, a lady never ran, at least in public—to secure a place in line, the God striding calmly along beside her. In the golden sunlight, he looked handsomer than ever—so handsome, in fact, that Nicola was conscious, as she passed the crowd gathered around the tracks, of the envious glances she received from other girls her age…girls whose mothers wouldn't let them climb aboard the
Catch Me Who Can
, and who didn't have as dashing an escort.

Really
, Nicola thought.
I am being blown about life like a thistle after all. I truly am the luckiest girl in the world!

It was just as she was thinking this that a voice called her name, and Nicola turned to see Eleanor Sheridan, along with the rest of her family, standing near the line for the
Catch Me Who Can
.

“Nicky, what are you doing here?” Eleanor cried, looking pleasantly surprised to see her. “Don't tell me
you're
going for a ride on that thing!”

“Indeed I am,” Nicola declared excitedly. “Lady Farelly said I might.”

Lady Sheridan, standing behind her daughter, threw a shrewd glance in Lady Farelly's direction. “Oh, she did, did she?” she asked.

But, probably since Lord Sebastian was standing there, Lady Sheridan said nothing else, save, “I'm glad to see my own sons aren't the only ones who've completely lost their heads over this railway business.”

Nicola smiled at young Phillip, who stood in line behind her, next to Nathaniel.

“Aren't you frightened?” she asked the youngest Sheridan.

As she'd expected him to do, the boy scoffed.

“Frightened?” he echoed disparagingly. “Of what?
That
?” He added this as the engine pulled up just before them and the previous passengers began to climb out of the carts, looking no worse the wear for their adventure. “Not on your life!”

Everyone laughed—all except Nathaniel, who just stared steadily, with what Nicola considered quite unnecessary hostility, in Lord Sebastian's direction. Really, she thought, but it was too ridiculous, this antipathy Eleanor's brother had against the God, simply because he happened to like to row and was, by all accounts, quite good at it. The two young men had a good deal in common, both being eldest sons and graduates of Oxford. One would think they might be friends.

But Nicola soon forgot all about her concern that the brothers of her two friends become friends as well, when the man operating the
Catch Me Who Can
turned toward them and called, “Ne-ext!”

Lord Sebastian, handing over the shillings his father had given them, helped Nicola into one of the carts. As she lowered herself onto the wooden bench, she asked Eleanor, who'd remained standing while both her brothers took seats in the cart behind Nicola's, “Aren't you coming?”

But Eleanor, with a quick look at her mother, who frowned, shook her head.

“Not in this gown,” Eleanor said, fingering the pale silk of her skirt. “It looks much too dirty a business for me.”

Nicola had time for only a nervous glance at her own gown, with its row of brand new forget-me-nots, before the man at the controls called out, “Hold on!”

Still, in spite of the warning, when the
Catch Me Who Can
lurched forward, it jolted Nicola with such violence that her head went snapping back on her neck, and she would have lost her bonnet if she hadn't flung up both hands to stop it from falling off.

“Are you all right?” the God asked concernedly, placing a long arm about the back of Nicola's seat.

Nicola, startled by the feel of his arm around her shoulders, looked up, and was even more startled when she saw how close Lord Sebastian's face was. Why, she could see each of his individual eyelashes! They were a delightful golden brown.

Then the cart lurched again, and this time Nicola's head went snapping forward. Her whole body, in fact, might have sailed from her seat if Lord Sebastian's strong arm hadn't kept a firm hold on her.

And then, before Nicola could say another word, they were off.

Her first thought was,
Eleanor is wrong
. Because Nicola's white muslin skirt stayed perfectly pristine. That, of course, was because the white plume from the funnel before her wasn't smoke at all, but steam. Mr. Trevithick's machine used water, into which was thrust a red-hot poker, to propel it. It was amazing that as simple a thing as steam could create such a powerful reaction. The speed with which the engine chugged along was quite thrilling.

The breeze on Nicola's face felt refreshingly cool. And it was pleasant to whiz past the people gathered 'round the tracks, to see their shocked and delighted faces flashing past. It was the fastest Nicola had ever gone—she could hear Phillip, behind her, bellowing that they had to be going more than ten miles an hour. It was certainly the most exciting ride she'd ever had.

And that, in no small part, was due to the strong, warm arm curled around her shoulders. Why, Lord Sebastian was holding on to her as if she were something highly breakable, or precious, even! She could feel his heart beating against the back of her arm. It was the most delightful feeling in the world. Surely it meant—it couldn't mean anything else, could it?—that the God liked her—more than simply liked her. Loved her, even. It had to! It just had to!

All too quickly, the
Catch Me Who Can
ran out of steam and chugged to a halt. The passengers, with much laughter and praise for Mr. Trevithick, tumbled out of their carts. Some—like young Phillip Sheridan, who had enjoyed his ride immensely—immediately ran back to the line, another shilling at the ready. Others, like Nicola and the God, stood and gushed about what a glorious experience it had been. Still others, Nicola could not help noticing, stood and looked disapproving. That, at least, was what Nathaniel Sheridan was doing.

I suppose because he thinks it isn't proper for girls to ride on the
Catch Me Who Can, Nicola thought bitterly. Well, she would show him. She would go for another ride, just like Phillip was doing….

Except that just as she was opening her reticule to search for a shilling, Honoria came rushing up, followed by her parents.

“Nicola!” she cried. “How was it?”

Nicola replied, loudly enough so that she could be certain Nathaniel overheard, that it had been perfectly delightful, and that she intended to do it again.

Lord Farelly, upon hearing this, burst into loud guffaws.