“I heard a pair of hobbies was spotted near Kensington Palace recently.”
“Interesting. I’ve not seen them here before.” He smiled, leaning negligently against the wall. “Richmond is better suited for bird watching. Forest. Heath. River. Plenty of space and food.”
“Perhaps Laura will consider an excursion to Richmond, then,” she murmured, half to herself.
“You would enjoy it.” Gray knew he should leave before someone spotted him – clothes notwithstanding, this girl was clearly quality, and unmarried quality at that. But he couldn’t do it. Aside from the certainty that Miss Derrick still lurked, he was enjoying her company. Obviously she didn’t recognize him. She was not flirting or swooning or regarding him as Satan. It had been too long since he had talked with a young lady – or relaxed while talking to anyone. His reputation overshadowed every contact.
He idly turned pages. A sparrow hawk, a hedgehog, a caricature—
“Egad, that is Wigby to the life. We were schoolmates.” He chuckled. She had sketched him as a stork. Very appropriate, as the dandy was tall and very lean, with thin legs and a long pointed nose. No amount of padding could cover his defects. The next page depicted Lord Edward Broadburn as a charming pouter pigeon, so overburdened by a thrust-out chest that he teetered on his feet.
“Sir— My l-lord—” She stammered to a halt.
He knew his manners were outrageous – she was an innocent, for God’s sake – but something about her drew him. Her presence behind the palms told him she was shy, though her sketches displayed a wicked sense of humor. Four years ago he would have set her at ease. And maybe he still could.
“My apologies,” he said softly. “But I must wonder why so talented a lady is hiding in the shadows. London is not filled with ogres.”
“Of course not. But it takes only one.”
“An ogre? Are you sure? Did someone spurn your smiles? Surely you need not fear rejection.” He turned the page and chuckled again. Griffin hung from a tree, his forked tongue hissing. “You’ve a delightful eye for character, my dear. He is pure poison, though too few see it. But except for ungentlemanly insults, you should be safe enough. He prefers country innocents of fourteen or so.”
“I had heard rumors, though no one will confirm them to young ladies. Yet he clearly seeks me out. Though I try to avoid him, he is forever popping up.”
“Like a weed?”
She laughed. “Exactly. Bindweed, most likely. One moment the room is quite congenial, the next it contains Mr. Griffin. One cannot root him out.”
“So circumvent him. You might befriend Mr. Hempbury. Not only is he fascinated by birds and other natural wonders, but Griffin cannot tolerate the fellow.”
“Th-thank you,” she stammered.
When she was nervous she seemed quite young, and very unspoiled. Perhaps she had reason to fear the snake after all.
It might be instructive to check on Griffin’s current activities. The man inhabited society’s fringes. As long as he behaved, he was welcome at large
ton
gatherings, but even a mild scandal would banish him. Rumors suggested that he frequented a certain house of punishment, though not as a penitent. He was said to have a strong arm with a whip.
Gray returned her pad.
“Au revoir
, my dear artist. It has been a most delightful meeting. I needed a chuckle after a frustrating day. But be careful whom you parody. There are those who lose all humor when they are the subject.”
Stepping past her, he grinned at the damaged wall her skirts had hidden. That explained this convenient excess of palms.
The set was over, with the usual confusion as gentlemen returned partners to their chaperons, then sought new ones. Thus it was easy to slip unnoticed into the card room.
But he felt an unexpected tug of regret. She had talent, intelligence, and eyes that saw beneath the surface. Quite different from the usual society miss. Were she a man, they might have become friends.
CHAPTER TWO
Mary shrank against the wall as the gentleman squeezed past. The light brush of his body made her heart pound and dampened her palms – a ridiculous reaction. She didn’t even know his name.
But he was a handsome devil, with a long, rugged face, dark hair, and quicksilver eyes – beautiful eyes fringed with long black lashes. The rest was equally intriguing. His lean body topped her by a head, muscular enough to fill his clothes without padding. And his taste was impeccable – elegant cravat that did not impede his movement, blue jacket, white waistcoat embroidered in silver, and dove gray pantaloons clinging to well-formed thighs. Simple elegance that made the dandies crowding the ballroom seem overdressed. He must turn heads wherever he went.
So why had she never noticed him before?
Not that it mattered. He would forget a plain miss like her the moment he was out of sight — especially if he spotted Laura.
But he
did
notice you
, insisted the dreamer who lived in her head.
“Only because I was drawing,” she murmured. And hiding.
She blushed. Catherine would be appalled that she had been caught. And if she discovered the caricatures, she would likely confiscate the lot. Even the gentleman thought them dangerous, though he’d enjoyed them. But his warning echoed Catherine’s. And seeking solitude left her vulnerable. What if it had been Mr. Griffin who’d found her?
Shivering, she cast about for a distraction and found it in her own behavior. Amazingly, she had spoken naturally, with hardly a stammer. No embarrassing truths or brainless observations, either. Somehow, she had felt as comfortable with him as with her family.
The novelty reawakened dreams she had buried years earlier, dreams of marriage and children. Helping raise her niece had made those longings stronger, and observing the connection between Blake and Catherine reinforced the hope that she, too, could find love.
She pulled her mind back to the ballroom, cursing. Nurturing that fantasy served no purpose. Even marriage was unlikely. No man wanted her. If anyone actually did offer, it would be for the dowry she would bring or because a widower sought help with his children.
She shifted a palm branch so she could peer out. Griffin strode toward the stairs, the crowd drawing back to ease his way, as if they, too, were anxious to see the last of him. But he disappointed them, stopping to chat with Lord Hervey. Was he still seeking her?
Laura was dancing. Catherine and Lady Potherby headed for the refreshment room. Her stranger was nowhere in sight.
Her
stranger? She castigated her dreamer for weaving absurd tales of love and white knights and happily ever after around a man she didn’t know. Instead of teasing herself, she should concentrate on surviving this Season without shaming her family.
Voices rose as the music swelled, the loudest unmistakable. Lady Washburn had a voice like a buzzard, and her perfume could overpower a cesspit. She was avidly recounting her terror at being caught in last night’s opera riot. Nearby, Lord Hartford lisped a humorous account of Blackthorn’s latest insult to Atwater.
Ignoring them, Mary opened her pad to a blank page, then cringed when the palms shook.
“Stay away from Wroxleigh,” hissed Lady Smythe-Gower to her daughter Hermione. Mary held her breath, but neither noticed her.
“We were only talking,” protested Hermione.
“That doesn’t matter. He is a rake – a charming one, to be sure, but he has no interest in marriage. Do you want Sir Leonard to think you fast? He will not offer for anyone he considers improper.”
“If rakes are so awful, why are they allowed in respectable ballrooms?” Hermione’s chin was set in a stubborn line.
“Many aren’t. You would never find Blackthorn or Devereaux here. But most hostesses welcome amusing gentlemen, even if they are rakes. And Wroxleigh isn’t the only one you must avoid. Grayson has already ruined several innocents. Sanders is growing bolder. And stay well away from Millhouse.”
“But Mother—”
“Do you wish to find a husband?”
Hermione sighed.
“Once you are wed, you can befriend anyone you choose, but for now, avoid all rakes.”
Mary gave silent thanks when Hermione capitulated and rejoined the other guests. They had not seen her.
Griffin still lurked.
She contemplated the sketchbook. How could she depict the stranger? Even on this brief acquaintance, he seemed more complex than the average gentleman. Almost as bad as Laura. Mary had done a series of sketches showing Laura as a haughty cat, a preening peacock, a stubborn mule, and a silly goose. Laura would undoubtedly accuse her of jealousy – or worse – if she ever saw them, for she would never admit that each depicted a facet of her character. Yet they were not comprehensive, even taken together. They didn’t show Laura’s generosity and need to help those in trouble, not did they depict how she could change from loving sister to furious judge in an instant.
Turning pages, Mary stared at the sketch of Lord Wigby. Her stranger had chuckled wickedly when he’d seen it. She still glowed from his approval, for her drawings had never seemed good enough to show to others – not that she would have done so anyway. People already laughed at her. She could hardly risk further censure.
Yet he had enjoyed them. And more. He had not only recognized her drawing of the chaffinch, he had improved it with a few brisk strokes. Was he an artist?
She choked down a laugh. Of course he wasn’t an artist. Lady Debenham would never invite such a person to her ball. He probably dabbled with pen and brush to fill time, just as she did. Many gentlemen could produce decent watercolors. It was more surprising that he knew about natural history.
Returning to the blank page, she concentrated on his face – the intriguing eyes that turned silver when he smiled, the lock of hair tumbling over his brow, the hollows under prominent cheekbones, the grace that reminded her of a cat. Power and a hint of wildness lurked under that elegant façade. An intriguing combination. Did he ever feel an urge to do something outrageous?
She penciled a sleek panther, then frowned. While it radiated strength and grace, it also implied a haughtiness he’d lacked. Did he truly share her interests? It was a tempting thought, for it hinted that he might become a friend.
Shaking away such a ridiculous notion, she turned the page. Men did not form friendships with ladies. Especially handsome men gifted with talent and intelligence.
Who was he?
The question teased her harder this time. In three weeks of perpetual entertainment, she had met hundreds of people. She would have sworn only an hour ago that she had seen everyone of note at least once. Even the Regent had attended the Hartleigh ball last week. But she’d not seen this man. Who was he?
Someone on the fringes of society perhaps, like Griffin? A lord would have been shocked to find her hiding behind the palms. Of course, he’d been hiding, too—
Her eyes widened. Maybe that was why she’d felt comfortable with him, though the idea that he was hiding seemed ridiculous. But why else had he been back here? Did he also have something to fear?
Catherine begged every day that she not slip away. Laura was usually more emphatic. “Such cowardice will ruin you,” she’d snapped in the carriage tonight. “Society will cut you, and me with you. I know they will. They will wonder if I share your disregard for convention. You must abandon these silly fears and talk to people. Flirt. Dance. Ignore your unladylike education and plain face. Prove to the world that Seabrooks know how to behave.” There had been much more, including a vow to arrange a marriage for Mary once she settled her own future.
But this was no time to think of marriage. Mary knew what Catherine refused to admit. Staying out of Laura’s way would keep people from wondering how the Seabrooks had produced such dissimilar daughters. Raising such questions could only lead to trouble that would impede Laura’s chances.
Two sets later, Mr. Griffin finally left, so Mary rejoined Catherine. Laura was enslaving the very eligible Lord Seaton when the stranger returned from the card room. Lady Horseley snorted loud enough to be heard above the buzz of conversation, then administered the cut direct. Three others followed suit.
“Who is that?” Mary murmured to Catherine, nodding in his direction. “The man Lady Horseley just cut.” The woman was one of the highest sticklers in London. Was he an artist after all?
Catherine bit off an oath. “I thought he left an hour ago. Lady Debenham swore he came only to speak with Mr. Barrington. Stay away from him, Mary. Any contact could ruin you.”
“Why?” she asked, grimacing. Another faux pas, though how she could have avoided him she didn’t know.
“If you had been here when he arrived, I wouldn’t have to repeat the tale,” Catherine chided. “Lord Grayson is the most dangerous rake in society. Worse even than Devereaux, for he preys on innocents and has already ruined several. Surely you can’t find him attractive.”
“Of course not,” she lied. “But I thought I had met everyone.”
Catherine relaxed. “Be careful. Not everyone in society is acceptable. Grayson is very wealthy and is heir to the Earl of Rothmoor. Almack’s won’t admit him, and he knows better than to enter drawing rooms, but he is welcome elsewhere. Few can afford to shun a future earl.”
“Does he really ruin innocents?” The statement did not fit her impressions.
“Yes. I don’t know all the details – and this is hardly the place to discuss them – but four years ago he jilted his fiancée. He might have recovered if he hadn’t seduced a baron’s daughter the following Season, leaving her with child. After she took her life, he had the gall to deny responsibility. Lady Horseley is determined to drive him from town.”
“Why?”
“The man is too dangerous.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “He spent a year on the Continent after the last scandal. Some think him a French spy.”
“A spy?” demanded Laura, joining them. Her eyes shone with excitement. “Who?”
Mary cringed. Laura’s greatest weakness was a quest for adventure that had led to trouble more than once. She had rejected a dozen suitors in Devonshire because they disliked travel. The family thought she’d settled down after the scandals of eighteen months ago, but the expression in her eyes made Mary wince. And it added a new perspective to last night’s complaints.