“Do you know her name?” Darius demanded.

  “Why, yes. A Miss Penny. Quite delightful. And she has a sister here, so she tells me. I must have you dance with her.”

  So that was the name. Interesting that she didn’t fib about it. Darius cleared his throat. “I think not, Forester. I must leave at once and tend to my waistcoat. This crowd gives me a headache.”

  “But I am in the middle of a set!”

  “Then by all means stay and finish if you can stand this pedestrian company.”

  His friend, however, was hesitant to let Darius walk out alone. “What has offended you so? Don’t storm off. Stay another quarter hour at least.”

  “It is out of the question.” People were looking at his waistcoat, and he’d just heard someone mutter that they thought he had caused the furor. They pointed at him and at his stain, as if it marked him as the miscreant. Confused, irritated, never liking to be the center of attention, he must get out of the place at once.

  Stone-faced stick-in-the-mud? How dare she?

  Fortunately the band did not seem to be regrouping, and Miles was evidently the only soul ready to dance again so soon after the temporary madness. He was eventually persuaded that Miss Penny and her charms could wait another day and the two men left the Upper Rooms.

  ***

  Justina protested that she didn’t have a clue what caused the pandemonium that evening, but she suffered some very intense frowns from her sister throughout the duration of their journey back to Henrietta Street.

  By the time they crossed the threshold and were met by their mother, who wanted to know all about their evening, Justina felt extremely guilty. Her sister, she knew, had been enjoying a lively set of dances with a handsome young gentleman who seemed very keen. It was all spoiled, of course, when the scene erupted in panic. Because of her.

  Well, it was not all her fault.

  That Wainwright person should at least shoulder part of the blame. His shoulders were wide enough.

  “Good Lord, I hate Bath,” she proclaimed, throwing her bonnet at a hook by the door and missing by a yard. “I cannot wait to get home to Hawcombe Prior.”

  Her sister went directly up the stairs to bed, but Justina lingered a while in her aunt’s parlor, too restless still for sleep. She removed her tight slippers and wriggled her tortured toes before the fireplace, thinking over recent events and the extraordinary coincidence of seeing him again. The Wrong Man.

  Captain Sherringham must have left Bath and had not even bothered to send a note apprising her of the fact. Some friend he was! Yes, he too ought to bear some of the blame for this dreadfulness.

  When her father came into the parlor looking for a brandy nightcap, he jumped when he found her lurking there with no candles lit and only a low fire still smoldering. “We leave early in the morning, my dear. You should be abed by now.”

  Although she agreed with this idea, Justina could not make herself move from the sofa. Her guilt about thwarting Catherine’s enjoyment of the ball had expanded into regret about Wainwright’s waistcoat. If he came there tomorrow to see her father he would find them gone. And she had—no way around it—ruined his precious waistcoat. He already thought badly enough of her and this would only confirm his worst opinion.

  “What is it, Jussy?” her father muttered, sitting beside her, his genial face lit softly in the warm glow of the hearth. “Something troubles you, I fear! Better out than in, as my mama used to say.”

  “Oh, Papa! Will you lend me some coin?”

  “Coin? What have you done now, Jussy?”

  “I will repay you out of my share out of the haberdashery account, Papa. I will dust your books and clean all your surgery tools!”

  “I see.” He looked at her sternly. “And what could be the reason for this?”

  Thus she told him. She had to. Justina simply could not bring herself to leave Bath without paying the gentleman some recompense for his waistcoat. It might not completely erase the bad image he had of her, but it would prevent him from thinking her utterly wicked and without a conscience.

  Although she did not know why his opinion—the opinion of a stranger and a man she would never see again—should matter so much to her, it did. That was all there was to it.

  Six

  Rain spattered hard against the dining room windows and cast gray slivers of shadow across the bare wood floors beneath his feet. It might be called a gloomy sort of morning, but while gazing out at the rotten weather, Darius decided Bath looked better when it was wet. Possibly because fewer people braved the streets when it rained. They kept indoors and sulked, leaving his view of the far curve of The Crescent perfectly unspoiled. In addition, rain washed all the stone clean again, whereas bright sun showed up every imperfection.

  Yes, indeed, he liked the rain, he decided, sipping his coffee. It could pour heartily every day he was there for all he cared. Let folk complain that there would be no fireworks in Sydney Gardens while it rained; for Darius life was far more comfortable without them.

  He had woken that morning in an unusually good mood and, not having anything else to account for this, he chose to explain it on the foul weather. With the fingers of his free hand, he fumbled over the buttons of his waistcoat and thought of how that forward young woman with the appalling lack of manners had touched him last night. Touched him just as bold as you please. Pawed at him with her small hand clad in a white evening glove. It had almost tickled. Even this morning he still felt the ghost of her fingertips moving playfully over his torso.

  Darius took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, head up, stomach tightened.

  Whatever that woman was up to, following him about and throwing herself in his path, it could obviously lead to no good.

  Behind him a door opened. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a footman with a letter on a silver salver. “A messenger brought this for you, sir.”

  His first fear was that it might have come from his stepmother announcing her imminent arrival.

  But he was reprieved, for it was not a message from his stepmother or her daughter. It was written in a hand he did not recognize and, as he unfolded the paper, five one-shilling coins fell to the floor and rolled, spinning at his feet.

  I understand, sir, that we have caused you, and most specifically your waistcoat, some distress. Please accept our sincere apology and take this small token in recompense. I hope it will afford you a new one, if the old cannot be saved. I know my own waistcoats cost less than this, but I am told yours may be of a fancier bent, as is the fashion among young bucks and dandies about Town.

  It was signed by a Doctor Penny, and he had added a footnote longer than the original message.

  I would have sent a bank note for a pound but since mine are from my local bank in Manderson, Buckinghamshire, I knew that would likely do you no good. So please forgive the common coins. I could not find a crown, since my pockets have lately been rifled through by my wife and daughters; therefore, five single shillings must suffice. My daughter washed and polished them with a chamois to ensure—as she begs me to inform you—no detritus of previous humble owners might remain to sully your fingertips.

  Darius remained at his window, coffee in one hand and letter in the other, staring out at the lines of rain weaving their way down the glass.

  Apparently the wayward creature had felt badly enough to confess her crime to her father. Clearly she had not told all, however. Her midnight excursion in stockings and pink silk garters would remain a secret. Their secret.

  He had been in Bath for eight and forty hours only, he mused, looking over at the clock on the mantel to confirm the time, and already he shared a secret with a very strange young woman. What was the world coming to?

  Reading over the letter again, his gaze played thoughtfully over the word Buckinghamshire. Darius seldom traveled outside London, as he never liked to leave his business for long, and Buckinghamshire was, in his view, the savage countryside, a place of unpredictable roads and uncivilized natives. But he recalled the existence of a distant relative somewhere in that county—a great-uncle he hadn’t seen in many years.

  He turned his attention to the rain again, but his mind veered away from the view of an empty, rain-washed street and instead took one of those untrustworthy, narrow, winding country lanes—the sort he would usually avoid—all the way back to his assailant in silk stockings.

  That soft, sweet-scented skin under his hands had almost made him forget he was a gentleman. The memory of her pretty, mahogany curls, spread across his pillow, now made every other young lady’s hair appear nondescript and lifeless. Her wide eyes, full of insolence and amusement at his expense, had rendered him incapable of even looking into his own that morning in a mirror for fear of remembering how she’d looked down his body and exclaimed, “What’s that?”

  Apparently the young lady’s curiosity had soon overcome fear or distress at finding herself in the wrong person’s bed. If that part of her tale was true.

  He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t run into her again. But then why had he said “Au revoir” to her, instead of good-bye?

  There was a terrible foreboding in his gut that she would pop up again somewhere. Already she’d landed on his head and then sprung up from under his feet. Her next attack could come from anywhere.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw her leaping on him as he lay helpless in that bed. A wild, naked sprite out to do something unspeakable to her victim.

  Darius swigged the rest of his coffee with such uncouth speed that he almost choked.

  Oh yes, she wasn’t done with him yet, he was certain of it.

  Only the devil could know what she’d do to him next time.

  ***

  Their uncle lent them his carriage for the journey home. This was yet further flint to the flame of their mother’s wounded pride, but since she did not want to suffer the indignity of traveling by mail coach and her husband did not have the means to keep a fine equipage and horses, the burden of being grateful to her sister-in-law must be borne yet again. Her husband was obliged to be sorry that he could only afford a small curricle and pony at home for his calls to patients. And he was obliged to be sorry many times over that morning and out loud, until his wife finally ceased to remind him of his miserly thoughtlessness in not overextending the family budget.

  As Justina and her sister prepared to step up into the loaned carriage, their aunt ran up to them with parcels.

  “These are old gowns of mine, my dears. They may not be the height of fashion and my own girls would not want them, but I daresay they are an improvement on the best frocks you have now. At least you need not be embarrassed when wearing these out in company.”

  They accepted the presents as graciously as possible, considering her strange manner of gifting them.

  Justina said coyly, “Are you sure they are not too grand for Hawcombe Prior, Aunt?”

  “They might well be,” the lady replied solemnly, “but in a larger town, like Manderson, when you attend the public assemblies, they will not look so out of place, Jussy.”

  “Worry not, girls,” their mama exclaimed, stepping up into the carriage with a huff, “we can always alter them to be more suitable. To be sure, they’ll need a lot of work.” She smiled at their aunt with all the sincerity of a brush salesman. “After all, we could not expect they’d be given away to us at all if they did not need repair, and we are fortunately experienced in making do. It is most thoughtful of your aunt to save them for us, when she might have donated them to the almshouses.”

  Their aunt also bowed her head and replied with a similar smile, “Once your mama is done helping you remake the trim to her own tastes, I’m sure the dresses will be in no danger of looking too elegant for the social engagements in Hawcombe Prior. I wish you both the very best in procuring husbands soon, my dears, before the ravages of Father Time take their toll. Chin up, Cathy. I’m sure the rash will fade away eventually.”

  With these and other niceties exchanged, the Pennys finally took their leave of Bath.

  Catherine stared out of the window as the horses pulled forward and the wheels rolled over the wet cobbles with the first of many painful, bone-jarring jolts. “I wonder if he will think of me today,” she muttered softly.

  “Who?”

  “The gentleman I danced with last night.”

  “Which one?” asked Justina, although she knew already.

  “The lively Mr. Forester. The one I was dancing with when we were interrupted.”

  Justina looked out of the other window, suffering another twinge of guilt that she was responsible for parting her beloved sister and this ever-so-handsome Mr. Forester. As usual, she rushed to find a reason why her actions could be excused. “Since he left so abruptly with his arrogant friend, not even looking for you to say good-bye, I don’t know why you think of him at all, Cathy. Clearly he was flighty and easily distracted. He was not worthy of you.”

  “What gentleman is this?” their mother wanted to know, shouting above the rumble and clatter.

  Cathy sighed and leaned back into her seat. “It does not matter, Mama. I’m sure Jussy is right.”

  “Right? When is she ever right?” their mother muttered peevishly, still glaring across the carriage at those last-minute parcels given by their aunt. “Justina knows nothing about gentlemen except how to put them off.”

  “Someone has to keep the unworthy fools away, Mama.” Justina grinned. “But what I want to know is, who is this Father Time my aunt keeps mentioning, and why is he out to ravage us?”

  Mrs. Penny shuddered, lips pinched together before they snapped open with another familiar comment directed at her husband. “’Tis a jolly good thing we have one good daughter, my dear, to save us from Nervous Prostration, for I throw my hands up in despair and defeat over the youngest. There is nothing to be done with Jussy.”

  Their father nodded, but did not look up from his book. “And she’s costly, too. I hope she does not think to get five shillings out of me each time she wounds one of her suitors.”

  “Indeed, yes, such an ungrateful, sullen child she is! And always has been. I do not think I—” His wife looked at him, her eyes widened, her tongue briefly stalled. “What? What five shillings? What suitor?”

  Justina cringed. Her father had a terrible urge for mischief at times. “It was nothing, Mama.” She felt her cheeks grow hot as all eyes now turned to her. “And he was most definitely not a suitor. It was merely a mishap.”

  There was a lengthy pause, during which she busied herself by peeling back the paper on her aunt’s parcel, feigning sudden and unlikely interest in its contents.

  “Oh, velvet. That will be terribly hot for dancing. Look, Mama. It’s all worn away to black at the elbows.”

  Aha! That distracted her mother from any further talk of the five shillings. “Well, I ask you! What a thing to give to us. It’s not fit for a scarecrow, let alone the assemblies in Manderson.” Mrs. Penny sniffed with relish as the gown was held up for her review in the swaying carriage. “The nap is crushed flat! And what a dour color for a young girl.”

  But Justina rather approved of the color. “Like old dried blood,” she remarked gleefully. “In this gown I could be the restless ghost of a murderess!”

  Across the carriage her father laughed and turned a page of his book, soon absorbed again in its contents and probably happy to shut out the feminine chatter about gowns and material. Hopefully, thought Justina, he would likewise shut out any further thought about the five shillings and Mr. Wainwright.

  She glanced through her window at the slowly disappearing view of Bath.

  Why had he said “Au revoir”?

  Until we meet again.

  It seemed menacing, ominous. A warning like the low rumble of distant thunder somewhere over the horizon on an otherwise sunny day.

  She thought of his dark eyes staring down at her with haughty disapproval. His firm jaw and clenched, surly mouth that still managed to be distressingly intriguing, despite its reluctance to say anything polite or pleasant. Her mind slipped like venturing, naughty fingers inside his clothes to those wide, shockingly muscular shoulders. And then his thighs—broad, solid, like those she once saw on a marble statue. Were all real men so full of ridges and curious bulges under their garments? To look at Wainwright in his fine, civilized evening clothes, an innocent young woman would never know the raw, savage strength concealed within.

  Until we meet again, he’d said.

  What an extraordinary remark.

  They were clearly from different worlds and their meeting was entirely by mischance. He was the Wrong Man. Wainwright the Wrong, as she would now think of him. If she ever thought of him at all, which she probably would not. Definitely would not.

  “I shall be glad to see our friends again,” said Cathy. “I’ve missed home!”

  Justina fervently agreed.

  She could not wait to walk those familiar lanes again, catch up on the news, and tell their friends at the Book Club Belles Society all about the horrors of Bath.

  On the other hand—perhaps she need not tell everything. Justina could imagine the various reactions from their friends, should she reveal what had happened to her in Bath. There was Diana, who would be delicately appalled and might faint into one of her mama’s china tea cups, while Lucy—the youngest “Belle”—would scoff at her story, claim disinterest because the man didn’t wear a red coat, and then try to outdo it with a fantastic fib of her own creation. As for Rebecca, Captain Sherringham’s sister, she would demand to know all the details, especially those not fit for the ears of a young lady. Details Justina was not certain she wanted to share.

  It might be best to keep Wainwright to herself.

 

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