Lady Meets Her Match (5 page)

“A bold proclamation,” he said, warming to her haughtiness. “But I'll have to bow to your wisdom about dolls on a shelf. Never bothered with them.”

Her laugh whorled between them. The white tips of Miss Tottenham's teeth nipped her lower lip. He glanced at her hand again, his thumb rubbing careful circles over the mark.

A scar. Women weren't supposed to have them. They were supposed to be soft-skinned, elevated creatures with men mucking through the hard places. But life left marks, those seen and unseen.

Of all the things she could have said, Miss Tottenham shared an imperfection, a flaw over an accomplishment, which made her all the more fascinating. The picture of a proper young woman teetering between girlhood and the demands of maturity warmed him. He savored the image of her laughing in a tree, and he wanted more of the grown woman before him.

His eyes narrowed on her demi-mask. “It's midnight. Time for the unmasking.” He was done with the flimsy barrier. It was time he saw her.

All of her, if he had his way tonight.

Her hands jerked free of his and bracketed her face. “The unmasking…”

Visible parts of Miss Tottenham paled. She took a half step away from him, backing into a laughing lady.

“Beg pardon…” she said, giving the reflexive courtesy.

Moving backward, her hands framed her mask. Did she plan to keep the disguise in place?

Around them, the crowd of dancers thinned. The colorful horde made a slow exodus around Miss Tottenham, drawn to midnight's cooler air on the back courtyard. Outside, a row of footmen stood sentinel with trays of champagne at the ready.

Lucinda's birthday.

A twinge struck him. There were duties to attend as brother and as host, duties he'd tossed aside in favor of getting lost for a time with a certain woman. Cyrus scoured the room for his sister, aware that a toast was expected. He turned back, reaching for Miss Tottenham.

“Stay with me.”

But another feminine voice reached his ears. “Mr. Ryland.”

Cyrus twisted around, looking into hazel-green eyes framed by a bronze silk mask. The young woman facing him equaled the pinnacle of London's pursuit of perfection, her auburn tresses and good manners pinned properly in place.

“Lady Churchill.” He bowed.

He was certain no saucy retort ever left her lips.

“If I may have a moment of your time,” she said, her light touch slipping from his arm. “I wanted to speak with you about what happened in the garden.”

His neck and shoulders tensed, constricting him better than any wretched jabot. “No need. I'm the one who should apologize. That you were subject to my unsavory exchange with Lady—”

“No, Mr. Ryland.” She lowered her voice, a needless thing with all the noise. “You have always been a gentleman with me. I wanted you to know—”

Lady Churchill quashed her words upon seeing her mother's approach. The Duchess of Marlborough's perceptive eyes took measure of the loose jabot. The grande dame frowned fiercely, skirts swirling about her ankles in her forward press.

Lucinda walked a pace behind the duchess, mouthing
I'm sorry
.

There was no escaping the requirement of social parley with a duchess once she had a man in her sights. His feet were rooted to the floor, and he was ready for the inevitable.

He scanned the herd of people over his shoulder, finding Miss Tottenham melting into the mass beyond the open doors.

“Miss Tottenham?” he called, but she didn't answer.

The mask stayed on. She wasn't looking at him. With movements less graceful, her focus went beyond him as if he weren't there.

A new line of footmen marched by from the kitchens, bearing more trays of champagne. His masked guest skirted the orderly servants, skimming the wall and potted plants on the other side of the room. Where was she going?

His body tensed, his every instinct for the chase, when a fan thumped his shoulder.

“Mis-ter Ryland.”

His mouth firmed, but he turned around and bowed low from the waist. “Your Grace.”

“There are proprieties to be observed.” The Duchess of Marlborough's stiff, imperious voice demanded attention.

He glowered at the ivory fan, which the grand dame wielded like a scepter. She had the good sense to tuck the offending item into the folds of her skirt. His patience hung threadbare over what would be another attempt to foist her daughter on him. He had run out of gentlemanly refusals and was about to say as much.

Lady Churchill studied the lace flaring from her elbows, tugging on impeccable threadwork. Her mouth drooped such that he guessed she was less than enthusiastic about this meeting. For that reason alone, Cyrus held his tongue from the unwise lashing he wanted to give; the young lady couldn't be held accountable for her overbearing mother.

“You're right. There are proprieties to observe when a brother celebrates his sister's birthday.” He gave his sister a tight smile and motioned to the courtyard. “Lucinda, why not take our guests outside where it's cooler? We'll raise a glass in your honor as soon as everyone's gathered.”

From his peripheral vision, a lithe form in pale blue and silver silk exited the ballroom for the main hall. He bowed again.

“Please enjoy the courtyard. I've something to attend, but I'll be out shortly.”

His body moved of its own accord, pursuing Miss Tottenham. The duchess blustered at his retreating back, but her complaints were lost in the ballroom chatter. He went on alert, hunting down his mystery woman. Alarms of concern went off inside him. Did someone scare her?

The
man
she
hid
from
earlier?

Was that the reason for her strange turn when they danced? His heels slammed the floor with his hasty exit. Protective instincts surged. He would take care of her.

“Miss Tottenham.” His voice rose above the din.

Heads turned. Cyrus threaded past those guests. Ahead of him, Miss Tottenham took brisk strides through the long, wide entry hall. She looked over her shoulder and slammed into a plant pedestal.

Frantic hands saved the fern from falling over, but verdant fronds caught her hair. A cascade of snowy tresses fell loose. She swiped the leaves free and continued her rapid progress, greenery swaying in her wake. Two guests moved across his path, wanting some of his time, but the woman he wanted was slipping away.

“Claire?” he called out again, raising a hand to hail her. “Claire, wait.” His voice boomed in the cavernous hall. He didn't care that he broke cardinal rules of social protocol right then.

Didn't she know he would protect her?

Miss Tottenham jolted to a stop. Pale blue skirts swirled wide when she faced him. She raised a hand as though she would push him away.

“No.” The single word bounced off the high ceiling.

Her eyes, cool and remote, froze him, every muscle locked by the icy refusal. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts and ran.

She sprinted as though the very devil nipped her heels, racing for the open front door. Her footfalls echoed. Guests mingling in the entry hall paused to witness the unfolding tableau, their hushed murmurs and curious stares following the minor drama. Two footmen milled near the open door, but when Miss Tottenham sped their way, both servants snapped to attention.

And she ran headlong into midnight, the darkness swallowing her whole.

He blinked at the empty doorway.

The drive to chase her loosened his limbs, but what followed came in nightmarish seconds.

Belker moved into the hall, the butler's stern forehead wrinkling. The man said something, but Cyrus failed to hear words in his rush to the doorway. Blood hummed in his ears. He had to reach her.

There was movement…a servant coming around a large support column. Then chaos struck.

Cyrus collided with a footman bearing a full tray. The wide salver tipped, dumping the contents. Champagne showered Cyrus. Glassware splintered everywhere. The silver tray crashed on marble tiles, ringing a loud, metallic spin. Mouths gaped. Guests were shocked to silence at the display.

“Sir, my apologies…sir…” the footman stammered.

Cyrus checked the footman and himself. No cuts. His heart pumped hard but not from fear of glass splitting a vein.

“No harm done.” His body ran hot but his voice was cold.

She had vanished. He'd lost her.

Disbelief twisted into another blazing emotion. The acrid taste of having hosted a pretty deceiver settled over him: the mysterious Miss Tottenham had played him for a fool. Oh, she was good; he'd give her that. He fell—and fell rather hard—for the ploys of an artisan of flirtation.

His lips pressed into a grim line. Had she marked him as an easy target, the Midlands rustic fairly new to Town?

Her practiced seduction had him panting after her in his own home no less. An ugly, guttural laugh rumbled from him when he pictured moments ago how he'd raced after her like some besotted swain.

He picked up the chase again, this time with measured steps. Glass crunched underfoot. No, he'd not find a trace of her, but that didn't stop him from moving past gawking men and women gathered in his hall, all witnesses to his folly.

He needed to check the obvious for himself.

Behind him, Belker issued terse commands and profuse apologies that fell on deaf ears. Cyrus stepped through his open doorway, scanning the night. Clouds covered the moon, casting darkness everywhere.

Liquid clung to his lashes, and he became aware of how much he'd been doused. Cold champagne soaked his waistcoat and shirt. He swiped wetness from his face and shook the excess from his fingers. The nectar seeped into the corners of his mouth but failed to sweeten him.

Carriages lined his driveway; many more waited on Piccadilly. Their candle lanterns dotted the blackness with yellow points of light. Somewhere out there, London hid a lone woman on the escape. His fists curled at his sides. He would hunt down the vixen and find out what game she played.

She hadn't run from another man tonight. She ran from him.
Him
. Why?

A coachman cleared his throat on the bottom step, clutching a brown object to his chest.

“Beggin' yer pardon, sir.” The man tipped his head in deference to Cyrus and held up a shoe. “The lady who just ran out left this.”

Cyrus moved down the steps. The coachman stretched out his hands, offering a brown leather shoe of middling quality—a commoner's shoe, not a silk slipper.

“The lady wore this?” He turned the flat-heeled footwear in his hands, examining scuffed leather and a broken tin buckle.

“Fell off her foot on this spot, it did.” The coachman nodded with conviction. “Saw it meself. So'd Harry over there.” He jabbed a thumb at another coachman who bobbed his head in agreement.

“She came flyin' out yer house wearin' a blue gown.” Harry spoke into the fray, waggling his finger at the bottom step. “Right there, the lady almost tripped. Then she ran that away.” The coachman tipped his head toward the east.

Cyrus stared blankly in that direction. On ground level, much was obscured by the black shapes of carriages and horses.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding curtly to the men.

He climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, twin hazes of anger and bafflement battling in his mind. His fingers slipped inside the shoe, meeting grainy leather warm from her foot. He turned the shoe with its ruined buckle over in his hands, hunting for evasive clues but finding none. The cobbler's imprint had been worn down, the impression unreadable.

What did he know of women's shoes? Their footwear had never fascinated him, but he held an important key to the secret life of one Miss Claire Tottenham.

More like he burned to get his hands on her.

To do what? Shake her? Kiss her? He scoffed aloud and the two coachmen glanced his way. Yes, he wanted to test her lips—claim them was more like it—if only for the satisfaction to take what she brazenly offered when they danced. Any tenderness was crushed the moment Miss Tottenham looked at him, aloof and rejecting, before running away. He needed to find out why she played him falsely, for that was most assuredly what went on tonight.

Her words rang in his head:
Of
course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn't she?

He turned, facing London's midnight sky. Cool night air caressed his champagne-soaked skin. His flaxen-haired guest shunned silk slippers under her skirts…an interesting choice for a courtesan. One surprising question pushed hard, a question he was certain contained the answers he needed.

Why
would
a
woman
wear
common
brown
shoes
under
a
ball
gown?

“I'll hunt you down,” he vowed under his breath. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'll find you.”

A little disdain is not amiss…

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

“Women make the cleverest adversaries, Mr. Ryland,” Sir John Fielding said, rubbing his flaccid chin. “Much more difficult to capture than men.”

“It's been more than a fortnight.” His words came clipped and forceful. This was his third visit to Number Four Bow Street. “You say your men have not a single clue as to the woman's whereabouts? How many blonds of that hair color can there be in London?”

The wooden chair creaked under Fielding's form.

“A woman's toilet is a delicate matter. We cannot accost every flaxen-haired woman in London, asking how she achieves that shade.” His slack waist jiggled with his chuckle. “My men would meet with more slaps in the face than answers.”

The magistrate's eyelids fluttered low under the black ribbon tied across his forehead, the sign announcing his blindness.

“Your masked lady doesn't match any descriptions of the women in my gazette. Her unique hair color aside, what we have is a brown leather shoe lacking a cobbler's imprint, and some silver threads…threads you say match the lace on her dress. The scar on her hand is the best identifying mark we have.”

The Blind Beak of Bow Street, as he was known, turned his ear toward Cyrus. “You're welcome to look through the gazettes again, but I must counsel patience.”

Cyrus had witnessed Sir John's odd habit often in their meetings. The older man caught details from sound alone—a scratch of the ear lobe, the cant of his head a few degrees, all telling signs the magistrate was digging deeper. Did Sir John seek something from
him
? Cyrus bristled in his seat, disliking the awful sense of being bare-arse naked before the Blind Beak.

He breathed in deeply, seeking the advised forbearance but not finding any. Rumors claimed Fielding could identify over a thousand criminal voices with his practiced ear. But Sir John likely hadn't heard Miss Claire Tottenham speak. Nothing about her fit the typical housebreaker.

“None matched her description the first time around,” he said, eyeing the row of paltry evidence on the desk and trying for a different tack. “But if I increase the reward…five hundred guineas—”

“Ho there, Mr. Ryland.” Sir John leaned forward. “Much as I welcome fair payment, let's not be hasty. Justice moves at her own pace. Tossing money around won't make her appear any faster.”

“Justice? Or Miss Tottenham?” Cyrus gripped the woolen bundle in his lap.

Beside Sir John, Jack Emerson, the tall thief taker who patrolled the West End on horseback, crossed his arms, bunching his poorly cut coat.

“That's a fine bit of reward, Mr. Ryland,” Emerson said. “A lot of gold to offer for a thief who hasn't stolen anything. Begs the question: What exactly is your interest in the woman?”

“She stole
something
.”

Across the desk, Emerson's eyes narrowed. He no doubt gleaned Cyrus's intent and had already passed judgment. The man stood in a wide-legged stance, which probably intimidated most people. Not Cyrus. A wicked slash bisected Emerson's left brow and cheek down to his jaw, making him all the more threatening. Both men came from rougher places, survived rougher times.

Cyrus squared his shoulders, determined to have his due. Truth be told, the thief taker wasn't far from the mark. To have Miss Claire Tottenham in his grasp would gratify him to no end. But that was his business. Apprehending thieves was the magistrate's.

Every nuance of the masked ball had etched itself on his memory, playing in his mind on a daily basis. Only in rare moments did his brain prod him with meddlesome moral questions: Did he go too far? Should he use his power and wealth to seek what amounted to vengeance over an embarrassment?

“Do your job and find her.” He gave a curt nod. “I'll worry about the rest.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Sir John's visionless stare drifted over the desk. “Mr. Ryland, you said you have more evidence to add to our collection.”

Cyrus took the folded cloak from his lap and set the dark wool with the other items brought out for discussion.

“This woman's half cloak was found on a fence post behind Ryland House. The butler kept it, thinking the cloak belonged to a forgetful maid, but none claimed it. He brought it to my attention this morning.” Cyrus pointed to a single thread of white-blond hair caught on the fabric. “And there's a strand of hair…matches hers.”

“Behind the house. The mews.” Emerson placed the cloak in Sir John's waiting hands. “The lady might've entered through a back door, maybe the servants' quarters. I'd like to interview your household staff again”—he smirked at Cyrus, a hand fisted on his hip—“that is, with your permission, of course.”

The cocky thief taker would do as he pleased, whether officially showing up at Ryland House or tracking down the servants on their half days.

“Do what you must,” he said. “I expected you'd be more adept at finding one simple woman.”

“You mean the simple woman who sneaked into your house and duped
you
?”

Emerson's jibe failed to cow him.

“Let's keep to the matter at hand.” The magistrate's hands rubbed the cloak's fabric, searching the seams. “A half cloak of decent quality but not a fine weave, likely worn by a woman of the merchant class…or she's in service, an upper servant perhaps.”

Sir John set the rumpled cloak on the desk, and one finger circled the air, a habit signaling he was recounting facts.

“You say she wore a ball gown with a jeweled necklace…one appearing to be real, not paste. Yet you didn't see earbobs, gloves, or a fan anywhere on her person.”

“None that I can recall.”

He'd wanted to kiss her ear lobes, not admire jewelry that might dangle from them. The canny magistrate pushed him at their first meeting to picture Miss Tottenham again. Those hazy, insignificant details trickled from him, and he gave Fielding due respect for capturing subtle, telling facts.

“And she wore common, brown leather shoes with a ball gown,” Sir John said, his voice slowing as though he weighed the facts. “Yet, after three weeks, you still report nothing's gone missing, not so much as a pence from the money box in your desk.”

“Correct.”

“I'm less inclined to think your masked lady is a courtesan.” The magistrate leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps the question we ought to ask is: What else did she want from you?”

* * *

The carriage trundled through London's teeming afternoon streets. Cyrus sat cocooned in butter-smooth leather, the new squab in his new carriage lending to the aroma of success. But the back of his head banged the high cushioning. First-rate carriage wheels hit the same ruts in second-rate roads.

He rubbed his aching neck. Had he gone soft living in Town this past year?

Life sped by too fast, and he couldn't shake the sense that he was going…nowhere.

Strange notion for a man with so much.

He leaned an elbow on the armrest, staring out the window, looking but not seeing. His skull throbbed from recalling every nuance of the fateful evening three weeks past. But his shoulders and back? Those muscles bore welcome soreness from recent labors, reminding him of where he'd come from.

The magistrate had insisted they revisit the disastrous evening once more. He asked again about each person Cyrus spoke to that night, digging all the deeper into the nature of each relationship.

Some questions were harmless. Some answers were not.

The interview shed light on tetchy corners Cyrus would rather not revisit. He'd sat stone-still through the miserable process, spilling information with Emerson scratching names and notes on paper. Cyrus didn't flinch once, despite the inner pummeling he took. Retelling the debacle when his former mistress crossed paths with Lady Elizabeth Churchill offered more fodder for the thief taker to look up from his pad and smirk anew.

Nothing had gone smoothly that night.

Cyrus had excused himself from the ball's mind-numbing noise in need of quiet. He went to his study and, instead, found
her
.

His carriage rocked down Cornhill, his memory lulling over the agreeable parts of the evening. The pleasurable image of her untying his jabot, speaking her mind, and yes, their dance floor flirtation played in his mind. Other parts of him unhampered by Miss Tottenham's deception savored the memory when he was alone, clenching with delight. Her specter invaded his quiet and solitude, those two rare commodities in his life, and it wouldn't let go. Her words, her smiles teased him, reaching places long dormant.

His breath fogged the carriage window, creating a blur as unclear as the answers he sought. With Miss Tottenham, a questionable woman at best, he devoted much time and energy hunting her. He wanted more from the woman, but exactly what that meant eluded him.

He touched the window's cold glass, dragging his fingers across the flat cloud his breath created. Beyond the haze, the Royal Exchange's arcade came into view, freeing him from the very male quandary of females.

The carriage rolled to a stop and a welcome phantom weight settled on his shoulders—the mantle of responsibility found in the world of commerce, his comfortable world of existence. Outside his window, the Cornhill streets bustled with shoppers.

North lounged under one of the Exchange's outer arches. Hat tucked under his arm, the marquis removed his watch from his waistcoat. He walked up to the carriage, sunshine bouncing off his gold watch.

“You're late for today's meeting,” North admonished, tucking away the timepiece while Cyrus exited the carriage. “Or we could say you're very early for next week's.”

Cyrus dismissed the carriage with a clipped command, but upon turning around, North's brows shot up.

“And by the look on your face, the day's not been good to you either.”

“I'm at a standstill on something.” Cyrus jammed his tricorne on his head.

“So things didn't go well at Bow Street,” North speculated, tapping his walking stick on the ground. “I can't say the Lloyd's meeting was much better—at least for some of us.”

Cyrus eyed the brass and ebon stick, an item he associated with the foppish and the aged, yet the male ornament hid a wicked blade that'd snap out the end with the push of a lever. His friend was a man not to be taken lightly, though too many did.

He glanced beyond the trim, stone arches, trying to divine the inner workings of the appointment he missed.

“Was the meeting that bad?”

“Not if your name's Ryland,” North said wryly. “Your coffers runneth over, my friend, to the tune of a princely sum according to the clerk's report.” He peered at the sky, shoulders drooping under his frock coat. “I'll never understand business.”

“Play the percentages to your advantage.”

He shifted his feet into a wider stance. Most of life could be worked out with numbers—a belief he held firmly since words bedeviled him. He was about to tell his friend that he spent too much of his income, but his face tightened in a pained way.

North wasn't up for talk of business strategy any more than he wanted to be interrogated about personal matters. Stark news must be ahead for his friend. The marquis needed cash flow in a bad way; his estate bled money, from his ne're-do-well brother causing one costly scrape or another to a flighty sister who didn't marry well, yet considered requests for funds from her brother the marquis a standard answer to her problems.

“You could try courting Lucinda again,” he suggested. “Some women need persuading.”

“Let a man keep his pride, will you?” North brushed away a speck from his sleeve. “Neither my impeccable manners nor my lofty title convinced your sister we'd make a good match.” He settled his hat on his head, smiling blandly. “Let's face facts. She doesn't want to be the next Marchioness of Northampton.”

“Lucinda doesn't know what's best for her.”

North snorted. “And you do?”

“Women need a man's strong, guiding hand.” He clamped his hands behind his back and tipped his head at four glossy-coated bays pulling a fine carriage. “Like those beautiful steppers. Give them limits, point them in the right direction, and they perform as nature intended.”

“Such wisdom.” His friend chuckled, shaking his head. “And yet you still manage to keep company with some of London's finest ladies.”

Cyrus squinted at the street humming with life. “I'm not daft. There's a right time and a right way to guide a woman…let her know what's in her best interest.”

North tugged his ear, appearing to digest that male wisdom. Both men had their successes and failures with the fair sex. Cyrus settled on the firm belief women were like beautiful jewels: treat them right, put them in the best setting, and they shined.

To his dismay, he found a man might also reach for a woman he finds fascinating only to discover sharp edges. With Cyrus's luck of late, his friend was better off ignoring his advice.

North scanned the environs. “Right now it's in my best interest to have some kind of refreshment.” He pointed his walking stick to the left. “Over there…the White Lyon Tavern and the Nagshead. Of course, we might run into Marcus. And that'd ruin this glorious day for everyone.”

“What's the problem with your brother now?”

Wind ruffled Cyrus's coattails. Early autumn breezes had already turned brisk in London, carrying the Thames's grimy scent. He considered their options to the right. Drapers, silversmiths, cabinetmakers, and the like all lined either side of the Exchange. Midtown merchants of every stripe sought coveted space close to the heart of London's commerce.

“I'm about to send him packing, but let's save that news for later.” North looked to the establishments lining the other side of the road. “How about a coffee in one of those fine shops? You own most of them, the buildings anyway. And you can tell me again why you insist on this odd pursuit of yours.”