Pride and Pleasure (Historical #3)

Pride and Pleasure (Historical #3) Page 9

“Depends on what else you are in pursuit of. I am not blind. I see the way you look at her.”

“I am not blind either.”

“Cheeky fellow,” she admonished, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “What are your intentions?”

He stared at a painting nigh the size of his curricle and mulled over his reply. In the end, he circumvented the question. “I want her to be safe and happy.”

And yet his “intentions,” such as they were, might very well put her safety and happiness at risk. For her, there must be some comfort in her ignorance of softer emotions. Already their association had caused her to feel bewildered and to act against sound reasoning.

“Excellent sentiments,” Lady Collingsworth said. “I could not agree more. Might I suggest you pay your addresses sooner, rather than later? It would be lovely for her to enjoy a few weeks of the Season as an affianced woman.”

The tension in Jasper’s shoulders returned, but for a different reason. Speaking carefully, he answered, “I am not certain she would be best served with me.”

“I see.” There was a long moment wherein her ladyship drummed her gloved fingertips into his forearm. “Do you know, Mr. Bond, I can count on my fingers the number of times I have seen Eliza smile in public?”

“She does not smile often,” he agreed, feeling more than a little triumph that she’d smiled so brilliantly at him today.

“I would suggest you leave the determination of what makes Eliza feel safe and happy to her. Speculation is necessary in business, but in affairs of the heart, it often leads to poor judgments.”

“I will take that under advisement.”

Her mouth curved on one side. “I can see what she likes about you, Mr. Bond. You listen. I suspect you don’t always act on what you’ve heard, but you listen in any case.”

They returned to the entrance and she released him. Jasper bowed, then ducked out of the room with unseemly haste. But he was stopped once again by Lord Westfield, who was a few feet away from reaching the Exhibition Hall with a delicate-looking blonde on his arm.

“Why, Bond,” Westfield called out. “Where are you running off to?”

His lordship leaned down and whispered something to his companion. When his head lifted, she was smiling in a way that promised all sorts of delicious things. She moved into the room without him, leaving him to speak to Jasper.

“Miss Martin left the room some minutes ago,” Jasper said.

“And you are following her with notable eagerness.”

“I have been waylaid twice now.” His glare made it clear who the second delay was.

“Well, then,” his lordship said, “the least I can do is show you where the ladies’ retiring rooms are, as I would imagine that’s where she went. Unless you frightened her into fleeing. I say, your scowl is fearsome even to me.”

Jasper growled softly.

Westfield laughed and gave concise directions. Jasper was grateful for the assistance, but was less appreciative of the note of amusement that colored its delivery.

With a quick salute of fingertips to his hat brim, he set off in search of Eliza. Several minutes had passed since she parted from him, an inconsiderable amount of time for many women but slightly too long for a lady who didn’t fret about her appearance. He turned the corner and heard Eliza’s voice float toward him, but he could not see her. There was a statue of a man between them, in the center of the hallway on a platform of rollers. She was speaking with calm efficiency to the men laboring to move the obstruction, explaining that one of the wheels seemed to be caught by the runner protecting the floor.

Shaking his head, Jasper started forward. How like her to linger and offer engineering advice, even of such a small nature. A fond smile curved his lips. She said he was a man clearly suited to more strenuous pursuits and he would not argue the point. However, it appeared a quick mind was as arousing to him as a naked woman.

“Miss Martin,” he called out.

“Mr. Bond.” She peeked around the thigh of the statue. “I have been eye level with the backside of this artwork for long moments now. It seems one of the wheels is indisposed to motion.”

“Perhaps you should just squeeze around the platform?” he suggested, gauging the space on either side. There wasn’t much room, despite the generous size of the hallway. In fact, the piece was so large it towered above them.

He slowed as he neared. “Is there another way around?” he asked, directing his question at the two red-faced men straining to push the piece down a tributary hallway.

“Aye,” the larger of the two gasped. Straightening, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

The smaller man, seemingly unwilling to be delayed by courtesy toward a lady, charged into the base with his shoulder. The jolt dislodged the stuck wheel, causing the platform and statue to lurch forward. The wood creaked in protest. One of the thick lines of rope securing the heavy piece snapped. The resulting noise was like the crack of a whip. Jasper watched in horror as the statue listed away from him.

“Eliza!” he shouted, lunging forward but having no way to reach her.

The platform cracked and the troublesome wheel broke away, tumbling a short ways down the hall.

The rest was over far too quickly. The crash was deafening in the enclosed space. Debris from the shattered art piece billowed into the air in a hazy cloud.

Jasper could not see Eliza among the ruins.

Scrambling over the destruction, he reached the spot where he last saw her standing. The torso of the figure lay there in a solid piece. He was so stunned, he couldn’t think. His chest was so tight, he swayed on his feet.

Shouts from other parts of the building grew in volume, competing with the thunderous sound of the blood rushing through his ears.

“Heavens,” Eliza said. “What a mess.”

Jasper’s gaze followed the voice. She stood in a nearby doorway, staring at the disorder.

Dear God…

He clambered over wobbling chunks of decimated statue and crushed her to his chest.

“It looked as if the rope might have been cut at least partway through.” Jasper held his third glass of brandy and continued to pace before the unlit fireplace in his study. His coat and waistcoat had been tossed over the arm of a wingback chair, yet still he felt too constricted. “But there’s no way to be certain. I was only granted a brief look at it.”

“You don’t believe it was an accident,” Westfield queried from his position on the settee, “despite the prominence of the location and the randomness of the event?”

“Miss Martin says the statue was waiting in a secondary hall when she went into the retiring room. Upon her emergence, she found it had been moved into her path.”

“Two men were having a devil of a time pushing it,” the earl reminded. “A lone individual would have found the task impossible.”

“But one wheel was troublesome. Perhaps, not by chance.” Jasper downed the contents of his tumbler in one swallow, seeking to warm the spot inside him chilled by the near miss. “Is it possible for one person to be the victim of so much misfortune?”

Setting the glass down on his desktop with a harsh thud, he glanced at the clock. It would be hours before he saw Eliza again at the Lansings’ rout. He was certain to be in a state of high agitation until then. Assigning more men to watch the Melville household was small comfort.

Westfield made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “You are positively high-strung about the business, while Miss Martin seemed to take the happenings in stride.”

“Because she trusts me to manage everything and keep her safe,” Jasper said tightly.

“I trust you will, as well. But you appear less confident in your own abilities.”

“The gravity of this ‘accident’ is also responsible for her lack of anxiety. The irony of that…Because this was by far the most dangerous event, she believes it’s unrelated to the rest.”

“Are you saying she’s less concerned because she was almost killed?”

Jasper glanced at the earl and noted the amused interest on his lordship’s face. For a brief moment, he was enraged by the entertainment Westfield appeared to be taking from the events of the afternoon. In the earl’s privileged, pampered, ennui-afflicted life even the misfortune of others could enliven spirits.

Reining in his temper, Jasper turned away. He kneaded the back of his neck with a firm grip. “I am doing all I can. There is nothing to be done about my concern that I’m not doing enough.”

He was meeting with Eliza’s man of affairs tomorrow, and together they would be visiting her rental properties. His men were looking into the circumstances of her present tenants and recent ones. He intended to speak with Lord Collingsworth this evening about joining the investment pool Eliza mentioned, and he was waiting on word from Lord Melville regarding a time when they could meet. There were still her two fathers—Mr. Martin and Mr. Chilcott—to delve into, but he would see to those inquiries himself. Eliza’s family secrets were not ones he wished anyone else to know about, despite the trust he placed in his crew.

“If it’s any consolation,” Westfield said, pushing to his feet, “you are engaged in a singularly unique investigation, while playing a role far outside your experience. Feeling as if you might be missing something is to be expected. But I’m here for you, if you need. I have the experience you lack. In fact, if you would like me to assume the courting of Miss Martin while you focus on the investigation, I would be happy to do so.”

Jasper bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “That’s quite all right.”

The earl laughed. “The offer stands, if you should change your mind. In the meantime, I must eat and prepare for the evening’s festivities. You should have a meal as well, and attempt some moderation in your drinking. Otherwise, you won’t be much good to anyone.”

Waving Westfield away with an impatient flick of his wrist, Jasper sank heavily into the chair behind his desk and mentally took apart every bit of information he’d gleaned so far, looking for any clue he might have missed.

He could not fail in this. Client satisfaction and point of pride be damned. He was acting on his own behalf, stricken by the memory of those brief moments when he’d feared Eliza had been gravely wounded…or worse.

It was not a feeling he intended to experience ever again.

“Bloody hell,” Westfield grumbled, snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing servant’s tray. He shoved one toward Jasper, causing the wine to slosh precariously up to the lip. “I’d forgotten how unintelligible Lady Lansing becomes when excited. I could not comprehend a word she said. How long were we held captive? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?”

“Ten, my lord. At most.” Jasper’s gaze searched the ballroom from one end to the other. It was a long and narrow space, with inlaid marble floors and three large chandeliers. Fluted columns surrounded the perimeter, as did the occasional potted fern. The far wall consisted entirely of French doors, most of which were thrown wide to allow the night air to circulate.

“Interminable.” Westfield tossed back the contents of his glass. “The things I do for you, Bond.”

“You should be flattered. Your illustrious presence single-handedly made Lady Lansing’s ball a resounding success.”

“I am not appeased.”

“I owe you a debt, as well, of course,” Jasper murmured, distracted by his inability to find Eliza. “Does that soothe your ire?”

The Lansing’s ballroom was neither overly large nor overly filled. There was a respectable showing of guests, but it wasn’t yet a crush. Why, then, couldn’t he locate her glorious red hair?

Are you one of those gentlemen who have an unusually strong interest in red hair?

He hadn’t been. He had considered all women equally endowed. Now, here he was, completely oblivious to every other hue but that novel fiery one.

The earl caught his arm. “Walk this way,” Westfield urged, attempting to tug him along. “Someone is approaching whom I’d rather not speak to.”

With a rueful smile, Jasper followed. They rounded the perimeter at a torturously slow pace due to the number of attendees who wished to greet the earl. Jasper was about to leave Westfield behind when he finally spotted her.

His step faltered. Westfield bumped into him.

“Damnation, Bond, what the devil are you—” The earl fell silent.

Jasper gave a low, appreciative whistle. Uncouth, to be sure, and an undeniable betrayal of his commonness, but it was sincere. He could find no words.

“Why,” Westfield said in a contemplative tone, “I have clearly been remiss in not paying proper attention to Miss Martin.”

Eliza stood amid a circle of acquaintances, most of whom were gentlemen. Her glorious hair had been arranged in abundant curls that framed her face and caressed her nape. Her body was clad in sapphire satin, the bold color incongruous amid the paler hues worn by the other women in attendance. There would have been no way to miss her, had she not been shorter than the crowd of salivating males around her.

What in God’s name was she wearing?

Unable to help himself, Jasper stared with clenched fists. Riveted. The deep color of her gown showcased the creamy hue of her skin and the richness of her tresses to supreme advantage. The cut of the garment was painfully simple, with minimal detail. The gown’s true beauty lay in how it clung to its wearer. How the low bodice hugged full, firm breasts and bared more than a glimpse of cleavage. How the long skirts emphasized the length of her legs. The short puffed sleeves failed to meet the uppermost end of Eliza’s long white gloves, revealing a sprinkling of freckles on her upper arms that he found enchanting.

He was struck with fierce longing, like a man gone too long without a meal who doesn’t realize he’s starving until presented with the sight and smell of food.