circumstances and a joy to tell. Pleasure, relief, gratitude—they lifted her soul as she watched Vickers go—and hey brought with them a rolling swell of rich and vivid scenes. Like waves they rushed her, one after the other. A man staring far out to sea, a boy straining to make his father look at him, a girl in a corner, wrapped up in a book of poetry. New people, new characters to perhaps coax out the old.
“No,” she whispered. “Thank you .”
Vickers did tread gently with Lady Mitford. They laughed together as they shared the drinks he’d brought. He dusted off his roguish charm and kept the conversation light as they compared outrageous stories and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. When guests began to trickle back in, taking seats for the next round of literature, he carefully broached the subject of his father.
She grew a bit pink. “Yes, there was talk earlier this year, I know, but it was mostly unfounded,” she hurried to assure him. “We did spend a little time together, but it was mostly in pursuit of a . . . project.”
“Project?” he frowned.
“Just a small thing, really.” She grew more visibly nervous. “Just the connection of some of his acquaintances with some of mine.”
Sir Harold returned then and eyed the seat Vickers occupied.
He wanted to howl in frustration—or plant the interfering ass a facer. Scowling, he stood instead. “Yes, of course.” He bowed to Rosamond. “Perhaps we could meet again. I would like to hear more about your project.”
She shook her head. “You must discuss if with your father, if you wish to learn more.” She tossed him a dismissive nod.
Disgruntled, he turned to go.
“Mr. Vickers,” she said suddenly. “I did enjoy our conversation.”
“As did I.” He didn’t linger. Making his way against the incoming crowd, he exited the performance area. A casual glance failed to show any sign of Miss Stockton, and he wondered if that was deliberate.
Damnation. A few minutes more and he might have discovered something of value.
His father was agitated. The countess was nervous. There was definitely more to this than appeared on the surface. Frustrated and knowing that he could accomplish no more tonight, he called for his coat and left. A footman offered to find him a hack, but Vickers shook his head and set out on foot, breathing great draughts of the night air to help to clear his mind.
A setback then, but not an entirely unexpected one. He calmed as he walked. He’d learned to be patient, to play the long game. He would persevere.
And something else distracted him—the sting of Miss Stockton’s rebuff. So the Celestial could not be seen spending time with the wicked Vickers, eh?
It shouldn’t bother him. He should be grateful. His reputation had cost him a great deal of wasted money, a good portion of no-doubt-pickled-liver, and more miserably hung-over mornings than he cared to count. But it had its uses. The preventative fending off of innocent misses had always been one of the most valuable.
Until now.
She’d spoken of plans. He wondered what she meant. Marriage, no doubt, but to whom? A high stickler, perhaps. He stifled the urge to throttle the unknown fellow.
He would need to speak again with the countess. Doubtless that would mean also speaking again with Miss Stockton. Watching the sky over the park in Bedford Square, he saw not the grey expanse lined with the shadowed outlines of trees, but blue eyes rimmed with black—and knew he did not feel nearly as irritated as he should.
Chapter Five
He waited impatiently for a glimpse of those blue eyes two days later, when he picked Miss Stockton up in a hired hack. He’d had a note delivered, via a grubby young acquaintance, asking her to slip away early this morning, and to meet him on the corner of Bolsover and Margaret Streets.
He fretted until the hired carriage arrived,
“No,” she whispered. “Thank you .”
Vickers did tread gently with Lady Mitford. They laughed together as they shared the drinks he’d brought. He dusted off his roguish charm and kept the conversation light as they compared outrageous stories and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. When guests began to trickle back in, taking seats for the next round of literature, he carefully broached the subject of his father.
She grew a bit pink. “Yes, there was talk earlier this year, I know, but it was mostly unfounded,” she hurried to assure him. “We did spend a little time together, but it was mostly in pursuit of a . . . project.”
“Project?” he frowned.
“Just a small thing, really.” She grew more visibly nervous. “Just the connection of some of his acquaintances with some of mine.”
Sir Harold returned then and eyed the seat Vickers occupied.
He wanted to howl in frustration—or plant the interfering ass a facer. Scowling, he stood instead. “Yes, of course.” He bowed to Rosamond. “Perhaps we could meet again. I would like to hear more about your project.”
She shook her head. “You must discuss if with your father, if you wish to learn more.” She tossed him a dismissive nod.
Disgruntled, he turned to go.
“Mr. Vickers,” she said suddenly. “I did enjoy our conversation.”
“As did I.” He didn’t linger. Making his way against the incoming crowd, he exited the performance area. A casual glance failed to show any sign of Miss Stockton, and he wondered if that was deliberate.
Damnation. A few minutes more and he might have discovered something of value.
His father was agitated. The countess was nervous. There was definitely more to this than appeared on the surface. Frustrated and knowing that he could accomplish no more tonight, he called for his coat and left. A footman offered to find him a hack, but Vickers shook his head and set out on foot, breathing great draughts of the night air to help to clear his mind.
A setback then, but not an entirely unexpected one. He calmed as he walked. He’d learned to be patient, to play the long game. He would persevere.
And something else distracted him—the sting of Miss Stockton’s rebuff. So the Celestial could not be seen spending time with the wicked Vickers, eh?
It shouldn’t bother him. He should be grateful. His reputation had cost him a great deal of wasted money, a good portion of no-doubt-pickled-liver, and more miserably hung-over mornings than he cared to count. But it had its uses. The preventative fending off of innocent misses had always been one of the most valuable.
Until now.
She’d spoken of plans. He wondered what she meant. Marriage, no doubt, but to whom? A high stickler, perhaps. He stifled the urge to throttle the unknown fellow.
He would need to speak again with the countess. Doubtless that would mean also speaking again with Miss Stockton. Watching the sky over the park in Bedford Square, he saw not the grey expanse lined with the shadowed outlines of trees, but blue eyes rimmed with black—and knew he did not feel nearly as irritated as he should.
Chapter Five
He waited impatiently for a glimpse of those blue eyes two days later, when he picked Miss Stockton up in a hired hack. He’d had a note delivered, via a grubby young acquaintance, asking her to slip away early this morning, and to meet him on the corner of Bolsover and Margaret Streets.
He fretted until the hired carriage arrived,
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