their Virtue even while the Mystery persists—who is the Veiled Lady?
Dany let out a breath, not realizing she’d been holding it, and closed the chapbook. “A veiled lady? What a hum,” she said, for her interest lay more in the feat of derring-do than in anything so obviously fictitious as a veiled lady. And a signet ring, no less, also thrown into the mix, a perfect clue for someone with the interest to pursue its origin. But she supposed every story must have a lady in it somewhere, preferably veiled or beautiful or both, or else the gentlemen wouldn’t bother racking their brains and running their fingers beneath line after line to keep their place in order to not miss a word. Men were such children. And women, sadly, were possibly even worse, seeing themselves in the role of the rescued.
“Curricle, Miss Dany.”
With one last quick look at the cover of the chapbook—had she considered his wonderfully high, strong cheekbones in her initial inventory?—Dany quickly slipped it down behind the cushions of the overstuffed couch and ran her hands over her hair, bodice and skirts, just to be sure everything was still where it had been when she’d first arranged herself so carefully in anticipation of her guests.
She pressed a hand to her bosom once more, clearing her throat as daintily as possible, hoping the action might help regulate the rather rapid beating of her heart, and then lifted her chin, directing her gaze toward the doorway.
But no! She couldn’t look as if she’d been just sitting here, waiting on the man. Certainly a hero was already full enough of himself without thinking she’d been counting the minutes until his arrival. She shot to her feet as she heard Timmerly greet the visitors and direct them toward the stairs, looking about frantically for something she could be doing when the butler announced him.
Propping herself against the mantel was ludicrous, and reserved for gentlemen at any rate, not to mention the fact that she’d practically have to raise her bent arm above her head in order to rest her elbow on the thing. She spied her sister’s knitting basket and dismissed it in the same heartbeat. She’d rather be boiled in oil than found knitting, for goodness’ sake.
What to do, what to—wait, the flowers! There must be five huge bouquets scattered about the room, each more lovely the other. How impressed the gentleman would be when he saw her handiwork. She raced to a round table holding a perfectly arranged bouquet and yanked four of the blooms from the porcelain vase. In an instant, three of them were on the tabletop, dripping water onto her skirt, and one was in her hand as she posed in the motion of sliding it in with its fellow blooms.
“Ah, gentlemen,” she cooed, turning her head ever so slightly as Timmerly announced them, inwardly cursing the viscount for keeping good his promise to lend his help. She’d really rather he’d taken himself off somewhere, to amuse himself at somebody else’s expense. “How good of you to come. Timmerly, refreshments if you please.”
“Yes, Miss Dany,” the butler scolded, bowing. “But if you were to leave off playing with the posies, the countess would be that pleased. It took her ladyship and Mrs. Timmerly a good hour to arrange them this morning.”
The viscount’s bark of laughter accompanied the high-nosed butler’s exit from the drawing room, leaving Dany with nothing to do but pick up the other blooms and jam them back into the vase. Butlers could be such prunes.
“I suppose I’m caught out,” she recovered swiftly, wiping her damp hands against each other as she returned to the couch. “I was hoping to look accomplished, but the truth is, I have very few skills welcomed in polite company. Please, gentlemen, be seated.”
And the maddening viscount was at it again: “Such as picking pockets?”
She turned to the baron, who was looking, or so she hoped, at least slightly amused. Therefore, she would be amused. “Yes, my lords, although I’d rather call it retrieving what’s mine. I’ve now read it cover to cover, of course. How much is truth, sir, and how much could be termed a bag of moonshine? As for the signet ring, the tantalizing clue that just happened to be left behind to be found by your anonymous biographer? I would think both it and the veiled lady were only mentioned to encourage purchase of Volume Two. Do you by chance have a copy in your possession, or know where I might purchase one?”
The handsome, famous Cooper McGinley Townsend, who had been silent until now, his elbow propped on one arm of the chair, his chin in his hand, ignored the question to ask, “Where is the countess? I would have thought she’d had you bound and gagged and locked up in the nursery by now.”
“Oh, ouch,” the viscount said, wincing rather comically. “Did that hurt, Miss Foster? I rather think it didn’t, not from the width of that smile. We can safely ignore him, you know. He’s been locked in an unpleasant mood all day. Not that he’s ever particularly jolly, being by nature a calm, sensible, nearly boring man. My friends and I tolerate him because of his good heart, you understand. Plus, he’s managed to rescue us from most of our scrapes since our boyhoods with his good common sense. Haven’t you, Coop?”
Dany held her smile, but her heart had never been in it, so that her cheeks were beginning to ache. “The trials and tribulations of being a hero must weigh heavily.” She looked almost boldly into those suddenly dark green eyes. She felt he could look straight through her, and it was unnerving, if also faintly delicious. “I feel absolutely terrible, an encroaching beast and any other vile thing you can think of, but I fear I must hold you to your word. My sister truly does need a hero. She’s in a terrible pickle.”
Cooper got to his feet. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid the viscount is correct. My behavior, both now and on Bond Street, has been beyond reprehensible and far from anyone’s fault save my own ill humor.” He then proceeded to bow from the waist, rather elegantly, and add, “How may I make it up to you, Miss Foster?”
Dany knew herself to be many things, but a lack of backbone (or a mouth) had never been a problem. “A drive in Hyde Park today at five wouldn’t come amiss. Appearing with the hero would probably do my reputation no end of good, which should help placate my sister, who believes I’m nearly past saving even now. My lord Nailbourne? Laughing again? You are easily amused, aren’t you? Have you ever considered trotting into Society with a monkey on a chain? You could wear matching hats.”
Now, for the first time, Dany heard the baron’s laughter, clear and full and wonderfully charming. Even better, he laughed with his entire body—his smile wide, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling, his shoulders shaking as he showed his pleasure.
“Miss Foster,” he said as he seated himself once more, this time with his legs slightly spread, and resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her, “I would be delighted. But on the contrary, being seen with you will do my reputation no end of good, as I do believe you are going to take the Little Season by storm.”
Now Dany leaned forward, feeling more comfortable with each passing moment. “Now you see, that’s just what I said,” she told him earnestly. “Mari isn’t quite so sure, and I know my mother is sitting in her private parlor at home even now, making rash promises to our Lord if He will only keep me mute until some poor fool decides he can’t live without red-haired children.”
“Miss Foster, you are too candid by half. I think I adore you,” Lord Nailbourne interjected.
“Stifle yourself, Darby,” the baron warned quietly. “Ignore him, Miss Foster. He’s much more used to being the one whose every word should be considered a masterpiece of dry humor.”
“Wry humor,” the viscount corrected. “I am an observer, Miss Foster, and do occasionally delight in sharing those observations.”
“I
