“I’ll be telling the wife, though. She’ll be pleased.”
“As I am by her tarts,” Bromwell said, bringing his hair into some semblance of order, although it occurred to him that it was in need of a trim.
“Ah, here’s Johnny now with your baggage, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Bromwell said as the boy carried in his small valise.
With another nod, Jenkins left him to change, followed by the gaping Johnny, who paused on the threshold to look back and whisper, eyes wide. “Was you really nearly et by cannibals, my lord?”
“I might have been, if they had caught us,” Bromwell replied gravely, and quite truthfully.
The lad’s eyes grew even wider.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Bromwell said, starting to close the door.
The lad nodded and disappeared.
Bromwell shut the door with a sigh. He was seriously beginning to wish he’d left that part of his voyage out of his book. Everybody asked about it, to the exclusion of many other fascinating events and observations.
Well, in mixed company, at any rate, he thought as he took off his soiled shirt, trousers and stockings. When he was with men after suppers or in the clubs, they wanted to know about the women and sexual practices, waiting with avid and salacious curiosity.
They were inevitably disappointed when he began describing the flora and fauna of the islands, including spiders, instead. Sometimes, if they listened and were patient, he would describe a heiva, a celebration involving dancing, the otea done by men, the upa upa by couples, and the hura, called hula in Hawaii, danced exclusively by women.
Recalling some of those dances and the dancers who’d performed them, he donned a clean white shirt, woollen trousers and stockings. What would Eleanor Springford think of those dances?
What would she think if she knew he’d participated?
Between that, and his insolent kiss, she’d certainly think he was no gentleman, although her response hadn’t been exactly ladylike, either.
He suddenly remembered that he’d heard her name before, and his heart began to pound as if he were again participating in an otea. Lady Eleanor Springford was the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton. She was also one of the many young ladies his mother had mentioned in hopes he would take a wife and stop chasing after spiders.
What the devil was a lady of her wealth and family doing dressed in such plain, inexpensive clothes and travelling alone in a mail coach headed to Bath?
He had no idea, but he doubted it was a pleasure trip.
If she was in some sort of trouble, it was his duty to help her; it would be his duty whether she was twenty and pretty, or sixty and the homeliest woman he had ever met.
Determined to speak with Lady Eleanor and offer her any assistance he could render without further delay, Bromwell hurried down to the dining room.
But when he entered, he found the room full of people he’d never seen before, and he couldn’t see the duke’s daughter anywhere.
Everyone fell silent when they realized he had arrived, so he plastered a weak smile on his face and, as he continued to silently search for Lady Eleanor, again damned the fame he’d never wanted.
“Oh, my lord! What a tragedy!” cried an overdressed, middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown overburdened with ruffles and frills, in a shocking combination of orange and pink that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bordello.
She hurried toward him past a group of silent, brawny men. He suspected they were local farmers or tradesmen dragged here to meet the famous naturalist by their wives, many of whom were equally colorfully dressed in the latest styles.
“Indeed, it was a most unfortunate occurrence,” he muttered, unable to look directly at that gown another moment.
“I’ve been after them to fix that road,” a man growled as he ran a puzzled gaze over Bromwell, thinking, no doubt, that the viscount didn’t look like a world-famous explorer.
Bromwell had long since given up trying to explain that he was a different sort of explorer, that his journey had been intended to find flora, fauna, insects and especially spiders, not lands to claim, people to conquer or resources to exploit. “May the local government take heed,” he said politely.
“They will if you write a letter to the Times about it,” the man declared as Jenkins appeared, dressed in what was surely his Sunday best.
Bromwell’s discomfort increased as Jenkins introduced him to the local gentry like he was some prized possession Jenkins was eager to show off, beginning with the man who’d complained about the roads. Since Bromwell liked Jenkins, he submitted, but he also continued to look for Lady Eleanor, until he decided she must be dining in her room.
This was going to be a long evening, he thought as he stifled a sigh, taking one last survey of the room.
At last he spotted her, crammed into the corner as far as she could get and wearing a flowing gown of pale blue silk like something fairies had cut out of a summer’s sky. Unlike the other women’s gowns, the cut was simple, with a bodice high in the back, a modest neckline, tight sleeves and only one ruffle at the hem. Her dark brown hair, which had been covered by her simple straw bonnet, proved to be thick and lustrous in the candlelight. It had been done simply, yet elegantly, around her gracefully poised head. In spite of the simplicity of her gown and hair, she was easily the most elegant, best-dressed woman in the room.
Having been blessed with uncommonly good eyesight, however, he immediately noticed something odd. Unlike the clothing she’d been wearing earlier, her gown did not fit properly. It was too large in the bodice, gaping where it should be snug, and tight under the arms. The length wasn’t quite right, either, as if it had been made for a slightly taller woman.
Excusing himself from the group surrounding him, he immediately made his way toward her.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow when he reached her and kissed her gloved hand, keeping his attention on her solemn face.
It took every ounce of his self-control not to glance down at that gaping bodice.
He’d want to hit any man who did, even if it was one of his friends. Especially if it was one of his handsome, charming, interesting friends.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, her expression impassive, her eyes unreadable, as she inclined her head and he realized her gloves didn’t fit properly, either.
“How is Thompkins?” she asked as she pulled her hand away.
“Well on the road to recovery,” he replied. “He won’t be able to drive for a few days, though.”
“I’m glad to hear he’ll suffer no permanent injuries. We shall require a different driver, though. Perhaps you, my lord?” she suggested, giving him a questioning look that both embarrassed and delighted him.
“I’ve given up my career as a driver. Much too risky.”
Her beautiful eyes widened. “Unlike travelling around
