a friend of my uncle, Mr Aaron Bartlett, who now sets himself up in Bromworth Manor with the intention of taking both my title and inheritance.’
‘Why would he introduce his daughter to you, then? He looked as if he wished for you to take the acquaintance with his offspring a lot further.’
‘To hedge his bets, perhaps. A pound on my uncle and another on me. The Bromley assets are substantial.’
‘A gambling man? No true morality in him?’
‘I remember that I owe Dromorne money. No doubt he will be calling upon it as soon as he can.’
There was now a dark cloud of worry in Eleanor’s eyes as he told her this.
‘Could I give you some advice?’ He fashioned the words with care and was pleased when she nodded.
‘You should probably stay well away from me, Lady Eleanor. The man I used to be was not much, but this one is even more...’ Struggling for a word he gave up and left the implication hanging.
‘Perilous?’ Her smile surprised him as did the quick flare of anger. ‘That may very well be true, but you offered me a dance a few moments ago and I shall hold you to your promise. The quadrille is my favourite, Lord Bromley.’
He felt better even looking at her, the gold of her gown picking up the sky blue of her eyes. ‘I shall find you then when I hear the tune struck. And thank you.’ He gazed around the room.
‘My pleasure, but I think I must go now or the others will miss me.’
She had left before he could give her his response and the night dulled with her absence, but he needed the solitude, too, to recoup and recover. He hoped that there were not others here who would pounce on his memory. The medicines Jacob’s physician had given him for his arm were making him feel sick. Sick in body and in mind. This evening was a lot more tiring than he had thought it would be and he was only glad that Eleanor Huntingdon had recognised the desperation in him and found him sanctuary.
He tried in earnest to bring to mind the steps of the quadrille she had mentioned, hoping that he might manage it without tipping both of them over.
The face of his uncle also hovered above him, a man whom he had never liked. Looking back, Nick knew he should have heaved him out of his life when his majority was reached, but he had been too self-destructive to even bother, his days revolving around the fast London set, Vitium et Virtus and gambling.
A mistake, he thought now, looking back. He would see his man of business and his lawyer as soon as he could to find out where he stood with his inheritance. But a day or two away in the quiet English countryside might be just what he needed and the sooner he got rid of his father’s scheming younger brother from influencing any part of his future, the better.
* * *
The hours seemed to have flown by at this soirée of Frederick’s. Nicholas Bartlett had not come near her again, but she had watched him across the other side of the room, ensconced in a group of admirers both female and male.
He looked much recovered, she thought, and the fact that her brother and Frederick Challenger were there beside him probably had something to do with that.
Rose, next to her, saw where she was looking. ‘There is something about Lord Bromley that makes him fascinating, do you not think? He looks both vulnerable and dangerous, a man whose history sits upon him with weight.’
‘Did Jacob tell you of his time in the Americas?’
‘A little. He said the Viscount was always moving to the next place of work and that he had a hard life there. I think people here are watching to find the careless dissolute lord they used to know, for the young girls certainly have their eyes on him. But he does not seem to be rising to any expectation and that is what is causing a quandary. Who is he now seems to be the general question. Did you know him well before he left, Eleanor? Can you see similarities with who he is now?’
Eleanor ignored the first question and answered the second. ‘I think he was a lot less dangerous and more easily swayed perhaps.’
Nicholas Bartlett tipped his head as she said this and looked straight at her, across the distance of the room, across the music and the movement and the chatter and it was as if the tableau of everything faded. Only him. Only her. Only the memory of what had been. Her memory, but not his. She looked away and fidgeted with her reticule, hating the way her fingers shook as she reached for her fan.
‘Do you ever imagine yourself marrying again, Ellie?’ Rose’s voice was soft.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you are a beautiful woman with much to offer a man.’
‘No.’ The word burst from her very being, the truth of such emotion worrying. Because she did not. If she could not have Nicholas Bartlett to love her again as he had done before then she did not want anyone. Ever.
‘Secrets can be lonely things, Eleanor. If you wish to talk...’
Rose left it there as they both looked across to watch the orchestra tune up for their next round of songs and then the Viscount was right next to her, holding out his hand.
‘You promised me a dance, Lady Eleanor, and I have come to claim it.’
‘I think this one is a waltz, sir,’ she clarified, hearing the tell-tale three-beat music.
‘Good,’ he returned, ‘for I am sure I can remember those steps.’
‘And your injured hand?’ When she looked she saw he had taken off the sling in readiness, only the bandage left, a snowy white against the dark edge of the cuff of his jacket.
‘The doctor assured me that if needs be I could remove the sling without too much harm.’
He had not danced at all that evening and she could see the interest in those around them as he made his way to the floor with her in tow. Her brother was watching, as was Rose and myriad other faces from further afield.
‘One turn about the floor shall not drag you into the mire of who I am, I think. It should be safe.’
His fingers were at her side now, the other injured hand coming carefully on to hers. She could feel his breath in her hair as he counted in the steps and see up close the damage done to his face.
He did not try to hide it from her and she liked that, but the scar was substantial and recent, the reddened edges of it only just knitted.
‘The wife of the owner of the tavern I worked at sewed it up for me.’ He said this when he saw her observing him. ‘She was an accomplished seamstress so I was lucky.’
‘Lucky...’ she echoed his word.
‘Not to die from it. Lucky to have escaped a second blow and still live.’
‘What happened to the man who did this to you?’
When he glanced at her and she saw the darkness in his eyes she knew exactly what had happened to his assailant.
A further difference. Another danger.
‘Scars
