Chapter One
London, April 1815
His nibs was a watchful one. She'd give him that. Most of
the young bucks strolling through Covent Garden after the
theatre discharged its patrons gave their full attention
to the muslin set and never took notice of the footpads
brushing their elbows. Some nights it was so easy to lift
the contents of a gentleman's pocket that there was no
sport in it.
She had never cared for the sport of it overmuch. Snick.
Snack. A flick of the wrist and two swipes of a finely
honed blade were usually all that was required. The
threads, even the finest silk ones, could be sliced as
easily as butter. Sometimes the money purse jangled,
especially if it was nicely weighted, but by then it was
already too late. Fleet of foot and as unpredictable in
their movements as quicksilver, the thieves were already
plunging through the crowd, hiding behind skirts as well
as under them.
The gentleman-and she could tell by his negligent
confidence that he was at the very least a gentleman-
inclined his head toward the woman on his arm as she
spoke. The nature of the comment was not clear to her, as
the gentleman's features merely remained politely fixed.
The woman evidently thought her observation was worthy of
some sort of response because she raised her brows
expectantly. His nibs remained unmoved. This seemed to
cause his companion some distress as the curve of her dark
red mouth faltered, then fell. Lest he miss the point, the
woman underscored it by pursing her lips, not with
disapproval, but petulance.
It was not a look that sat well on the woman's narrow
features, she thought as she advanced on them, but that
expression had arrested the gentleman's attention and
neither he nor his lightskirt made any attempt to evade
her approach.
She saw the buzz-gloaks coming at him from three
directions, moving purposely through the crowd but without
hurry or menace, cautious in the way they were proceeding
to deliver the rum-hustle. Indeed, if she had not been
looking for them, they might have easily escaped notice.
It was all part and parcel of their plan, a plan they had
executed successfully more times than she cared to
contemplate. One would rub elbows with their quarry, one
would beg his pardon, and one would step smartly on his
ladybird's ruffled skirt. They would move on quickly, but
not at a run. They were boman prigs and knew their craft
too well to draw more attention to themselves than was
strictly necessary. If their victim realized his purse had
been lifted and gave chase, then they would run. It would
require more luck than determination to catch them, for
they had a lightness of foot that equaled the lightness of
their fingers and putting hands on them was like trying to
snatch quicksilver.
Her attention was all for them, gauging the moment they
would strike, her deliberation matching their own. It
surprised her, then, that she should notice anything at
all outside the trap that was about to be sprung. Perhaps
it was because she knew the players so well that one more
or less in the drama gave her pause. It was as if Iago had
made his entrance with Queen Titania's fairie court; one
knew immediately that Othello's villain had no place in A
Midsummer Night's Dream.
She did not mistake the man's nature by naming him a
villain. Although he was a brutish sort, with broad,
uneven features and a heavy gait, he was in every way the
equal of the dangerously sly and manipulative character
that Shakespeare had perfectly penned.
These thoughts flitted through her mind so quickly that
she barely grasped their import; acting on them was
impulsive, accomplished more by instinct than plan. She
had arrived in this place with only one purpose: to stop
the three young ruffians from picking the gentleman's
pockets. Once she saw the glint of the attacker's blade,
she was helpless to respond in any way save to stop him
from slitting the gentleman's throat.
Launching herself forward at a run, her lithe body defied
gravity as it took flight. For a few moments she was
actually suspended above the crushed gravel path, then
momentum brought her crashing into the gentleman, bearing
him hard to the ground.
Lady Georgia Pendelton, Countess of Rivendale, pressed her
hands to her heart in what an idle observer might have
determined was a dramatic, perhaps overwrought, gesture.
Those fortunate people who numbered themselves among the
lady's dearest friends knew the sincerity of such gestures
and would always recognize them as a sign that her
sympathies were deeply engaged.
"Never say you were hurt, Sherry. I do not think I can
bear it if you say you were injured." Her pale gray eyes
narrowed as she made a complete survey of her godson. He
had suffered a measure of this scrutiny when he crossed
the threshold into her sitting room, but then she had not
known he had had an adventure. Now she must assure herself
that he was none the worse for it, dear boy.
That dear boy, Alexander Henry Grantham, Viscount
Sheridan, was in his twenty-eighth year, and he was as
kindly cooperative of his godmother's second study of his
person as he had been her first.
This inspection was nothing new. He had been all of five
the first time he was aware of it. On that occasion Lady
Rivendale had swept into the nursery, his own mother a few
steps in her wake, and made an extraordinary fuss over
him. There had been comments about the unfortunate
darkening of his hair, from toffee brown to bittersweet
chocolate. And was there nothing anyone could do about the
cowlick that surely pointed due north like a compass
needle? His eyes, she also noted as she raised his chin,
had lost every hint that they might be green or hazel and
now were as deeply brown as his hair. Why was he so pale?
she wondered, and because she was Lady Rivendale, his
mother's great friend from childhood and his own dear
godmother, she felt free to wonder this aloud.
There was also a critique of the shape of his nose, which
was pronounced as substantial as an eagle's beak by his
godmother and aquiline by his mother. "Just like his
father's," Lady Sheridan had said. "Yes," his godmother
had replied, "but one hopes that can be changed."
She said nothing about his mouth, which he remembered
thinking was a kindness, for surely his lower lip had been
quivering by then. Still, he stood there and accepted it,
watching her gravely from eyes that she had already
pronounced too large for his thin face.
She liked the way he stood, though, and complimented him
on his soldier's bearing. "Come, give us a hug," she said,
and enveloped him in her arms. For a long time afterward
Sherry had thought the "us" he was hugging were the soft
twin pillows of her breasts.
"You must call me Aunt Georgia," she told him. Of course
he did. How could he refuse a woman with such important
breasts?
She would disappear for months, sometimes years, then
announce herself without advance notice or invitation. She
was always welcome. Presents arrived at odd times, never
for the usual celebratory reasons like birthdays or
Christmas, but simply because she thought of him. Later,
when his younger sister reached the great age of six and
exchanged the nursery for the schoolroom, Lady Rivendale
proclaimed this also made her of interest and showered her
with attentions that had been formerly reserved for him.
He did not mind overmuch. His godmother was in every way
generous with her affections. The more she gave of
herself, the more she seemed to have to give. For proof of
this, he had only to think of the visit she made to Eton
in the month following the death of his parents.
A great-uncle on his mother's side was now guardian to him
and his sister, but the charge lay heavily on his
shoulders, more burden than privilege, and he gratefully
surrendered all duties to Lady Rivendale when she applied
for them. At the funeral service he had been overheard to
say, "Deuced irresponsible of Sheridan and my niece to die
with their children yet to be raised. What am I to do with
the two brats? Oh, it is a simple enough thing with the
lad. He is at Eton at least, and his future is set. But
the girl? I can get nothing from her save tears."
When Lady Rivendale arrived at Eton, she had his sister in
tow. It was one of the few times she did not inspect his
person before enveloping him in her plump arms and plumper
breasts; it was also the first time he was called Sherry.
Viscount Sheridan. His father's title, now his, but
somehow uniquely his. No one had ever call his father
Sherry, not even the dauntless Lady Rivendale.
On the occasion of that visit she had announced they would
be family now, and she said it with such practicality that
Sherry and his sister never questioned the good sense of
it.
It was not a matter of becoming a family; they just were.
"I am all of a piece," he said, returning to the present
before she placed the back of her hand on his
forehead. "The ill effects were confined to my frock coat,
which split at the shoulder seam, and the backside of my
trousers, which was pitted with gravel. Kearns says the
frock coat will be repaired to its former fit; the
trousers have already been surrendered to the ragpicker."
"I am certain your valet has your wardrobe well in hand-he
has never failed to turn you out impressively-but what of
your backside?"
Sherry blinked. He should not have been surprised by the
remark, for Lady Rivendale always spoke her mind. Most
often it was a refreshing discourse. He found, however,
when the subject was his backside the notion of such plain
speaking was rather alarming.
"You are really quite charmingly priggish," she said,
dropping both hands from her heart to lay them lightly on
his forearm. "I have always thought so. No, you must not
take offense, for none was meant."
"Saying that it is charming does not mitigate the
priggishness."
Lady Rivendale smiled deeply. She loved his wry tone.
Sherry might be a tad high in the instep, but at least he
had the good sense to know it. "I will not be persuaded to
allow my question to go unanswered."
Sherry regarded her gravely. "When I said I was all of a
piece, dear heart, all the pieces included my backside."
Clapping her hands together smartly as she laughed, her
ladyship sat back comfortably on the settee. "Splendid.
That is perfectly splendid. Now, what of your companion? I
suppose she emerged unscathed."
Had his sister made the remark he would have reproved her,
but this was his godmother and he found himself chuckling
instead. "You will be disappointed to learn it was just
so."
She did not deny it. "Bother. I would not wish her any
grievous injury, of course."
"Of course."
"But the thought of Miss Dumont tumbling head over bucket,
especially if it were done with little grace, well, it is
a delicious image."
Sheridan's manner of collecting himself until he could
make a considered reply was to lift a single dark eyebrow
in a pronounced arch. In that fashion he could communicate
reproach, caution, or even carefully measured
astonishment. If the dark glance that accompanied it was
equally persuasive, the recipient of this look simply
ceased to speak. There were times, though, when Sherry's
deeply brown eyes were only amused, and the effect of the
raised brow was to lend his expression a touch of the
ironic.
"I did not realize you were acquainted with Miss Dumont,"
he said mildly.
"Acquainted? With your mistress? Hardly, Sherry, and you
well know it." To give her hands something to occupy them,
Lady Rivendale picked up her teacup and sipped. "But
aware? Yes, indeed, how could I not be? She has been your
consort these last three months. I believe I learned you
intended to set her up in that house in Jericho Mews
before she knew the same."
"You have never said anything."
"It is not at all flattering that you can scarcely credit
it. I have always maintained that you should have some
secrets from me."
"Or at least the illusion that I have them," Sherry said
dryly.
Lady Rivendale had the grace to blush. Suffused with pink
color, her remarkably smooth countenance hinted at the
complete beauty she had been in her youth. In her fifty-
second year, she was still a handsome woman by any of
society's standards, though proportionately rounder. The
visible markers of her advanced age were the graying
threads of hair at her temples and the faint but permanent
creases at the corner of her eyes. Because she had earned
the latter by laughing at the vagaries of life, and the
former by surviving them, she accepted both without
regrets or any thought of concealment. A military man did
not conceal his ribbons, and it was no different for her.
Life was a campaign.
"You are put out with me, Sheridan," she said. "Do not
deny it; I can see that you are. Although I abhor
defending myself, I cannot abide that you might think I
spy on you. What particulars reach my ears concerning you
are never sought by me." Over the rim of the delicate bone
china teacup, Lady Rivendale saw her godson's brow rise a
fraction higher. "Almost never," she amended. "Certainly
that is true in the case of Miss Dumont. I might have
happily lived the rest of my life without knowing you had
an arrangement with this woman, but no less a personage
than Lady Calumet repeated the on dit within my hearing.
Deliberately done, make no mistake, but entirely for my
benefit. She knows I dote on you."
"Then perhaps I should extend my thanks. Will a note be
enough, or should I call on her?"
Her ladyship went on as if Sherry had not interrupted. He
meant not a word of what he said, and they both shared
that understanding. "I doubt that Miss Dumont is even
French, so if she has tales of escaping the Terror or of
connections to the Bourbons to retain your sympathies and
lighten your pockets, it is all lies and nonsense. Miss
Duplicitous is what the baggage should call herself."
Sherry was glad he was holding his tumbler of whisky and
not drinking from it. By only the narrowest bit of luck
did he manage to swallow his laughter rather than choke on
it. "Pray, do not mince words. If you have an opinion, I
should like to hear it."
Unlike her beloved godson, Georgia Pendelton had never
held back laughter in her life, and she was not inclined
to begin now. It was no polite, trilling titter that
escaped her. When she laughed it was an abandonment of
genteel sensibilities in favor of a full-throated, husky
shout of her delight. Her shoulders and bosom were engaged
in the activity, heaving once, then merely shuddering
until the first wave of amusement passed. There was little
delicacy in the movements, though in the end, when she
dashed away the tears that had collected at the corner of
her eyes, it was accomplished with a certain gravitas.
"You are an evil boy," she said without rancor. "I am
certain I knew it from the first. Look, you have made me
spill my tea." Since every drop had been neatly caught by
the saucer, her accusation did not have the weight of a
rebuke.
At once solicitous, though with an exaggerated formality
that made his gesture a parody of concern, Sheridan leaned
forward and took the cup and saucer from her hand. He
tipped the saucer so the droplets of tea slid onto the
serving tray, replaced it under the cup, then added a
generous pour of whisky from his own tumbler to her tea.
"For your nerves," he said. "Drink deeply."
Lady Rivendale was immediately alert. "What is it? Never
say you mean to marry the girl."
"No," he said firmly. "I confess, the idea has never
occurred to me. It is not a done thing."
This time when her ladyship's plump bosom heaved, it was
with relief. She could point out to him that it was indeed
a done thing, though perhaps not very well done. As
annoying as Sherry's perfect sense of propriety could be
on occasion, there were times, such as now, that it was a
most comforting aspect of his character. He actually
looked a bit affronted that she had even briefly
entertained the notion.
"I am heartily glad to hear it," she said. She raised her
cup and took a deep swallow. The whisky blended nicely
with the tea's piquant flavor and admirably warmed her.
She regarded him expectantly. "Well?"
"Last evening's incident at the garden was not without
bloodshed."
The whisky kept Lady Rivendale's complexion in the pink.
He was right to suspect she would need it. "But not
yours," she said, eyes narrowing again.