Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

BATH, ENGLAND, 1800

C ustomarily, there is little to remark about a lady's companion.

Leda Wroth proved an exception.

The first rebellion lay in her appearance. Lady's companions ought to fade gently into the background. They are to broadcast nothing of their own personality and impose no demands on attention, their role mere support and decorative shadow.

Mrs. Wroth, quite in defiance of this custom, was beautiful, though hers was not a loud beauty that obtruded upon the viewer. A new acquaintance might first concede her handsome, a pleasing aspect to her regular features and clear skin. A second meeting, one found oneself caught by the quirk of a smile that hovered around her expressive mouth, the quicksilver currents of intelligence and, oft, quickly subdued humor in her eyes.

Upon a third meeting, anyone who fell under that steady violet gaze—man, woman, child, indeed any sentient creature—readily surrendered his will to her superior knowledge and obvious mastery of the world. She conveyed the assurance of being steadfast, informed, equipped for any occasion. Capable .

And that calm confidence in how the world ticked over, along with her mastery of its intricate ways, accounted for her success in her line of work.

Leda Wroth did not merely companion ladies. She removed thorns from sides. She cleaved through Gordian knots of the most vexing personal or family situations and set one free on the path to their greatest desires.

She saved lives .

The life she was currently saving belonged to Miss Charlotte Astley of Little Bolton, Lancashire. And the setting was not a cruise charting the Antipodes, nor a marsh about the British outpost in Calcutta, but the Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath during Monday's dress ball.

Miss Charlotte Astley had descended from the north with the grace of an angel, an angel whose family land sat directly atop a productive seam of coal. A nymph of no more than seventeen summers, Miss Astley possessed the further advantage of showing well in the latest styles, in which young ladies went about in public in a garment that once would have served as a chemise. The soft muslin of her gown clung to her rounded shoulders and breasts, evidence of her well-nourished childhood, and a Kashmir shawl dangled from plump arms. A dainty ribbon bandeau pushed a cluster of curls onto her forehead like the topknot of a little brown quail.

She would have been ravened like an early Christian in the Roman Colosseum in the marriage mart in London, had her mother not possessed the foresight to sample the waters of Bath first, so to speak. Mrs. Astley, furthermore, possessed the acuity to comprehend that her tender maid required a wise champion to navigate the labyrinthine maze of the Bath Upper Rooms, where a gentleman paid for the privilege, either through subscription or per visit, to look over the available young ladies.

It did not take long for inquiries of an appropriate discreetness in the correct channels to manifest a short list of names for said champion, and topping them was Leda Wroth, long-time lady's companion to the estimable Lady Plume. Thus it was that Mrs. Wroth and Miss Astley mingled near one end of the vast ballroom within view of the entrance to the Octagon Room as well as the dancers, the brilliant glare of one of three Whitefriars crystal chandeliers ensuring that the subject of their discussion could not venture by without Mrs. Wroth's notice.

"An earl's son, I grant you, but manifestly unsuitable," Mrs. Wroth was saying in a tone that brooked no dispute.

Miss Astley's face fell into an attractive pout. "Not in the least?"

Mrs. Wroth shook her head decisively.

Leda, in contrast to the prevailing paleness of the room, was sporting the fashionable habit d'escalier . Over the requisite round gown of white muslin—hers gorgeously embroidered along the hem with its small train—she wore a half-robe of crimson velvet, with slits in the thigh-length hem and half-sleeves tied with ladders of delicate crimson ribbon. A matching turban bound up her dark tresses.

The effect was to indicate that Leda Wroth, in contrast to the virginal sylphs drifting around her, was a woman of dash and depth who knew her own mind. A confirmed, on-the-shelf spinster who wore her eccentricities with pride, and who regularly engaged in dancing, cards, and strolls with the sort of gentlemen who liked poking things on shelves to see if they could make them tumble off.

Miss Astley stroked her closed fan in speculation. "But he is the Viscount Corry," she said softly. "I should be a viscountess."

"And in time a countess, mistress of Castle Coole, which I hear the current Earl of Belmore has spent vast sums refurbishing," Mrs. Wroth said with meaningful emphasis.

"An envied hostess, then."

"Or an impoverished one."

Miss Astley raised her eyebrows.

"His lordship had visions of leading Irish Parliament," Mrs. Wroth said. "His hopes for that are now dashed, of course."

Miss Astley blinked and waited for illumination.

"Because of the Act of Union. It has forced your viscount to recalibrate his ambitions as well, I imagine."

This too failed to illuminate for Miss Astley. Leda sighed. It was too much to hope that young people followed the political news in addition to the latest gossip.

"The Irish Parliament voted itself out of existence in agreeing to the Act of Union with Great Britain. The British Parliament will now govern the United Kingdom. I'm told that your viscount managed to get himself elected to the British House of Commons for County Tyrone, so he will no doubt be headed to London in January when the new Parliament opens."

"Shouldn't he be in the House of Lords, if he's a viscount?"

"An honorary title, dear. His father holds the peerage."

Charlotte brightened. "Mama wishes to go to London."

Leda delivered her coup de grace. "And so I imagine does Lady Julianna Butler, daughter of the Earl of Carrick. She is first cousin to your Viscount Corry and the most likely candidate for his wife."

Charlotte widened her eyes. "You are terribly well-informed, Miss Wroth." She sounded admiring rather than vexed.

Leda touched the ruby pendant filling in the low neckline of her half robe. It was not hers, for Leda Wroth had precious few possessions of her own, but she would upon grounds of their long friendship consent to let Lady Plume decorate her now and again in jewels.

"Thank you, dear. I hope you are not too much disappointed."

Charlotte considered the room before her. Couples swirled in the cotillion while music spilled from the gallery. Conversations borne on breathless laughter floated toward the lofted ceiling, and genial smiles descended from those strolling and looking down from the balconies above.

"I gather Mama wants to air me here and there in London, mostly so we can visit the shops." Charlotte's mouth turned up at one corner. "But if I return unengaged, perhaps she might let Toby pay his addresses. He is apprenticed to a solicitor in Shrewsbury, and no more than the younger son of a Shropshire squire, but…" She flicked her fan before her face.

"He is very dashing," Leda guessed.

Charlotte giggled. "A bit dashing. Very would be overstating the matter. But he is kind, and he makes me laugh, and he has the truest and most generous heart, and—" She sighed, wafting her fan beneath her chin as her eyes grew dreamy. "I think he would like me just as much even without Papa's pig iron."

"A veritable paragon," Leda said, wisely keeping her own opinions on romantic love, youthful or otherwise, out of Charlotte's dreams for her future.

"Oh, not by far," Charlotte said. "But of all the blokes who have cast out their lures, I think I like him the best. Do you not think that the most important consideration?"

Leda debated sharing with the younger woman what she, in fact, held to be of paramount consideration: a woman's freedom to direct her own life, to dispose of her own property and person as she wished, without being compelled by law and custom to submit her goods, or her body, to an at best indifferent and at worst hostile spouse. Leda herself had been seventeen when the world, or rather her parents, disabused her of romantical notions that she might marry a man she liked .

And now, after the tempest of blood and horror following that ill-advised venture, she was very much committed to never marrying again.

"At any rate, you are here tonight in Bath, with no Toby in sight," Leda said. "Off with you to dance the minuet, and if the Viscount Corry should partner you, you shall be very firmly and distantly polite. Perhaps a touch distracted, for men detest when they should have less than a woman's full attention."

Charlotte closed her fan with a fond look. "You have been exceedingly kind, Mrs. Wroth. I wonder that you are not married yourself, and raising daughters equally wise."

Mrs. Wroth, though Charlotte could not have known this, did an excellent job of hiding the quandary of feelings these words provoked. Miss Astley could not possibly know that educating the youth was the one calling Leda Wroth felt firmly lodged in her breast, and the one future which she was utterly denied.

"Shoo." She made accompanying motions with her hands, as if Miss Astley were a chick. Charlotte chuckled and obliged.

Leda threw a glance about to locate her ladyship, it being incumbent on her post to have a bead on the woman who paid her a generous salary, though Lady Plume was the easiest of companions. She would call upon Leda if she required a fourth hand at cards, a partner for tea, or someone to gossip with during a dance. At the moment, Lady Plume's distinct headdress was not in evidence.

But the strangest man leaned against one of the marble pillars behind her, staring at Leda.

She did not recognize him, and they had not been introduced. She would not have forgotten this man. He was not terribly tall, yet he occupied his space entirely, solid and rooted, as if the pillar drew strength from him. A dark cutaway tailcoat buttoned over a chest that, while not excessively broad, still seemed substantial, in that way some men had. Dark grey satin breeches and white stockings hugged legs powerful in their shape. His physical presence was enhanced by the air of quiet, steady authority he projected as he watched her with a gaze both thoughtful and speculating.

And disapproving. Stern disapproval rippled from him in waves.

How rude. Leda lifted her chin and moved her gaze along as if it had never landed on him. No acknowledgement, no expression; the cut direct. She had mastered several varieties of the cut, but had small opportunity to use them, as lady's companions are meant to be obliging.

"Mrs. Wroth." A damsel appeared before her, drooping in her demeanor. "Mr. Sedley did not make me an offer. He was seen walking in Sydney Gardens with Miss Summers while I, like a perfect wigeon, waited for him to call."

The damsel's mouth trembled. "You advised me that he was inconstant. And worse? Mama made me come tonight, where I am in danger of seeing him, and she insisted I wear fruit in my cap, when everyone else has feathers."

The girl bent her head to display a silk cap bound with elaborate rosettes and sporting an unwieldly cluster of perishable items above the brim.

"My dear Miss Edham. Mr. Sedley is notoriously inconstant. Last season he wooed Lady Macbeth, and next season it will no doubt be Cordelia. I expect your parents wish you to look beyond a theatre actor for your future happiness at any rate. In the meantime." Leda deftly removed the plums and cherries from the girl's headdress, leaving only the apricots, which blended better with the peach silk.

"I do believe that is an improvement. Now go smile at every young man you find seemly, dance the minuet, and if Mr. Sedley should approach you, pretend for the first instant that you have forgotten his name."

Miss Edham's face brightened. "I shall do so. Mrs. Wroth, you are splendid. How is it you have not been wooed and won by someone perfectly lovely? I cannot account for how you are overlooked."

"Neither can I," said Leda. "Run along now. You can still make up the next set."

"Mrs. Wroth." An elegant older couple filled the space before Leda as Miss Edham departed. The woman wore powdered gray curls in defiance of fashion, and red rosettes fell in plaits down her muslin gown, with long sleeves peeking beneath a velvet half robe that fell into a train behind her. Three small feathers waved gently atop her head.

"Sir Peregrine and I cannot thank you enough. You were entirely correct in the matter of Lizzie's jewels. Her maid was being blackmailed by the butler—blackmailed! Can you imagine? The insolent ape replaced her pearls with paste in order to pawn them."

The lady waved a delicately painted fan. "Gladly, we have recovered the necklace, the maid has been scolded, and the butler has been turned off, without a character, I must add. And quite a lecture you read him, did you not, my love?" She looked adoringly at her husband, who nodded emphatically, giving Leda a grateful grin.

The woman reached out a gloved hand to clasp Leda's, her voice dropping further. "And we are in your debt for the word you put in our Lizzie's ear. She turned down the baronet's son, who was every bit the rogue you said, and is in transports of happiness with her captain. I do wish you could have accepted our invitation to the wedding."

"I am sorry that Lady Plume did not wish to leave Bath that week, but indeed happy I was able to be of some small service to your family, Lady Partridge. Sir Peregrine." Leda dropped a small curtsey. "Please give Lizzie my fondest regards."

After more thanks were exchanged, with exhortations to visit them in Cheltenham, which Leda was too wise to tell them she would never accept, the Partridges moved on.

"We shall tell anyone who shows interest of the great kindness you have done us, of course," Lady Partridge promised with one final squeeze. "With such absolute discretion."

"You are worth your weight in those rubies, Mrs. Wroth," Sir Peregrine confirmed.

Leda stroked her pendant, considering whether, at some point, it would be prudent to begin hinting that her invaluable, very discreet services might be worth a token of gratitude, money or jewels. Perhaps a small annuity. Lady's companions who do not have property of their own need to think about ways to secure their future, if they hope to have one.

"I cannot detect your employment, madame, but it is manifestly not matchmaker."

The rumbling male voice behind her shoulder sent the strangest shiver down Leda's spine. Not foreboding, but something else she couldn't identify.

"In fact, as far as I can ascertain, you are engaged in unmatching. Keeping couples apart, or so it would seem."

She turned to face the man in the dark cutaway coat. The pillar-leaner. Up close, too close, he had caramel-colored hair and eyes of an unsettling pale shade. Eyes that stared directly into her own.

"An unmatchmaker," he said.

Her gaze skipped over his countenance. Strong face, straight nose. A jutting brow. Lips precisely shaped and a deep coral, lips a woman would envy, yet which balanced his rugged features.

The shiver was not foreboding. Not quite.

"We have not been introduced," Leda said archly.

He nodded. "Does that then forbid us to have intercourse?"

He meant, of course, mere interaction, but something about that word— intercourse —suggested twining things. Closeness. For a moment her vision blanked of anything except him, as if the rest of the room had disappeared. Leda blinked, disconcerted.

"In a ballroom, yes. Were we in a position of peril, I imagine the niceties could be dispensed with. If I stood in the path of a runaway cart, suppose, or a burning?—"

Proving he had no regard for the social niceties in the least, he took her hand . Another shiver skittered up her glove, past her elbow, skimming her shoulders. How very drafty this room had become.

"We are in peril. If I am not mistaken, that is the Master of Ceremonies approaching, and that is a young woman he intends to introduce to me."

"Well, yes, that is Mr. Tyson's duty, and that is Miss Hotham with him. She has only just arrived today—I met her in the Pump Room this morning—and you are being incredibly rude—good evening, Mr. Tyson, Miss Hotham. Please excuse us."

She smiled at the miss and a surprised-looking Mr. Tyson as her partner whisked her toward the couples daintily arranging themselves in lines on the dance floor.

"Rude? Hardly. You invited me to dance the minuet with you. I accepted."

He led them toward the top of the room, keeping a firm grip on her hand. His fingers were warm and strong. Leda offered a smile to everyone she knew, which included quite a few people, and struggled to catch up the loop on her train before she trod on the embroidered muslin and took them both down.

"I asked you? Bold of me. Quite against custom."

"Ah, but you heard I also am newly arrived in town, and know no one."

With a flick of the wrist he raised his forearm, turning toward her, and automatically Leda placed her palm against his. Her gaze collided with his as their limbs connected, hand to elbow. They fell into step as if they were performers who had rehearsed for hours.

The breath deserted her body. The sensation that slammed her was, she imagined, much like being hit by a runaway cart.

"You know the figure," he murmured as he stepped forward, gently pressing her hand. She circled him, taking mincing steps.

"But you did not know that. It would serve you right if you dragged me into the set only to discover I cannot manage the minuet."

"You," he murmured, his lips twitching at one edge, "have never in your life encountered a situation you cannot manage."

His eyes were gray, the color of spring clouds fat with rain, but his lashes and brows were dark brown, a startling contrast. He was clean-shaven but for clipped sideburns that descended to his jaw, giving his beauty a decidedly masculine cast.

Leda's stomach turned in time with the music. Indeed, she was the managing sort, yet she had the distinct sense there wasn't the least thing manageable about this man.

"Explain yourself, sir," Leda murmured. Her voice sounded oddly faint, as if she could not catch her breath.

Absurd. She was the mistress of every circumstance. She had built her reputation as being such.

"You kidnapped me," she began.

"Kidnapped! We are dancing. I have hardly carried you off to my lair." He dropped his arm and took the requisite step back.

She disengaged as well. His warmth lingered against her palm, and the notion of being alone with him, anywhere, sent a thrill after the shiver. This man, with a mere flick of his hand, threatened her hard-won aplomb, her careful defenses.

"Abducted me, in plain sight," she emphasized, gathering her skirts, "and I wonder if you even know who I am."

He bowed, one fist behind his back, leg straightened just so. He was an elegant dancer, a man aware of his body. He had a care where he stepped.

Like a predator.

"I know who you are." His voice held a velvety edge, quite disarming. The men she knew made a point of being boisterous, unable to miss. This one had a watchful air about him.

"I asked. You are Miss Wroth."

"Mrs. Wroth." She curtseyed, dipping her face to hide the stab of pain those words brought her. "I am a widow."

"Recently?" His brows rose.

"No. I have been widowed these many years, Mr.—"

He failed to take the hint to supply his name. Instead, one arm still clasped behind his back, he circled her stealthily, gaze trained on her face.

"I pity Mr. Wroth. To possess such a gem, then lose it so early."

Unaccountably, she flushed. This dratted enormous ballroom, first full of odd chills, and now too warm for comfort. He held out his hand, and she took it.

"For all you know, Mr. Wroth ascended to heaven singing praises to be released from his earthly chains."

His gaze moved over her brow, the proud slant of her cheekbones, the decided jut of her chin. There was nothing soft about her features, Leda knew. Much like her heart.

"Oh, Mr. Wroth did not go willingly," the stranger murmured.

What followed was a downright shudder, apprehension shaking her entire body.

He couldn't know. No one knew what her husband had thought in those frantic, final moments. Not even Leda, and she'd been there.

"I still await your explanation, sir."

He weaved behind her while the other men circled their chosen lady, and the back of Leda's neck prickled, sensing his gaze upon her. She'd never been so aware of a man.

"Of why I accepted your invitation to dance?"

She tamped down the curl that teased her lip. He was either a bit whimsical or a bit mad. The touch of ridiculousness, in a man who otherwise appeared so proper—and possessing more beauty and address than any one man should be allotted—was enormously appealing. She was not immune to a man's charm after all, it would seem.

"Exactly."

The men resumed their line and began a sequence of moves which Leda took note of, knowing the women were expected to follow. It was difficult not to fall into pure reverie simply watching him, his elegant grace, his self-possession. He was a man measured in every movement, thoughtful, deliberate. Much like her.

Say something ridiculous . An impetuous inner voice Leda had not heard in a very long time sprouted suddenly in her mind. It spoke to her distantly, as if shocked at having a window of air and light after so many years of being buried.

He held his arm out toward her in the prompt, and Leda executed the flowing set of movements he'd demonstrated. She let the music ripple through her body, along with a sudden, wild sense of release, and concluded with her own arm stretched toward his, palm up.

Say you were struck by my beauty . She'd forgive the plumper, for she was sure she was not beautiful, only handsome to the generous, a touch prepossessing at best. Say you saw me and felt a strange and inexorable pull .

Let him not have a problem he needed her to solve.

Let this man, if only once, and only this man, approach her for any of the other reasons a man might whisk a woman onto a dance floor and into his arms.

He stepped toward her. She stepped toward him. Their gazes held, melded.

"I have a matter on which I require advice," he said. His voice was deep and warm, and his eyes glowed as if the sun sat behind clouds. "Actually, two."

She tore her gaze from his and trained her eyes straight ahead as she moved into the promenade. Pointed her toes, telling herself to lift her heels and not let any part of her slump toward the floor.

"Of course you do," she said.