Chapter 12

The next ten days passed in something of a heady, exciting but enjoyable rush, Langley realised. It was utterly different from the sort of thing he had ever done in his life before.

He first noticed the change on the evening he attended Almack's. He had been a few times in his chequered existence to the elegant assembly rooms on Kings Street in St James, but by and large avoided the place like the plague. With its numerous chandeliers, with gilt filigree on every mirror, and every painting the rooms fairly sparkled, it was the place to be seen and noted—an activity that Langley had mixed feelings about, but for Margot, if she was going to spend the next month or more searching for those diamonds in every fashionable location, there was no better place to be.

It was hard not to notice her arrival, even from Langley's shadowy and reluctant corner. His eyes were drawn to the bow of her mouth and how it curved into a smile as she nodded out her greetings. Given Margot's height and slim build, she stood far above the other diminutive debutantes, meaning Langley could always find her. Which was both a blessing and a curse, as he was trying his best to simply be her helpmate, at least for now. Until they found all those keys, and he could finally claim that kiss. Once that was done, everything would make sense to him again—a mantra he was clinging to like a prayer.

An hour into the evening, he found Margot by the refreshment table, having grown annoyed by the numerous dances she had been invited on and not enjoyed any of the ones he'd danced.

"I have heard a great many warn me of the horrors of the weak lemonade." Her statement was blandness itself, but Langley could see a sparkle in Margot's eye.

"Quite." His voice was sharper than he expected. "And the tastelessness of the food."

"I found myself pleasantly surprised by how lovely it has all been."

"You're doing it wrong." He drifted nearer, caught by her sweet jasmine scent and unable to resist lingering closer. Wondering if it was sprayed on her shallow décolletage or around her delicate collarbones. "It is necessary to always be fashionably bored. If one wishes to succeed in society."

"Ah, but I don't. At least not for long." Her voice dropped as Margot lowered her glass from her lips, and whispered conspiratorially, "I am, I think, something of a jade, you see. I mean to use London society horribly and then dash away once I have had my fill."

Her amusing honesty and the glint in her green eyes were bright, illuminated by the chandeliers, and Langley could not remember for all the world, any woman who had ever seemed more alive with the possibilities of the lark they were engaged on, so that he could not stop himself laughing. The noise was a genuine one, ripped from Langley's throat almost despite himself, and caused him to tilt his head back in utter delight. Several nobles and ton members turned and looked at them in disgruntlement, unused to the reality of such a sound.

"Come," he said, unable to resist, "we should dance."

"As long as it is a preamble to finding the clock that is secreted here."

It stayed with him, that feeling of release, of laughter, of amusement, long after the rudimentary dance was done, and they had worked out where the clock was.

Each in turn found a reason to slip from the main ballroom, and meet each other in one of the winding passageways, past prying eyes.

"Are you certain it is this way?" There was something to Margot's voice that told Langley she found this search as thrilling as he did.

Nodding in response, he reached for her hand, interlinking their fingers, and they slipped away. It would have been his tactic had he been bent on seduction, but this was a new track for him.

They found the clock in a quiet retiring room, where it was positioned in a cabinet. They exchanged smiles excitedly, and he distinctly heard her hiccup of pleasure at the sight.

A few candles lit the room, and they hurried closer, rather like children searching for presents.

"We did it." She squeezed his fingers before she released his hand, and for a moment Langley felt annoyed that she had let go. He quickly dismissed such sentimental feelings. Why hadn't he felt it when they had danced, was it merely the intimacy of being alone? He hoped that was all.

"How did you get inside last time?" Margot had prised the clock out of the cabinet and held it in her grip.

"You expect me to tell you all my tricks?" he teased with a provocative look. Margot rolled her eyes. Easing it from her hands, careful not to touch her again in case he felt those disturbing emotions once more, Langley prised open the front of the clock, but saw nothing. "The first one was at the front," he said with a sigh.

"Mayhap it is in the back." Margot was seemingly completely unbothered by touching him as she lifted the clock up to the dim candlelight. He watched as the thoughts played over her expressive face, and then she smiled, illuminating them both.

"Here," she exclaimed, as the key slipped into her hand, and she discarded the clock on the nearby table. She extended her fingers out towards him, the shimmering key on display.

There was something sweet and promising in the innocent gesture that burnt through Langley in a way he could not understand. It held a purity not because it lacked physicality, but because it seemed to symbolise more than that.

Tentatively, as if it were something precious, Langley closed the distance and touched the metal. The feel of her skin even through her formal gloves was an unnerving sensation, but one that made him feel ever so alive. He found the memory of this moment woke him over the next few nights.

A similarly concerning incident occurred at their long-discussed visit to Vauxhall, as night settled a thick blanket of darkness overhead, all the better to paint the glorious fireworks over. And burn brightly they did—the glimmering shooting stars casting great waves of light, and explosions of red-gold, silver, and bright yellow across the black backdrop. Huddled up in their masks and thick cloaks, they arrived separately, agreeing to meet at the tip of the water's edge closest to the maze at ten thirty at night. As Langley manoeuvred away from his cohort, he spotted Margot dressed as the huntress—close enough to the Amazon he had always pictured her as.

"A little on the nose, my lord." Her gaze behind her mask swept over Langley's costume. He had come garbed as Romeo, and he watched as Margot raised a sceptical eyebrow at his costume. Often his body was studied by women—admired, he liked to think—but with Margot there was something else at play as she looked at him, although he would not dream of labelling it. He feared it resembled a need for approval. "Doesn't young Montague come to a very sad end? Far too tragic for your lordship, surely?"

"That is only because the young fool wed. If the wedding had never taken place… well, perhaps Juliet would have been happy with Paris." Langley laughed at her frown, and then added teasingly, "I suppose he could have just stolen Juliet away from their poisonous families. That would have worked too."

With a shake of her head, Margot came to stand closer to him, her head moving as she surveyed the plush outside extravaganza that was Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.

"It is beautiful." Her voice was light, whimsical, and in its depths, Langley caught a note of longing. There was to the tone of her expression, the angle of her head, and the way her body swayed to the distant sound of music, a hint of Margot's romanticism. It was a quality she hid away, but even deeper Langley suspected there was another emotion at play. Something darker and more desirous perhaps—lust.

She was not wrong, the garden did look magnificent in its decadence with its mazes, its finely decked out trees, and its lanterns hung from every conceivable point creating little golden glows in the night-time crevices. Yet it was not the garden's many beauties that had him ruminating on the right answer, or pondering how to compliment her—not that he was too caught on hoping to make her laugh again.

Margot sucked in her breath and turned to him. "You suggested we should go to the kitchens?"

As much as Langley would have liked to say no and suggest they meander through one of the elegant mazes, bringing forward the possibility that he might be able to steal a kiss, he instead offered her his hand as gallantly as he could, as if he really were the young Romeo brought to life. "Only an idiot would lead a woman away from such a scene."

"Or a man who values the longer reward," Margot remarked as her hand settled in the crook of his elbow, and they walked sedately towards the outer rim, away from the stunning sights and the naughty sounds of the ton enjoying themselves.

The servants' area removed immediately a lot of the romanticism of Vauxhall. It was a standing, all-year structure—which was why Langley had assumed they would find the key there—and it was full to the brim of people working. Evidence in all its forms that the beauty outside took real perseverance to deliver.

Slipping inside, the two of them parted, moving silently around the room, attempting not to disturb a single person. It was only when Margot paused that Langley broke away from his perusal and cut across the frantic open space towards her. In her effort to hide that she had found the clock, Margot was pretending to re-tie her mask.

"I say, my lord." Her voice was fruity and exaggerated, mimicking one of the grand dames of the beau monde. "I think it is caught in my hair. How frightful." She turned and allowed him to fiddle with her curls, whilst she blocked out the sight of her extracting the key from the clock. Once down, and Langley had found himself enjoying the feel of her silken tresses far too much, Margot stepped back. The gleam in her triumphant eyes told him enough. She had the key.

"You are most welcome, my lady." He took her arm and led her through the bustling kitchen and back towards the dark gardens.

"I think." She sounded sad, pausing before they re-entered the gardens. "I am not suited to such a place." Her laugh was a little bitter, and she hovered between the servants' kitchen and the finery that existed outside. "And yet I am not entirely of your world either."

For the briefest of moments Langley almost said, ‘You belong with me'. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow it down, not because it wasn't charming, but far more because he actually meant it.

It was galling to admit a few days later, that aside from those interludes he was also experiencing some of the most erotically charged moments of his life. Without even touching her. Their trip to Gunter's in Berkeley Square, where it turned out the clock was secreted at the back of the famous tea shop. As they waited for a quiet respite, Margot set about devouring her pistachio ice. The sight of her quick spoon, the delight in her eyes, and the way her tongue lapped up the treat—Langley found his imagination running wild with erotic thoughts of how he would much rather occupy her mouth and tongue. When the moment came for him to stand and grab the clock, as indicated by Margot's waggling eyebrows, he had been unable to stand for fear his tenting breeches would be revealed. The accidental spillage of his own hot tea had provided enough cover… but still, never could Langley remember the force of his own lust for this Amazon.

Now as he wandered his way through the smart salon belonging to some lord or other, at a musical recital filled to the brim with poor, forced-to-be-there debutantes, he dwelt on the diamond scheme. They—Margot, Mrs. Bowley and her maid—had been to everything that the ton had on offer. They had improved on each of their jaunts. Langley had improved at spying out the clocks themselves, and Margot had discovered a skill at opening the clocks and finding the keys. Why, yesterday evening at the Haymarket Theatre, they had even had to break into the stage manager's office, ransack the place, and then once the key was secure, right the office again—the memory brought a smile to Langley's face.

The remaining location would prove tricker. He had been leaving their visit to Madam Sandrine's—a notorious brothel owner and her luxurious but infamous house—until last, not entirely sure how to broach that subject with Margot.

On this particular night, the musical recital had ended, and he was sipping from the glass of champagne he had procured them, as they discussed their favourite composers. Margot's choice had surprised him, and he now wanted to take her to a performance of Bach so he could watch her delightful response playing across her face, to see if it matched the passion she had shown when simply discussing why she loved the German composer.

The salon was a handsomely appointed room, and now the music had ceased there was a pleasant murmur of chatter surrounding them. He had learnt that he was surprisingly good at ignoring everyone else in favour of listening to Margot.

They had managed to seclude themselves slightly behind a large potted plant, to discuss their taste in music and even what instruments they'd practised as children. This evening had in fact been arranged as a cover, as there was no need to locate or add a key to their growing collection. In total they now had ten keys.

"I was truly terrible at the piano." Margot mimicked what she would have done as a child, and Langley tried his best to hide his smile. Again. He could not bear for her to know how much she moved, amused, and stirred him. "Although I suppose one is not meant to admit that in mixed company."

"I will not hold it against you. At least you have not inflicted the performance on anyone else. A lesson a lot of other young ladies perhaps should have learnt instead of their murdered concertos," Langley said as Margot grinned.

"Well." She paused, and he wondered if she would finally tell him a tiny parcel more about her home life, and whatever was magical about the Keatings. She had told him fragments of her existence before London. Elements of her life that sounded quaint, so very different from his own austere upbringing. It was galling to feel as if Margot's life had been far richer than he ever expected, and that it made his own look rather pale in comparison.

"But at least I can hold a tune," Margot said. There was a slight edge of pride to her voice as she drew herself taller. "It was my one saving grace when I was growing up, the one thing I was better at than Elsie…"

In that moment, all that Langley wanted to do was to ask her to sing, to watch her mouth form the notes, the tremble in her throat and décolletage as she hit her stride. It would be thrilling to watch her body transform as she sang. The sheer wanton sensuality of the imagined performance burnt through him—having ignored that aspect of his personality for the last days suddenly made him feel cumbersome, and now he was alive, encouraged by the very weakest of champagne and close confinement with her.

Before Langley could do anything more than fantasise and sway a little closer to her, loud chatter interrupted them. It was the carrying tones of an older woman, one who was excited and proud, and immediately Langley recognised Mrs. Bowley's pitch.

"Well, I must say, I do pride myself on my success rate with my girls," she said, her voice confiding but with an unmistakable edge of pride to it. "I always manage to find my charges someone, but even I would never have considered Langley. Ever."

"Given what he himself has always said on marriage, you would never think he would fall prey."

"It is always the most arrogant who fall in love the hardest," Mrs. Bowley said. Langley froze, his eyes moving away from Margot and towards the plant, where his bad name was being reformed. His well made, fortified, and long ago created aura as a libertine was being dissected and destroyed. Simply for helping Margot.

Weakly Margot cut in, "I'm sure I don't know what they're referring to. No one thinks we are… involved. They know you are simply?—"

Abruptly, Langley bowed to her, his movements stiff as he pivoted and walked away from Margot. He had clung to his bad name for all it was worth—it was something of a rebellion. He enjoyed, hell, he even loved being so free. Now it seemed as if the ton had simply been waiting for him to break when the right woman batted her eyes at him. Fury beat through him as he reached the doors of the salon and flung them open. His mind whispering to him, surely you knew the risk of escorting her. And what? He had simply believed that no one would think him sincere. With a daunting, unpleasant realisation he saw that was precisely what he had expected. He had utterly overestimated his own abilities and underestimated the ton's desire to see everyone wed.

In the mansion's hallway, there was a gathered collection of young bucks, one of whom Langley recognised as Laird Lionel Fleming, one of the frequent visitors to his previous orgies. Fleming's eyes lit up when he spotted Langley, and he gave an ironic tilt of his head in greeting.

With forced sanguinity Langley ambled forward, trying not to think about the conversation he had just overheard. Not dwelling on his freshly ruined reputation, or the look Margot had just given him as he'd departed—one of hurt and reproach.

The gentlemen shifted to welcome him into their circle, and Fleming slapped his shoulder in greeting. Langley tried to feel as if he were pleased to be back in the masculine company, rather than simply wishing to hurry next door to Margot.

"Did you hear about the race on Friday?"

There were a few murmured voices, which Langley was only partly listening to as the talk moved away to bets that had been placed, and who had been humiliated.

"How about you, Langley?" an insolent voice drawled, and Langley turned to look at a gentleman he vaguely recognised. "Provided, of course, you are not too caught in the parson's mousetrap by then."

The other three gentlemen present laughed, but Fleming jumped to his defence. "No, no, not Langley. Perhaps Miss Keating is simply…" The laird cast a desperate look at Langley, but nothing witty occurred to him. That sort of anger at the implication of what had been said was beating through him—all he wanted was a moment where she was not on his mind, where he did not have to think about Margot.

With a diplomatic shrug, Langley did not reply. He was done with being laughed at, considered a lost romantic cause for a woman who whilst he sometimes thought might be attracted to him, had given him no real encouragement. She would leave when those keys were found or when Ashmore's heir arrived, and Langley would be the one left behind, forced to rebuild himself and deal with a society now convinced he simply needed the right woman.

His movement caused an outbreak of laughter. There was a caustic ring to the guffaws as the men took whatever lewd meaning they wanted to from the gesture. Let them think he was tupping her. Let them think he was fucking Mrs. Bowley—what did Langley care? This had always previously been his attitude towards affairs, so why did it taste so bitter in his mouth now?

"Wait, wait… perhaps Langley is simply onto something special. I've never been with such a tall one," slurred one of the men, Sir Patrick Elliot, a baronet that Langley did not know well, "or a chit who is so clearly on the shelf. I would imagine she is sufficiently eager, begging heh?"

As someone not often prone to violence, Langley could vividly imagine grabbing Elliot by the scruff of his neck and watching the baronet's square face turning a glorious red, until the gentleman dropped to his knees, spluttering, and swore to never mention Miss Keating's name again. That would be satisfying. But if Langley did that he might as well go and propose to Margot immediately.

So, he settled for a sneer as he tried to calm this new sort of anger festering inside him. It was a strange, painful rawness that was pumping through his body as he looked at the pitiful baronet. "Surely—" He looked around at the gathered gentlemen. "—you know me better than to think I would do anything to fuel such rumours. I never have before. With any of the others. Why would I now? There is nothing special about one woman." It was Langley's general line, to never talk about the ladies he had fucked. He never needed to—women liked to gossip about him enough on their own.

To this the remaining gentleman laughed, enjoying the full implication. Deciding he had had enough, Langley shifted and saw that the doorway had opened, and saw the tall figure hesitating at the frame. It was his Amazon, Margot. She must have overheard his comments to the group.

Cursing internally, Langley moved with quick steps, breaking away from the gentlemen and back towards her lingering form. She released the doorhandle and stepped away when their eyes met. Langley reached the door and walked through after her.

Margot stood still in the shadows and Langley was grateful to see she had not rushed away, nor had Mrs. Bowley, who was close by, moved nearer. He would resent Mrs. Bowley for this evening, but it was in part his fault for not making his position clearer. Not that he was entirely sure of his own position…

"I assume that you overheard a private conversation?" Langley asked.

Her bright eyes were sharp, and her face took on a judgemental consideration. "Did you try to keep it quiet? It is a public hallway in which you threw my good name to the dogs through implication. Isn't it important that everyone know we are not attached? Perhaps you can stand on the musical stage now and declare far and wide you would never marry me? Would that make you happy?"

Guilt rumbled through his stomach, and Langley wished he had gone with his initial instinct and strangled Elliot. Perhaps that would have at least meant he didn't have to face Margot's reaction.

"What you seem to have failed to consider is that I would never agree to wed you," Margot said as she moved a step closer to him. Her eyes were fixated on him, and he could see the ferocity alight, buried within the green shades. "I would much rather remain the stale old maid that I am than be married to a man who would never know the value of fidelity, or love, or any good thing that might come from such a union."

"Then we are in agreement," Langley said, ignoring any of her slights. After all, she was hurt, and women would frequently lash out when slighted. Besides, he didn't care. She was simply stating something he had always agreed with—those were sentiments he himself clung to. No, he would never marry, he had never wished to. Yet his Amazon had rejected him out of hand, before he had even asked, which he thought now was a little brutal of her.

Margot stopped. She sniffed and adjusted herself. Smoothing out the gloves and then the skirts of her long gold dress. Unable to help himself, Langley admired her figure, all refined elegance. He realised he desperately wanted to explore her frame with his hands, fingers, mouth, and tongue. "Indeed," she said, cutting into his lustful thoughts. "What a relief that we are both so aligned. Neither of us would ever be tempted to enter such a disastrous arrangement."

He could see she might give him the cut direct and depart, but swiftly Langley held up his hand, stopping Margot in her tracks before she could scurry back to Mrs. Bowley's side.

"No matter what the provocation?" he asked. "Do you think we will always be so aligned?"

"Given that I all but overheard you stating to your friends that I am your mistress?—"

"At most it was a lazy implication," Langley defended himself, even though to his ears it sounded pathetic. "Besides, you knew the risk when you chose to involve me. I have never lied…" Other than about his blatant interest in her, but that did not need to be mentioned presently. "I always said I would never wed."

With a shake of her head, Margot replied, "You may well feel differently were I not the penniless daughter of a?—"

"Given I never have previously given any consideration to other female members of the ton, I doubt your status or lack thereof would impact me, love."

"Were my father a man of position or wealth, he might?—"

"Others have tried," Langley said. It had been years ago, but Viscount Marsilio had attempted to entrap Langley at a country party on the older man's estate. Thankfully, Langley had been too drunk to notice the blatant seduction attempt by the viscount's widowed daughter, and he had been rescued by Lord Bridgemore before anything too compromising had occurred. "But the reason I ask is because tomorrow we are going to Madam Sandrine's, and if you are discovered there, no one would ever accept you again, anywhere."

"I had forgotten the last trip." She forced a fake smile onto her lips that did not meet her eyes. "Very well. That will be our last encounter. At that point we will have visited every site left on my half of the map."

"What do you intend to do next?" Langley asked, unable to resist.

"As to that, it is not your concern."

"It will be for the next day or two," Langley corrected her.

With a twisting of her hand, Margot shook him loose from her wrist. "If this is merely about me paying my dues to you, and that bribed kiss I promised you, you need not fear. I am a woman of my word."

The promise of the kiss she had made when he had agreed to help her had stayed with him, burning brightly through all their interactions. Dancing out of reach, haunting him with how he might draw it out, make the experience of tasting her for the first and only time last a lifetime.

At least, he thought as he watched Margot walk away from him, whatever happened next, there would always be that kiss to look forward to.