Chapter Two

D enzil led her out onto the floor, and the orchestra struck up the introduction to the waltz. She was quite tall for a woman and fitted perfectly into his arms. She felt unexpectedly fragile, despite the delectable curves. And she waltzed divinely, gracefully, giving herself to the music.

Memory slotted into place, and he smiled. “St. Petersburg. The summer of 1806.”

She blinked. “ That is where we met? I was certainly there with my father. Why do I not remember you better?”

“Oh, I was very junior then, and I don’t believe we actually met. I only attended the ball to pass an urgent message to your father. I was not invited. I was only plain Denzil Talbot in those days, a very minor functionary of the British Embassy.”

“You inherited the title from your father?”

“Oh, no. It was conferred upon me after Vienna.”

“Not such a minor functionary nowadays, then?”

“All things are relative.”

“And yet you remember me.”

He thought about it and stuck to the truth. “It was your poise that impressed me. I thought someone so young and lovely, with that much self-possession, must be royalty, or at least of the most powerful aristocracy.”

She laughed. “If only you knew how amusing that is. I was merely used to the company of such people through my father. In those days, I knew my place was to help him.”

“And now?”

“Everything changes,” she said a little dreamily. The smile lingered on her lips, sweet and oddly sensual at the same time.

“How is it you remember me at all?” he asked, more in an effort to understand her than because he really wanted to know. In truth, he had always been able to make an impression when he chose to, and he had been young and ambitious ten years ago in St. Petersburg.

“Now that it’s coming back to me… You were different,” she said.

He blinked.

She smiled. “It was a long time ago. I remember you seemed…intense. And yet fun. I believe I hoped you would dance with me, so of course, I didn’t look at you again after those first moments. And when I did look, you had gone. But I was right then—I like the way you dance. I’m glad I chose you tonight.”

“I thought I chose you.”

“Only because I gave you the opportunity.”

“No,” he said, “but let us not quarrel over it. Why did you choose me?”

She considered. “Perhaps because when I saw you before I wanted to dance with you. There seems a pleasing cycle to it now, a closing of the circle. It is a good way to end.”

“End?” he repeated, startled. “Miss Vale, are you truly ill?”

“Oh, goodness, no. It is merely the end of an era for me. The ending of my old life and the beginning of the new. Rejoice, my lord. This is my last dance.”

“Ever?” he said cautiously, for he distrusted the self-deprecation, the mockery in her voice.

“Ever,” she confirmed.

“But why?”

“I am thirty years old. I am a confirmed spinster and I wish to stand on my own two feet.”

“I am almost five and thirty and have no intention of giving up dancing.”

“You are a man, not a spinster who wishes to earn her own living.”

Was that what it was about? Payment? Money? It did not fit with the dreamy girl in his arms, her body swaying to the music, following his every step with grace and joy.

“It would be a crime against nature if you never danced again. Can you not do both? After all, the dancing would still be your choice, as is, presumably, whatever you choose to do to earn your living.”

“At my age, if one dances, one is accused of pathetically hunting a husband. Rest easy, my lord, I am not. But I do not wish to be mistaken for any such thing when I have only my reputation to protect me.”

“Then you plan to leave your family?” he said slowly, his waning suspicions re-aroused.

“Eventually. When my twin siblings no longer need me. The older ones will all marry or find their own way in the world. A spinster hanging around the house like a bad smell—”

“Miss Vale,” he protested, only half laughing. “Trust me, no one would accuse you of that!”

“I would,” she said.

“So what is your alternative? To take up a position in someone else’s household? Perhaps as companion to a capricious old lady?”

She shook her head. “That would not do for me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. My sister has a companion who travels with us. In fact, she is with us tonight.”

“Is your sister a capricious old lady?”

“No, she is the best of sisters,” he said ruefully. “And very happy with her companion. So what is it you have in mind?”

“What I am good at.”

His pulse had quickened. Perhaps it was the movement of the dance. Or it might have been her air of confessional. Was she about to admit her sins to him? Would it really be that easy? “Go on.”

“Organization,” she said, surprising him all over again. “I can organize people’s lives, libraries, papers, according to whatever purpose is necessary. I am also fluent in several languages, so I can act as translator as well as secretary, and as interpreter at personal meetings.”

“And there is call for such work? In a private capacity?”

“I have two clients already. One who sent me a huge parcel of haphazard notes to organize for a book he is writing. Another requires translation work in the short term, and in the long, he will need my organizational skills.”

Got you, thought Denzil, although he felt no triumph. From her openness, she was a dupe rather than a deliberate traitor, but it would amount to the same thing. Something like disappointment churned in his innards. He rather liked this odd woman, and she was causing chaos, whether deliberately or not.

“What does your family think of your plans?”

“They do not yet know,” she admitted.

“Something else you want me to keep from them?”

“I can’t imagine the conversation will come up, should you ever meet.”

“Then you are content with your arrangements?”

“So far.”

“Hmm… And are these clients Blackhaven people?”

“Oh, no. I advertised my services. My clients send me work and instructions by post.”

“You are very…enterprising,” he observed.

“Perhaps you will remember me if your department has need of such skills.”

“Oh, I will remember you,” he promised.

Her lips twitched, as though she caught the irony in his words—under no circumstances could he allow her anywhere near Foreign Office documents—but she did not appear to be troubled. Instead, she seemed to lean into the music once more, and he spun her around and around just to make her smile and to feel the quickening of her warm, lithe body that never quite touched his. He had an urge to stroke the curve of her waist, to draw her so close she would rest against his chest, his hips…

He had been quite wrong about the girl he had glimpsed ten years ago. Although she retained the unique outward poise he had noticed then, she possessed no power at all. He had yet to make up his mind whether she was actively seeking it, or just blundering into it. Either way, she would have to be stopped, preferably in a manner that did not reflect badly on the great diplomat, Sir George Vale, her late father.

The music was coming to an end. He had no doubts that he could keep her by his side, inspire more confidences, even persuade her to dance again despite her insistence that this was the last.

She sighed, her breath whispering against his cheek as the dance ended. And yet her smile was dazzling as she curtseyed to him, depriving him of breath all over again.

“Thank you, Lord Linfield,” she murmured. “That was perfect. Goodbye.” And she slipped away from him into the crowd before he could even reply.

*

Shortly after his dance with Miss Vale, Denzil enjoyed an amusing reunion with old friends from Vienna days. The Gaunt family had always been delightful. Its head, Lord Launceton, now played up his Russian connection, wearing his Cossack uniform and saber to annoy the more staid of his English critics. He was still a beguiling mixture of hedonism and family responsibility, while his wife was simply delightful, and her sister, fulfilling her early promise, was stunningly beautiful.

Denzil was not best pleased to be interrupted by a smiling matron claiming acquaintance with him.

“My lord, what an unexpected pleasure to discover you in Blackhaven! How do you do?”

“How do you do, ma’am?” he responded civilly, racking his brains in an effort to recall who the devil she was. Normally, he had an excellent memory for names and faces, so he suspected they had never been formally introduced. On the other hand, she did seem vaguely familiar, so they had possibly attended the same party in London.

Still smiling, the woman reached behind her and all but dragged a blushing young lady to her side.

“You remember my daughter, Marjorie, of course.”

His instinct to crush the mother’s pretensions withered in face of the daughter’s clear misery. The girl had a pretty enough face, marred by excessive, nervous embarrassment, even fear.

He found himself smiling kindly and lying. “Of course. How do you do, Miss Marjorie?”

She fell into stammering disorder, which clearly infuriated her mother. Denzil, with the same foolish impulse that caused him to rescue abused dogs and donkeys, immediately asked the daughter to dance and knew he would regret it.

The girl looked both stunned and relieved, while the mother beamed with delight. Dutifully, Denzil led the girl into the country dance set beginning to form.

“I’m so sorry,” Miss Marjorie whispered. “My mother believes you must remember us, but I can tell you do not.”

“I meet so many people,” Denzil explained. “And am happy to do so. And since we are now fellow conspirators, perhaps you could remind me of your name.”

“Marjorie Match, my lord. My mother is Mrs. Match, and my brother—”

“Mr. Match?” he guessed.

A fugitive smile passed her lips and vanished into alarm. “I’m sorry. I have such a dull habit of stating the obvious!”

“Not at all. I did ask. Forgive my inappropriate sense of humor. Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Oh yes!” Her lie was obvious. Clearly she was hating it, not least her dance with him, which she imagined had been forced by her mother.

When the dance began, she looked unflatteringly relieved, since it meant she was not obliged to talk to him for most of the time. Denzil felt sorry for her, but since he so clearly terrified her, as soon as the dance ended, he thanked her, escorted her back to her mother, and effaced himself.

*

“At least he danced with you,” Marjorie’s mother said with a sniff. “But really, Marjorie, could you not have made an effort to keep him with you a little longer? He might have asked you again.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t. I am not nearly clever enough for him. I don’t understand most of what he says.”

“You are not meant to be clever, merely decorative, submissive, and capable of running his house.”

“But Mama, I could not be comfortable in his house.”

“You would learn to be. And you needn’t look so terrified, because he is hardly ever in any of his houses. He is someone important in the Foreign Office and is constantly abroad. Rich and absent, he would be perfect for you.”

Marjorie, who had not looked on either Lord Linfield or marriage in quite those terms before, wondered if she might survive the institution after all. Especially if it took her away from her mother. A peaceful home was suddenly very attractive.

Maybe the thing could be achieved, she decided some time later. She cast a glance around the room, seeking him out, and eventually found him sitting beside a very beautiful lady, older and much more elegant than Marjorie. He was smiling, though it made him no less intimidating.

“ She is lovely,” Marjorie murmured with just a shade of envy. “I cannot compete with her. Unless she is already married to someone else?”

“Who?” her mother demanded, following her gaze. Somehow, Mama always knew who everyone was. “Oh, dear me, no. That is a person you will never encounter. My dear, she is only Delilah Vale, the illegitimate scion of a very ramshackle family, and if he is courting her, it is not for marriage! That is where you come in, and for his considerable fortune, you will kindly make the effort! We came all this way to secure him, and that is what you will do.”

“Yes, Mama,” Marjorie said, sighing.

*

There was something about Lord Linfield, Delilah had acknowledged as she made her way away from him through the crowd of retreating dancers. Perhaps the contrast between the intensity of his eyes and the lightness of his easy manners. Or just that she liked the way he looked. And danced. Feelings and desires she had almost forgotten held her in their grip as they waltzed. He was perfect.

How sad, how lonely, to say goodbye .

And yet that was what she did, though with unexpectedly sharp regret.

She knew in her heart that nothing had changed. She was aware he had danced with her because she had given him little choice. If he wasn’t laughing at her, he would have been bored with her. And when she saw him almost immediately with other ladies, it merely confirmed what she already knew.

It didn’t matter. She had said farewell to her youth in style. And now she would embrace spinsterhood in her own way. She sat at the shadowy end of her family’s table, making occasional forays to keep Lucy under her eye. Even before they lost her, she had been up to something. Delilah knew the signs.

Actually, they were all up to something. Julius fled before supper. Roderick was so tense he should have splintered. Felicia and Cornelius were both excited, while Aubrey, mischievous and predatory, appeared to be in pursuit of the most beautiful girl in the room.

For Delilah, the ball was over. Now, she merely sat it out, waiting for tomorrow, when her work could begin.

“Pardon me, are these seats taken?” drawled a grating female voice.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Delilah replied politely. “My family…” Words and thoughts both dried up as the woman smiled at her. Tall, slender and yet large-bosomed, she wore a low-cut gown of daring, vibrant scarlet with a black lace train. Her face was carefully painted, as ladies of the previous generation sometimes did—subtle but unmistakable in this case, enabling Delilah to recognize her right away.

“Well now, I count as family,” the woman said with a trilling laugh. “Here we are—Reggie, put the champagne down here. Oh, did you bring a glass for my Lah-Lah?”

The “Lah-Lah” still made her cringe.

“You gave me the name Delilah, Mother,” she pointed out. “Could you not bring yourself to use it?”

“Oh, hush, Lah-Lah. Call me Nell, or all your highborn friends will hear and cut the acquaintance with you. Here she is, Reggie—doesn’t she look more beautiful than ever?”

“Charming, utterly charming,” replied a beaming Reginald Miller, once the handsomest actor ever to tread the boards of a London theatre, now running a little to seed. But he was so talented and good-natured that everyone pretended not to notice, and he still got most of the leading roles he wanted.

Delilah had nothing against him, except that he was married—probably—to Nell. Even Nell herself had exhausted most of Delilah’s hurt, tears, and anger long ago, leaving only weary, slightly irritable tolerance behind. Or so Delilah believed. Hardly the maternal type, Nell had dumped Delilah on her married father at the age of six months. Almost thirty years later, Delilah could acknowledge that she had enjoyed a much better life with George Vale. However, the realization that neither Julius and Roderick’s nor Cornelius, Felicia, and Aubrey’s mother was hers had hit her child self hard. As had Nell’s neglect.

No, Nell was not maternal. But she still thought she had a right to buzz in and out of Delilah’s life whenever she chose, which was, on average, every five years or so, usually when she wanted something from George. She had even turned up at the funeral, asking for a memento. Julius, generous by nature beneath his harsh exterior, had given her the gold tie pin that now adorned Reggie’s cravat, and a bed for the night. She had gone again by morning, which meant that this evening’s meeting was well within the customary five-year gap.

“What brings you to Blackhaven?” Delilah asked. “Are you ill?”

“Lord, no, never better,” Nell assured her. “Just come to see my beautiful little Lah-Lah. And of course we’re in a new traveling play, which opens at the Blackhaven Theatre next week. You must come and see it! I’ll send you tickets for the first night. Reggie has the leading role, and he is wonderful—aren’t you, darling?”

Delilah didn’t ask how they had gained admission to the assembly rooms. Although the ball was strictly for the aristocracy and the gentry—with a small handful of the most respectably wealthy middling families—both Nell and Reggie were adept at accents and lies.

“Congratulations,” Delilah said politely to Reggie. “I’m sure I shall enjoy it.”

“Best not bring any of your nob family with you,” Nell advised. “We don’t want to show you up.”

“Where are you staying?” Delilah asked, hoping she would not be left to pay her mother’s hotel bill, which she could not afford under any circumstances.

“Oh, the theatre hired us lodgings nearby. Miserable little place, not like Sir George’s vast pile.”

“Black Hill House is hardly a vast pile,” Delilah said mildly. “And it is Julius’s now.”

“He doesn’t begrudge you house room there, does he?”

“No,” Delilah said.

“Ooh, look, there’s a gentleman coming this way! Are you courting at last, Lah-Lah?”

“No,” Delilah said again, and looked beyond her mother to discover with some horror that Lord Linfield was strolling in their direction, a glass of wine in each hand. Why would he do that? I dismissed him!

“Come on, Nell,” Reggie said, standing decisively. “We’ve pushed our luck far enough here, and we don’t want to spoil little Delilah’s chances.”

He smiled directly at Linfield as he said that. Linfield smiled distantly and inclined his head. There was very little chance he had not heard.

Please don’t let Nell wink at him…

She winked.

“What an extraordinary couple,” Linfield remarked. “Who are they?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You intrigue me. First, however, may I join you? I brought you wine by way of pleading my case.”

“What case?”

“Joining you, of course,” Linfield replied, setting down the glasses and sitting beside her. “I’m sure your chaperones will appear forthwith.”

“I am beyond the age of needing chaperones,” she said irritably.

“Why are you in such a hurry to be old?”

She blinked. “I assure you, it is something over which I have no control.”

“What about those two characters who just left? Do you have control over them?”

Characters . A surge of anger clashed with her jangling nerves. “Such disdain for my parents! Considering they have done nothing to earn it.”

For once, she had actually surprised him. He paused, his glass halfway to his lips, and set it down again. “Parents? Sir George—”

“Sir George neglected to marry my mother,” she said. “She is, as you have so loftily pointed out, not quite the thing. I imagine you judge my stepfather similarly.” There was no mistaking the startled shame in his expression. She doubted he was a man who put his foot in his mouth very often. “I am illegitimate, my lord. Born on the wrong side of the blanket. A bas—”

“I understand,” he said mildly. “Please forgive my crass words.”

“Already forgotten, I assure you.” She sat back, unsure where all this fury was coming from, just as Felicia sat down opposite them.

Lord Linfield turned his gaze to her, smiling with pleasure or relief, or both. “Mrs. Maitland.”

And abruptly, Delilah understood. She almost laughed aloud. Of course he had not sought her out. He had come for Felicia, with whom he had danced before. As suddenly as it had arrived, her anger vanished, leaving in its place a sense of shame and disappointment that pricked at her eyelids.

Foolish. Foolish . He was her last dance, not her first, and it was already over.

*

One of Denzil’s skills, which had been particularly useful in his diplomatic career, was his quick and accurate judgment of people. Even from a distance, he had seen that the couple who sat beside Delilah were wrong . Their mannerisms were too ostentatious, their dress just the wrong side of flamboyance, distracting, clearly, from the inferiority of the materials. To most they would have seemed like a slightly eccentric pair, a wealthy couple, perhaps from abroad, or merely nouveaux riches .

But that was not what Delilah Vale thought. There was tension as well as irritability in the stiffness of her posture. They had upset her poise, which both interested and annoyed Denzil. He wasn’t quite sure which of those emotions propelled him across the room to investigate. He wasn’t surprised that the couple scarpered, merely flabbergasted by Miss Vale’s explanation.

He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had always known George Vale had illegitimate children whom he acknowledged and lived with, so why had he never thought that Delilah could be one? Why had he not been told?

Because it doesn’t matter . He saw that quite clearly while he chatted with Mrs. Maitland. The sisters were comfortable together, and when one of the brothers appeared, a quick exchange of glances seemed enough to communicate the safety of the youngest sister, now dancing the final waltz of the evening with an elegant young man.

As he left the Vales and walked around the edge of the dance floor to his sister and her companion, Denzil found himself wishing he danced again with Delilah. Though stupidly touched to be her last dance partner of choice, he found her decision disappointing, not least because of her admission that it was to focus on her new career, a career he was there to sabotage at all costs.

She troubled him deeply. Not just because she was the daughter of a man he had liked and respected, but because there was an innate vulnerability in her that she hid from the world. Whatever she was doing, she was not a wicked person. And that was saddest of all.