Anne Barbour (11 page)

Jonathan remained perfectly still for several moments. Tally stole a look into his face and found that his eyes, now the color of glacial rock, were boring into hers as if they would peer into her very heart.

“What are you saying, Lady Talitha?” The words were uttered softly, but there was no mistaking the menace in them.

“I think my meaning is perfectly plain, sir.” Tally’s heart was beating in great panicky thuds that she feared must be audible.

“Not quite plain, my lady,” Jonathan said. “Please tell me exactly what you mean. Why do you find it impossible to provide me with illustrations?”

Dear God, why must he make it more difficult than it already was? Tally knew an urge to simply flee from the room and let the man draw his own conclusions. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and stared coldly back at him.

“Because your talent is a lie. You have stolen someone else’s words to cover your own inadequacy as a writer, just as a thief would purloin a coat to conceal a threadbare suit. I cannot work with one who would stoop to plagiarism.”

There, she had said it. She released her breath in a sound that was almost a sob and looked once more into Jonathan’s face. To her astonishment, his eyes had returned to their customary shade of autumn smoke, and his lips were curved in a rueful smile.

“Bravo, little spitfire. Spoken like an avenging angel. I cannot think of another woman of my acquaintance who would dare face me so.” He turned to pace the room for a moment before he stood before her again, so close that she became intensely aware of his faintly spicy scent.

“I find your sad reading of my character rather discouraging, but since our acquaintance is of such short duration, I suppose I must not take exception. Tell me, does no other explanation for that similarity occur to you?”

Tally was so taken aback by his words that for a moment she could not reply. Explanation? What other explanation could there be for his use of those phrases? Unless — oh! Oh, no! Her knees suddenly refused to hold her up, and she sank into a nearby armchair of cherry-striped silk. She could only stare at him, her eyes wide with dawning comprehension.

Drawing another chair close, Jonathan sat down and took one of Tally’s hands in his. “I had vowed that no one would ever know this about me,” he said in low, intense voice. “It is bad enough that you had to be told about my authorship of
Town Bronze
. Now, I must ask that you keep my other, er, secrets.”

Tally felt as though she were a bird, mesmerized by the proximity of a large, handsome, and extremely dangerous cat. She felt the strength of his fingers on hers, and felt — not fear — but a swift exhilaration at his touch.

“You are Christopher Welles?”

Jonathan nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

“And Clement?”

“And several others, some of whom you may have heard of.”

With an effort, Tally came to herself and withdrew her hand from Jonathan’s. She felt as though his touch had penetrated to her very bones, and she stood abruptly to take her own turn in pacing the carpet.

“But, I don’t understand! You have an enormous talent—you are—respected and admired. Why do you have such an aversion to making your name known to the public?”

“For much the same reason, I should imagine, that you prefer to remain anonymous. I would become a virtual social outcast, and, while I might not find that much of a strain, my family would suffer greatly. In fact”—he laughed shortly—“they would no doubt ostracize me. It is not fashionable, you know, for a member of the ton to express unpopular opinions. Can you not imagine the sobriquets? ‘Rabble rouser’ would be the kindest. Or, ‘lover of the Great Unwashed.’ ”

Tally observed with some surprise the bitterness written on his face.

“Would your family not support you in your endeavors? I should think they would be proud of your talent.”

Jonathan’s smile was a twisted grimace. “You do not know my family. I learned to read very early, and I can scarcely remember when I first discovered the pleasures of putting my own thoughts and emotions to paper. One day, my mother found me at my nursery table scribbling a story of high drama concerning a mouse I had seen scurrying from the wainscoting pursued by our fat, whiskered Puss. Mother expounded at some length on the undesirabilty of such a pastime. I should be, she pointed out sweetly, out on my pony, or learning to shoot the gun dearest Papa had bought for me only the day before.

“When I was ten years old, my father hired a tutor for me, only to dismiss him without a reference when it was found that the man had actually encouraged my writing efforts. Then he rounded on me and bellowed that by Heaven I wasn’t going to turn into a limp-wristed milksop while he still had breath in his body! It seemed to make no difference to him that I thoroughly enjoyed riding and shooting and hunting and all the other endeavors thought proper for a young peer. The fact that I loved writing above all was enough to cast me into outer darkness.”

Throughout Jonathan’s narrative, Tally kept her eyes fastened on his face. She, who had received nothing but love and encouragement of her talent from her father, was wrung with pity for the small boy who had met only harsh disdain from those who had no doubt meant everything to him. Unthinking, she laid her hand softly on his sleeve.

Jonathan turned to her.

“Please forgive me. I had not meant to bore on about my misspent youth. I—I have never spoken about this to anyone, you see. I did not realize I had such a fund of spleen built up.”

His smile warmed as he noted her dismay.

“Do not pity me. I made a concerted effort to excel in those areas deemed important by my father, and his pride in me was only slightly diminished by the knowledge that his oldest son cherished unmanly pretensions as an intellectual.”

Tally could not hide her indignation as she retorted hotly, “I do not wish to speak ill of your family, Jonathan, but I think they behaved like—like barbarians! I am so glad you went behind their backs to continue your writing, and I think it would serve them right if you put them in your book in a chapter all about ignorance and stupid prejudice!”

The expression of sadness on Jonathan’s face was suddenly replaced by one of light and warmth, as he gave a shout of laughter.

“What a splendid champion you make, Tally! As a matter of fact I did include a short reference to my sister, Arabella. When I was seventeen, she made my life a living hell when she discovered some very bad poetry I had written to the neighborhood flirt.”

Picturing the humiliation of an adolescent in the throes of first love, Tally bristled. “How could she have been so cruel—to her own brother! Did she tell your father? Was he very upset?”

“Oddly, Father was a model of parental forbearance on that occasion. Apparently, it is considered acceptable for young fools to write verse to the objects of their desires.”

“As long as it is very bad verse,” finished Tally with a sympathetic grin.

“Precisely.”

Tally considered for a moment.

“But surely your fiancée has been of support to you. It must have been a great comfort to you to have Lady Bellewood to confide in.”

“
Clea!
”  The unmixed horror on Jonathan’s face was almost ludicrous. “Good God, she’s the last person in the world I would tell. She must never know. You must promise faithfully you will never tell her, Tally.”

“Of course, but…”

“Clea — that is, Lady Bellewood, is of a delicate and retiring nature. She would be devastated by the uproar if it were to become known that I pen scurrilous essays and articles. I—she--we would be banished from Society, and she would never forgive me.”

“I see.”

She did not see. She could hardly believe her ears. How could he not share the deepest secrets of his soul with his beloved? Good Heavens, one would think the man had embarked on a career of piracy on the high seas! Besides, if she were any judge, Lady Belle’s nature was about as delicate and retiring as that of a Billingsgate fishwife.

“I see,” repeated Tally, coming to the conclusion that the cause of Jonathan’s extreme reluctance to acknowledge his renown as a writer centered more on Lady Bellewood’s sensibilities than those of his family. Though certainly he had been conditioned by their abhorrence of anything that smacked of intellectual pursuit.

Resolutely, she put these thoughts aside. Turning to the large table Cat had set up for her use as a drawing board, Tally picked up the little pile of preliminary drawings she had sketched the night before and handed them to Jonathan.

“Yes, these are just what’s needed.” Jonathan chuckled. “I especially like your rendition of Sir Clifford. He’s as green a tulip as one is likely to meet. I can just see him on the toddle in Bond Street. Now, what about Sir Toby Potwell? I had in mind Lord Beddoes for that hard-living old party.”

“Yes, I saw him in your key. But, so far, he has only appeared in Cribb’s Parlour.” She hesitated. “I have a confession to make.”

Jonathan waited, an amused twinkle lurking in the back of his gray eyes.

“I know I told Mr. Mapes that I was familiar with the London scene, but,” she finished in a rush. “I have no idea what a Cribb’s Parlour might be.”

“I should hardly think so, my girl,” he replied solemnly. “No gently bred young lady would have any knowledge of that haunt of sporting men.

“The owner is the ex-boxing champion of England, Tom Cribb. Devotees of the Fancy flock through its portals for the opportunity to mingle with the Pets and Bruisers, and in the hope that they might be given an invitation to join Cribb in his private parlour. It is a privilege extended to only a select few, you know.”

“Have you ever been admitted to this Holy of Holies?” asked Tally with a mischievous smile.

“I shall modestly admit to the honor. I have sparred with Cribb from time to time, and I work out regularly with Gentleman Jackson at his gymnasium.”

Tally’s eyes slid over his muscular torso, evidently the product of those workouts, and she found it necessary to take a deep breath.

Abruptly, she turned her attention back to Jonathan’s description of other taverns owned by prominent Pets of the Fancy. As he talked, Tally took notes. He went on to describe the Cock Pit near Westminster, the Fives Court, the subscription room at Brooks’s, and the aspect of the more unsavory gin and brandy shops crowded together in places such as St Giles, Seven Dials, and Tothill Fields. In none of these locales, he informed her severely, should she so much as consider placing her dainty feet.

“If you need any other information on the London scene outside the purlieus of Mayfair and Oxford Street, come directly to me,” he directed.

Tally instinctively bridled at the viscount’s autocratic manner. “If I should require your assistance, sir,” she uttered coldly, “I shall be sure to ask for it.”

Jonathan stood silent for a moment, an appreciative grin on his face. “While I applaud your spirit of independence, my dear, please accept my advice on this. There are areas of our fair city where an unaccompanied woman is considered fair game for all sorts of unpleasantness.”

He moved to place his hands on her shoulders, and the warmth of his fingers spread to the very core of her being.

“Please let me help you if you need more information on Cliffie and Clive’s favorite haunts.”

Breathlessly, Tally stepped back.

“Thank you, my I—Jonathan, for your help in describing them. I shall render them to the best of my ability. And now, I have promised to lunch with Cat, and she will be waiting for me.”

She bowed him from the house with all possible speed.

Returning to the little work room, she sat for some minutes at her drawing table, pencil poised, her eyes directed, unseeing, not at her tablet, but into the sunny garden outside the window.

Chapter Ten

Lettie was nearly beside herself with admiration. “Oh, my lady,” she sighed. “You look—splendid. Like you just stepped out of a story book.”

Tally did not respond. She stood staring as though mesmerized at her reflection in the mirror. Lettie had brushed her chestnut curls until they glowed with warm, russet highlights, and piled them high atop her head, leaving a few tendrils to dance about her cheeks.

Her eyes, seeming even wider than usual, were candlelight on brown velvet, and her lips, touched with the lightest of pink, curved in a soft smile. Smooth, round shoulders rose from a gown of amber satin, which fell in heavy folds from just under her breasts to the floor. Gold thread, woven into a delicate leaf trim, shimmered as she moved. Against the sweet curve of her bosom lay a topaz necklace, its luster reflecting the candlelight which surrounded her.

“Thank you, Lettie,” she whispered.

She could hardly believe that the young woman who gazed back at her from the mirror was herself—plain, country Tally Burnside. But she was not plain, was she? She could not qualify as a genuine beauty, but the girl in the glass was undeniably attractive.

Downstairs, Richard’s cheeks puffed in an appreciative whistle when she entered the drawing room.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Well, and well, well. I shall be the envy of every man at the ball, when I make my grand entrance with two absolute stunners on my arm.”

Tally responded with a shy smile, and Cat, herself ravishingly attired in a petticoat of pink figured silk, over which floated a cloud of silver net, moved to take Tally’s hands in her own.

“My dear, you are positively dazzling! You will not lack for partners tonight!”

“Why?” asked Tally demurely. “Have you already coerced another consignment of young men to steer me about the dance floor?”

“There will be no need for coercion tonight, my girl.”

Cat’s words proved to be prophetic, for, while the males assembled at the Talgarth ball were not precisely thunderstruck, en masse, Tally found her hand claimed for a Boulanger almost as soon as she emerged from the ladies” cloak room.

Her partner was an extremely shy young man, and Tally soon forgot her own diffidence in setting him at ease. So successful was she, that in a matter of moments, the youth, who introduced himself as Mr. James Wilmot, not long down from Oxford, was regaling her with anecdotes of his journey home from school. To his blushing delight, he was rewarded with a trill of Tally’s clear laughter.