Duty Before Desire (10 page)

He looked from Henry to Norman. “What say you? Should we collect our wayward lamb and drag him out for a night of boon companionship?”

Norman raised a large hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as though fatigued. “I think we should leave him be, Sheridan. He'll snap out of it soon enough; he always does.”

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” Claudia said while cutting a bite from her venison chop. “Henry says Mr. Dyer falls into these maudlin spells once or twice a year.” She shot her husband a small, private smile. “When I met him before our wedding, he struck me as a very levelheaded sort of fellow. He'll come 'round in no time.”

Sheri scoffed. “Will he? If I may be so bold, Mrs. De Vere, I think the other gentlemen and myself are in a better position to judge whether our friend of more than a decade will come 'round in no time or not.”

Henry's fork clattered to his plate. “Now see here, Zouche—”

Claudia stayed her spouse with a hand on his arm. “This from a man who so recently required my husband to witness you being shot for debauching another man's wife. I'm not entirely convinced of the soundness of your judgment, my lord.”

Norman, who'd been trying look preoccupied with a long swallow of his own wine, snorted. A gout of red liquid shot from his nose and splattered in the middle of the table.

Claudia screeched. Sheri and Henry jumped in their seats. All conversation in the dining room skittered to a halt while heads turned in their direction.

“Ow!” Norman bellowed, clapping a napkin to his face. “Laughing wine up the nose bleeding
hurts
.” He wiped his face and raised his arm, signaling to all that he was fine.

A round of laughter and applause rippled through the room. Meanwhile, a waiter hurried over to daub up the mess and refill Norman's glass.

Glancing down, Sheri noticed a stain on his satin waistcoat. “Confound it, man, your nose-wine spoiled my ensemble.” While he blotted at the mark with his napkin, he sent a rueful smile in Norman's direction, grateful for the distraction, which had lowered tempers around the table.

“Let's discuss something else, shall we?” Henry suggested. “Such as the trouble you and Norman got yourselves into last week.”

The tall man frowned, his brows drawing together ponderously. “Do you mean the incident in the park? I wish I could have laid my hands on the blighter who attacked that girl.”

“That's what I mean, yes.” Ribbons of light skated across Henry's golden hair when he tilted his head. “All the talk says the two of you were found alone with the lady, whose dress was open.”

Sheri winced. He'd not yet had an opportunity to speak to Norman about the wild gossip flying around.

“What the deuce?” Where Sheri would have begun shouting at such an allegation, Norman's voice dropped in volume, so that everyone had to lean closer to hear. “Forgive me, Mrs. De Vere.” He nodded his apology to Claudia. “My tongue is running away from me.” Snapping his eyes back to Henry, he continued, “That's an infamous lie, and you know it. The woman was attacked and robbed. Sheri tended her while I attempted to apprehend the villain.”

Henry's hands flew up in a placating gesture. “Calm down, big man. While I'm sure Sheri has perpetrated all manner of depravity in Hyde Park, I never believed a word of that codswallop for a second, since it involved you.”

Claudia waved. “Never mind all your ridiculous male posturing. Is the lady all right? Was she harmed?”

The corner of Sheri's mouth twitched as he remembered his earlier encounter today. Though no longer suffering fever, Arcadia was still weak as a kitten and had no business tromping about London—right down St. James's Street, of all places. His scandalous kitten had claws, too, and wasn't afraid to turn them against him. He couldn't help but admire her pluck in refusing his offer to carry her. Willful chit. And damn, but she'd felt too good as he'd assisted her with an arm curved about her waist, good enough to make him forget that in word and deed, Arcadia Parks had brought him nothing but trouble. Altogether, he'd walked away from his second experience with Miss Parks feeling like he did after a bout at the boxing club—invigorated, if a little bloody.

He cleared his throat, trying to rasp the memory of her plumeria-and-sandalwood scent from his nose—a vast improvement over the bile he'd sniffed on her their first meeting. “Miss Parks came through the ordeal a little rattled, and deprived of a valuable trinket, but otherwise not much the worse.”

Claudia's soft gray-blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What happened? You are more put off by this woman than you're saying.”

Incredulous, Sheri looked at Henry.

That man shrugged. “I don't know how she does it. I barely need speak a word to her. She reads faces like most of us read books. It's remarkable.”

Claudia preened at the compliment. “So, Sheri,” she pressed, “what did this Miss Parks do to put you in such a fine fettle?”

Drawing a breath, Sheri considered. A gentleman shouldn't speak ill of a lady, but this one got under his skin like no other. She'd mocked him, called him
Lord Nothing
. She couldn't know it, of course, but she had, with those two words, succinctly encapsulated all of Sheridan's doubts and insecurities.

Fingers of heat stretched up the back of his neck as he felt the hated sobriquet burrow under his skin, spreading shame and resurrecting his ire against Miss Arcadia Parks. Who was she, anyway? Some plain-faced chit with a sing-song accent and no idea how the British aristocracy—to which she, herself, was related—worked. It wasn't exactly advanced trigonometry. Even some Indian-bred colonial should have a grasp on the ins and outs of courtesy titles and shouldn't go about insulting people who happen to have them.

“She's a terrific scold,” he said at last. “Had the audacity to complain that my rescue did not meet her exacting standards.”

A wide grin split Claudia's face. “Did she, indeed? Oh, I like her immensely already. She's my hero, in fact, for giving the lofty Lord Sheridan a taste of comeuppance. You must introduce me to her, so that I might shake her hand.”

Gesturing at the impish female, Sheri looked at Henry. “Control your woman, would you?”

“I couldn't if I wanted to, but I don't. I like her this way.” Henry and his wife exchanged another soppy smile, and if the movement of their arms was any indication, Sheri believed they were exchanging gropes beneath the tablecloth, as well.

“
Ugh
. Newlywed couples,” he muttered. Seeing two of his friends, first Brandon, then Henry, fall so blissfully into the parson's trap had been a trial for Sheri. So much sugary, marital happiness impeded his digestion.

Turning to Norman, he tried to block out the minor obscenities he had no doubt were happening across the table. Not that he objected to discreet public lewdness in principle—he just didn't care to witness his friends engaged in it.

“Zouche,” Norman hissed, “how serious is this gossip about the two of us and Miss Parks? How widespread?” He went a little white around the lips. “God's teeth, is it in the scandal sheets?”

Sheri batted away his friend's questions with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It's just petty, idle gossip. You know how it is, always some outlandish tale going around. Sort of a fictional story written by communal effort. Entertainment for the easily bored, you see? It will all be over in a few days when some other poor sod's mishap is seized upon and blown out of proportion.”

He didn't tell Norman about Miss Parks's most recent misadventure on St. James's Street. That additional grist would keep the gossip mill churning for some time.

Norman frowned. “I don't like it, Sheri. I've been making a good name for myself at the Inn. My last supervising barrister credited my work for him winning the case. The paper I presented on
civil suits brought
in forma pauperis
was well received. I could be called to the bar any day now, but I'll never make barrister with you dragging my name through the muck.”

Sheri snorted. “Resist, if you can, the temptation to fall into a fit of hysterics. As someone who has been attached to unsavory gossip a time or two, heed my words: it will all be over soon.”

He hoped. Learning that his nephew wanted to grow up to be a whoremonger
just like Uncle Sheri
had struck him unexpectedly hard. He
was
a corrupting influence, on his nephews and Norman and God only knew what other innocents.

And now, when he should be orchestrating his
tour du réforme
, Arcadia Parks and her missing peacock occupied too much room in his head. He touched the fob at his waist, tracing the family crest with a fingertip.

She wants to go back to India.

Maybe that information, like the vexing woman attached to it, should mean nothing to him. But maybe, maybe, it would be useful.

By the following morning, word of Arcadia's stroll down St. James's Street had reached Delafield House by way of Lady Delafield's tattle sheet. The lady had screamed and then fainted. Arcadia had dispatched a footman for her ladyship's smelling salts. When she recovered from her swoon, her aunt had ordered Arcadia confined to her room. For three days, ominous silence had filled the house. Lady Delafield refused to see Arcadia, other than to inform her that she would not leave her room, upon pain of thrashing. Whether or not the threat of violence was sincere, Arcadia did not care to learn.

So she bided her time, continuing her recuperation with regular meals, rest, and daily yoga practice. Despite the renewal of her physical strength, peace of mind continued to evade her. She could not forget the shame she had inadvertently brought upon herself with her reckless constitutional, or the dreadful man at the center of it. Lord Sheridan had dunked her into the scandal broth.

Outside, London enjoyed a clear morning sky dotted with fluffy clouds, betraying no hint of the firestorm she'd ignited. Her room overlooked the small garden behind the house, but she could hear the omnipresent rumble of life passing through the streets. How she hated it here. How she longed to throw her window open and escape, to return to India. How long could her aunt and uncle keep her a prisoner in their house?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, her door opened. “Arcadia,” said Lady Delafield.

Turning from the window, Arcadia nodded. “Good morning, Aunt.”

The older woman studied Arcadia. “I suppose this is the best that maid of yours could do,” she said on a resigned sigh. “Well, make yourself ready. I'm taking you for an outing.”

Stunned by her sudden liberation, Arcadia did not pause to wonder what, exactly, Lady Delafield found lacking in her appearance. She wore one of the few English-style dresses she'd brought with her from India, ivory poplin with flowers embroidered on the skirt and bodice. Since her long bout with illness, the dress was a bit loose in the waist, but Arcadia found that preferable to being squeezed within an inch of her life in the dresses Lady Delafield had provided.

Calling for Poorvaja, Arcadia quickly pulled on her gloves, took up her favorite Kashmir shawl, and donned a simple, light green bonnet before hurrying after her aunt.

When she reached the carriage, a footman handed her up. Poorvaja made to follow her into the landau, but Lady Delafield hissed and made a cutting motion with her hand. “To the back with you.”

As they rolled away from the curb, Lady Delafield sniffed. “Must you bring her everywhere, niece?”

Arcadia pretended not to have heard. “Where are we going?”

“The British Museum. You were permitted to go native in that heathen country. You need to experience your own culture.”

Despite her aunt's frosty hauteur, Arcadia couldn't repress a spurt of pleasurable anticipation. The British Museum! Here, at last, was something worthwhile. Even as a child, she'd been captivated by her father's descriptions of the great halls filled with art and antiquities from all around the world. It had sounded much more intriguing than her mother's memories of glittering Society functions.

By the time they arrived at the entrance on Great Russell Street, Arcadia was fairly bouncing in her seat. Lady Delafield presented tickets to the porter at the door, and they were shown into a grand entrance hall. The expansive marble-tiled floor was caged in by walls decorated with Grecian half columns. A large sculpture of a seated man resided between two arched iron gateways that led into the museum proper, while another statue of some bewigged fellow loomed over a few chairs situated against another wall.

Eager to discover the riches within, Arcadia took Poorvaja's hand and hurried toward the gate. Marveling in the accomplishments of Man and Nature, Arcadia and Poorvaja stared wide-eyed at the great treasures on display. Eventually, they reached a gallery empty of other visitors. A brass plate informed them this was the Towneley Marbles, a collection of Greek and Roman statuary.

“Oh, there's my friend Mrs. Durrant.” Lady Delafield turned to wave to a woman in the gallery they'd just passed through. “Stay here, niece; I shall return shortly.”

After her aunt scurried off, Arcadia turned to examine the
Discobolus
, which was situated in the center of the gallery floor. The statue was a visually arresting depiction of a perfect (and perfectly naked!) male specimen, his legs bent and torso twisted, right arm extended behind him, preparing to hurl the discus in his hand. From toes gripping the ground to shoulders bulging with exertion, every inch of the young athlete's body spoke to his powerful virility.

As she slowly circled the marble base, her eager gaze took in every slope of muscle and line of sinew. She'd never seen a naked man before, only glimpsed the occasional shirtless Indian laborer or fisherman from a distance. How astonishing that here, in the middle of the British Museum, was a naked man to satisfy the curiosity of any inquisitive young lady. Arcadia paused, tilting her head to better consider the rippled muscles of
Discobolus
's arms and chest. She couldn't help but draw comparisons between the ancient Roman and Lord Sheridan. Though she'd not seen that gentleman in such a state of undress—where had that thought come from!—he must be similarly muscled. He'd carried her with ease the first time they met, and the arm he'd clamped about her on St. James's Street had never once faltered in its support, even while he'd berated her.