Follow My Lead (5 page)

“Oh my goodness!” was the sharp, anguished cry that came from Winnifred as her folio fell to the paving stones, spilling its contents into disarray. “Oh no!”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said the flame-haired gentleman as he squeezed the bridge of his nose in pain.

“Your . . . Your Grace!” stammered George, apparently recognizing the victim of Winnifred’s hand as a Duke of some kind. Of course she would accidentally smack a Duke, she thought, flushing red. But could not stop to curtsy. She had to collect her papers before they all flew away! Her articles . . . her letter of introduction!

“I’m so terribly sorry!” George was saying, attempting to bow and neaten the poor man’s coat at the same time.

“It’s quite all right,” His Grace was saying. “I knew I wasn’t going to survive the day without being smacked.”

“I beg your pardon?” George asked.

“Nothing. And no harm done, I think.” He straightened to his full height, then apparently, having noticed Winn’s own distress, said, “Do you need any help, miss?”

“I . . .” She stooped to pick up another page, then another. “Oh dear, is that all of them?” She looked around wildly. And her heart stopped when she saw the lone piece of paper, floating in the fountain.

And by the folds in the paper, she knew which one it was.

“My letter!” she cried. She reached out her arm, but it was beyond her grasp. She was about to throw caution to the wind and climb over the edge into the fountain’s low pool when a hand on her shoulder stilled her.

“Allow me,” the flame-haired Duke said, and reached for the floating paper himself. He had her in height by a foot, but it was nearly out of his reach, as well. At last he managed that final inch and handed the dripping page to Winn.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Winn breathed, but she only had eyes for the paper.
Please don’t let it be ruined, please don’t let it be ruined . . .

“No trouble—although now I know the benefit of using a walking cane.” He smiled and then gave a short bow. “Miss . . .”

But Winn, her heart in her throat, could not answer. And so, George stumbled into the void.

“Crane, Your . . . Your Grace,” he stammered, giving a short bow. “And I am George Bambridge, her cousin. I have often seen you in the Historical Society’s rooms, but you always seem so engrossed, I’ve not wanted to interrupt you to introduce myself.”

“Ah. Well, as you seem to be aware, I am Rayne. And Miss, er, Crane.” He turned to address her frozen form. “Are you quite well?”

But Winn was not well. Nowhere near it. Because . . .

“It’s ruined,” she managed in a small voice.

Her letter. Her letter of introduction written to Lord Forrester in her father’s own hand was nothing more than a bunch of squiggly, running black lines on wet parchment.

“I’m so sorry,” the Duke sympathized. “I take it the page was important.”

Important? It was everything. It was what allowed her to be here with legitimacy.

“It’s nothing, Your Grace,” George toadied, positioning himself by Winn’s side. “Just some notes, correct, Winnifred? I apologize, sir, we should be getting back home. My cousin has . . . a dinner to dress for. But, I was wondering, sir, if you would be attending the lecture series this coming week?”

“No,” Winn said distractedly.

“No?” the Duke replied when George did not.

“No, I don’t have a dinner party to dress for. Nor am I leaving.”

“Winnifred . . .” George warned, his voice kept just under angry.

“I have an invitation, George.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” he replied, flicking his eyes to the wet paper in her hand.

“Actually, George, sadly that piece of paper is still dry.”

As a quizzical look crossed her cousin’s brow, the Duke’s eyebrow went up.

“An invitation?” the Duke said, his interest piqued. And in that moment, Winnifred recognized him. From a decade ago. Jason Cummings, Marquis of . . . something or other. Now the Duke of Rayne. And George was bending over backward to impress him. Winn almost laughed aloud.

“Yes,” she said, her back suddenly straight, her purpose refound. “I have an invitation to call on Lord Forrester at the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World at my earliest convenience.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I find now remarkably convenient.”

And with that, she took her folio, her wet page held securely but at arm’s length, and neatly sidestepped George and the Duke, moving with all haste to the east entrance of Somerset House.

The two gentlemen fell into step beside her. George to her left, eyeing the damp letter in her hand, trying to make out what the bleeding ink might have been that Winn found so important, while the Duke kept pace to her right. He kept his hands behind his back and his head forward. And, was it possible, the man was whistling?

As their feet struck the stone floor in symphony, she shot a glance at the Duke’s profile. A lock of shockingly red hair bounced over his otherwise unexpressive brow—a last mark of boyishness in the fully formed man he now was. The barest of all smiles played over his lips.

“Is this amusing to you, Your Grace?” Winn asked with a scowl.

“Not at all.” Then he seemed to reconsider. “Well, somewhat. A little bit.”

“I assure you, my meeting with Lord Forrester is not at all amusing to
me
,” she replied, her chin going up.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that your situation was amusing. I simply find mine so.” At her quizzical look, he explained. “This is the closest thing to an adventure I’ve had in ages.”

Winn glanced up at him before smiling a little to herself. “It’s the closest I’ve ever been to an adventure.”

“Your Grace, I have to beg you to not encourage her in this,” George interjected. “She does not know what she’s walking into.”

“Obviously, as we just passed the Historical Society’s door.”

The whole party pulled up short. Winn shot George a dark look as the Duke indicated the door she was meant to enter.

The heavy mahogany weight of the paneled door loomed in front of Winn, its gravity pulling her forward—but her feet wouldn’t move. All she could do was stare at that door.

A small collection of gentlemen, moving along the corridor, had gathered at the sight of Winnifred and her two escorts. Small murmuring accompanied their shocked expressions.

“Do you see?” George addressed both Winn and His Grace. “She’s already causing a spectacle and she’s not even through the door. I told you, Winnifred, no lady has ever entered the Historical Society rooms.”

“And I told you there is no rule against it,” Winnifred countered, her eyes inexplicably flicking up to the Duke’s face.

“That’s preposterous,” George countered.

“Actually, that’s correct,” the Duke replied, his eyebrows up, looking impressed.

“How do you know?” Winn asked, astonished.

“I read the charter. Well, I wasn’t about to join a club without knowing the rules.” The Duke shrugged carelessly. “Call it a quirk. However,” he added, quickly redirecting the subject, “Mr. Bambridge is also correct. Some rules are implied.”

As George beamed and Winn set her shoulders in determination, the Duke’s hand worked over his jaw, considering.

“But, I suppose our lack of specificity is to your advantage, Miss Crane.”

George goggled at the man. “You . . . you cannot be taking her side!” And then, remembering, “Sir.” He took a deep settling breath. “I know you are a member and I a mere applicant, Your Grace, but you are not an academic, and I am. And academic men like Lord Forrester are very aware of appearance. And they’re not going to appreciate my cousin’s appearance here. In fact, they . . .” He turned away from the Duke and bent down to Winn.

“Winnifred, this is a mistake.”

“Let me make my own mistakes, George.”

And with that, Winnifred Crane marched forward and took the door.

Well, what was a man to do but follow?

Jason didn’t know why he was shadowing this terribly focused woman and her controlling cousin, or why he felt the need to interfere in their argument. But once enlisted, he couldn’t help himself.

Perhaps it was guilt over inadvertently ruining her apparently very important letter. Perhaps it was because she was the first woman in nearly two Seasons who did not look at him with some kind of expectation. Perhaps it was because, when her hand had made contact with his nose, it was as if she’d knocked the weight of the day clean off him—the dreary, boring day that had sat on his shoulders for so long. His dulled mind had sat straight up and said, “Well, this is something interesting, at least.”

If she had been one of those bluestockings who banged against male-only institutions simply to make men feel as if they were absolute heels bent on keeping the fairer sex low in esteem, it would have been a different story. But for some reason, he didn’t think that was her objective. Such women had a different posture than this tiny female.

And tiny she was—barely brushing Jason’s shoulder. She reminded him of nothing so much as a sparrow. And remarkably, all one color. Her tawny light brown hair was capped by a light brown straw hat, which was decorated by light brown ribbon. Her gloves were light brown leather, her spencer a somewhat darker mud. And when she nervously shot a glance in his direction, he was startled to find the lightest of hazel eyes. But everything else—it was as if she had never before sought to stand out.

But as she threw open the doors to the Historical Society’s great rooms, stand out she did indeed.

A number of men milled about, standing or sitting in clusters of chairs and sofas, having murmured discussions—whether they discussed the significance of illuminated manuscripts after the invention of the printing press, or a story in today’s
Times
, Jason was never to know. Because at the appearance of Miss Winnifred Crane, all conversation abruptly ceased.

He looked down at her—the little sparrow pale and unmoving. Her eyes flicked nervously down to the folio in her hands. But still she remained frozen to her spot.

And suddenly, Jason was taking the reins of the mischief.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Just follow my lead, Miss Crane.”

That seemed to shake her out of her reverie. Just in time, too, for the steward of the Historical Society, Edwards—who ran the inner workings of the Society as efficiently as he did quietly—came up to Jason.

“Edwards, my man!” Jason called out jovially, giving the gathering audience a prologue to the play about to be performed. “I think we are in for an interesting afternoon!”

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow. “Madam,” he addressed Miss Crane, “may I be of some assistance?”

Code for “What the hell are you doing here?” Jason thought, squelching the impulse to smile.

To her credit, Miss Crane did not flinch at Edwards’s tone. “Yes, I’ve been invited to converse with Lord Forrester. Could you direct me to him?”

Edwards did not blink before answering. “I’m terribly sorry, but Lord Forrester is not in his offices this afternoon. Would you care to leave a card?”

Maybe it was the look on her face—a fragile breaking, presented with this quandary. Maybe it was the look on George Bambridge’s face—relief punctuated by triumph, as if he himself had stopped his cousin’s foolishness. But maybe, maybe it was that small part of his brain that still liked to make trouble and hadn’t had the opportunity in so damn long.

But whatever the reason, Jason found himself the recipient of every deathly stare in the room when he said, “Really? But it’s Thursday. Lord Forrester is always at his offices here on Thursdays. Besides, I just came from a luncheon where his wife and daughter told me he was in residence.”

Edwards showed the barest of shocks before flicking his eyes from Miss Crane to Jason to another servant who stood by a door on the far side of the room. Lord Forrester’s office door. But that other man’s startled countenance offered no assistance. Edwards would simply have to extricate himself from this without his help, Jason surmised, only a little amused by the stoic Edwards being flummoxed.

“If Lord Forrester is not able to receive me today, I can come back,” Miss Crane piped up. “Every day. I don’t have much to occupy me, so I could simply stand here and wait all day.”

As George whimpered in mortification, Jason suppressed a chuckle. And then jumped into her scheme with both feet.

“Indeed?” he said, barely able to keep a straight face. “Would you care for a chair while you wait? Perhaps some tea?”

“Oh no.” She smiled at him. “I would not wish to tax the Historical Society’s resources. I’ll have likely breakfasted before I arrive. But”—she rubbed her chin, pondering—“I do tend to get light-headed and faint in the afternoons without some sustenance.”

“That we simply cannot have,” Jason replied. “Imagine a lady such as yourself,
fainting
from the length of your wait to attend to your meeting with Lord Forrester. What a terrible story that would be.”