Kathryn Caskie (9 page)

Still, it seemed clear to Hannah that he was not at ease, for more than once, she caught him glancing her way, absently fingering her aunts’ prized Sèvres
seau-à-liqueurs
sitting atop the mahogany table between the high windows.

Suddenly the room went quiet, and Hannah realized that everyone was looking at her.

She turned her gaze from Mr. St. Albans and saw that her fingers were no longer tapping the piano keys, but were instead poised in the air. Heat surged into her cheeks.

“Is something amiss, Hannah?” Lady Viola laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “You stopped playing midway through the piece.”

“Oh, I-I seemed to be missing a page of music, ’tis all.” She forced a twittering laugh. “Dear me. How silly I am. Here it is after all. It was just turned back to front.”

“I . . . I will leave you to your music then if you are certain you are having no difficulty.”

“No, none at all. I am perfectly fine.” Hannah realized that her reply sounded a little too cheerful to be entirely believable. “Really, please go and enjoy the soiree.”

“Very well, then. If you are . . . truly.” As Hannah nodded and smiled, Lady Viola hesitantly began to turn and head back in the direction of her sister.

Lord above.

With that embarrassment concluded, Hannah began to play again, bending her back and drawing her face close to the keys to avoid meeting anyone’s judging gaze.

Especially
his
.

And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, suddenly there was a deep voice caressing her ear. “May I turn the pages for you?”

She turned her head a bit to glance up at her all-too-willing assistant. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. St. Albans. I have played alone for most of my life. And besides, I would not wish you to miss a single word of wisdom Miss Herschel has to impart.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. That sounded a bit bitter . . . almost as if she was jealous. Which she wasn’t, of course.

Miss Herschel was an elderly woman—and, well, Hannah wasn’t the least bit interested in astronomy—or Mr. St. Albans—anyway.

Still, his eyes following the notes across the page, he reached out to turn the music, his palm sweeping along her bare arm as he did so.

Sweet tingles of warmth slid down her forearm to her hand, and before she knew what she was doing, Hannah had laid her fingers atop his, stilling his movement.

Her gaze turned upward and locked with his own. For several seconds she stared deep into his eyes, her hand upon his, her mind hopelessly blank and wordless.

In the next instant, Hannah caught in her peripheral vision a glimpse of a plump little man standing beside Mr. St. Albans. And if she was not mistaken, he was tugging at the taller gentleman’s coat sleeve.

“Well, lad, are you going to introduce me to your bride, or not?” the impatient little man demanded to know.

Hannah yanked her hand away from Mr. St. Albans’s, accidentally knocking his fingers aside and sending music sailing in every direction to the floor.

“I-I beg your pardon, sir.” Hannah could scarcely force the words from her mouth. “Did you just refer to me as . . . Mr. St. Albans’s
bride
?”

“Of course I did,” the round little man replied. “I know that no agreement has been made yet, but you are Miss Chillton, are you not?”

“I . . . well, yes I am, sir, but—”

“
Bride,
did you say?” Lady Letitia suddenly appeared between them as if she’d dropped from the crystal chandelier above.

Lady Viola hurried beside her.

In that moment, other conversations taking place within the drawing room ceased, and the eyes of Bath society seemed to fix upon the five of them.

Hannah eyed the sole remaining page of music left on the piano and considered lifting it before her face to conceal the fierce red color she felt blossoming on her cheeks.

A mistake had somehow been made, but Hannah knew it was not her place to correct it. She pinned Mr. St. Albans with an imploring gaze. “Mr. St. Albans, I-I do not believe we have had the honor of meeting your guest.”

Mr. St. Albans swallowed deeply, as though he felt as much distress as Hannah herself. “Lady Letitia. Lady Viola . . . and Miss Chillton, please allow me to introduce the Earl of Devonsfield.”

“Earl of Devonsfield?” Lady Letitia’s fluffy white eyebrows drew ever closer.

“Yes.” The earl seemed to study Lady Letitia for several moments longer than propriety deemed proper. “I am recently arrived from Devon.”

“Devon? Such lovely country. You are perhaps a relation of Mr. St. Albans?” she asked tentatively.

“I’d say so.” The portly little man seemed to rise up a bit in his shoes. “Mr. St. Albans is . . . my
heir
.”

Chapter Seven

H
annah saw Lady Letitia slip a sly glance at her sister just before flashing a great smile at the two gentlemen.

“Why, Mr. St. Albans. Heir to an
earldom
?” she practically cooed. “Aren’t you just a basket of secrets?”

Mr. St. Albans stared at the earl, almost as if he, like Hannah herself, had only just learned he was heir to an earldom.

Lady Viola seemed to catch the congruity, too. “I doubt Mr. St. Albans meant to keep his future a secret from us, Letitia. I suspect, until the earl’s recent arrival, he simply did not
remember
—because of—” Lady Viola softened her tone to a whisper. “The . . . carriage accident.”

“Oh, you must be right, Viola.” Lady Letitia flipped open her purple cutwork fan and swiped it before her face in order to whisper, a smidgen too loudly, to her sister. “He must have not remembered, either, that he has not offered for our Hannah and therefore should not represent her as his bride.”

“Sister.”
Lady Viola’s faded blue eyes widened at her sister’s shocking words, and even through the dusted coats of white powder upon her cheeks, Hannah could see the rising red evidence of the old woman’s embarrassment.

Mr. St. Albans straightened his back. “My dear ladies, I believe the earl has misunderstood the extent of my relationship with Miss Chillton.”

The earl’s gray eyebrows inched toward his narrow nose. “I do not see how. Was not my purpose here this eve to meet the gel?”

The small laugh that then burst from Mr. St. Albans’s mouth was anything but genuine, at least to Hannah’s way of thinking.

“Yes, yes, my lord, I did wish for you to make the acquaintance of Miss Chillton—and the Featherton ladies, for without their kindness after my accident, I do not know what I would have done.”

Something told Hannah that this was not the truth—not even in the same lane as the truth—but her duennas seemed to accept the explanation well enough.

As the Featherton ladies led the earl across the room for a formal introduction to the famed Miss Caroline Herschel, Hannah trained her eyes on Mr. St. Albans, who trailed behind them, and observed him keenly while pretending to arrange her pages of music.

He may have fooled the Feathertons, for indeed they seemed unable to see past his handsome facade, but Hannah knew that Mr. St. Albans was hiding something, and this notion piqued her curiosity fiercely.

All was not as it appeared with the man, that was for certain. One moment he was pompous and arrogant, the next kind and passionate. It was almost as if he were two different men entirely.

She watched him graciously accept a brandy from a passing footman.
Just what are you hiding, sir?
she wondered.

As if he’d heard her thought, Mr. St. Albans turned and glanced warmly back at Hannah. This initially startled her, but she smiled prettily at him until he grudgingly returned his attention to Miss Herschel and her learned circle of astronomers.

Hannah’s eyes remained fixed on him, however. For with no matchmaking clients at the present, she had just decided to devote her unoccupied time entirely to uncovering the truth about Mr. St. Albans.

And learning how that, possibly, involved her.

Number One Royal Crescent was in an uproar when Hannah awoke the next morning. She rolled from her bed and slipped a shawl over her shoulders before hurrying to her chamber door and peeking into the passageway.

“No, no! Pick it up.” Mr. St. Albans was standing but a few feet from her chamber, snapping at the footman who struggled with an oversized portmanteau.

“Yes. Sir.”

“Don’t run it down the stairway. You’ll mar the leather. I don’t wish to see one scratch when you reach the entry hall. Do you hear me? Not one!”

“Mr. St. Albans?” Hannah pushed a loose lock of ebony hair from her eyes and tightened the shawl around her for modesty’s sake. “What is the meaning of this? Where are you going?”

Mr. St. Albans exhaled hard through his nostrils. “It
seems
I have taken a house in Queen Square and I am to take up residence there at once.”

Now this was a bad turn of luck for Hannah. No sooner had she decided to investigate Mr. St. Albans, to determine the truth about him, than he finally found himself in sufficient health to leave Royal Crescent. “But are you yet well enough to live alone, sir?”

“Well, that’s just it, you see. The earl has decided to stay in Bath . . . at least until the comet has passed overhead. Seems he took a sudden fancy to seeing the spectacle after attending the Feathertons’ precomet soiree last eve.”

Or rather he had taken a sudden fancy to a certain Featherton sister, Hannah mused.

She had not missed seeing the admiring looks or hearing the bouquets of sweet compliments the earl showered upon Lady Letitia throughout the evening.

Hannah sensed an opportunity to do a little matchmaking.

“Mr. St. Albans, if the earl is interested in the comet, he should certainly join us this evening. Miss Herschel will be discussing its path through the sky, and her latest calculations, in the Octagon at the Assembly Rooms. I know Lady Letitia will be in attendance, and I vow she would be most grateful if the earl would deign to escort her to the event.”

“Is that so?” Mr. St. Albans flicked a dark eyebrow upward. “I shall mention it to him. I am sure he would be delighted.”

Hannah had thought that the mention of Miss Herschel’s discussion would intrigue the passionate astronomer in Mr. St. Albans, but instead he appeared almost bored with the subject.

How curious.

Then something else occurred to her. The event at the Octagon would also provide an excellent opportunity to study Mr. St. Albans.

She looked coyly up at Mr. St. Albans. “I admit, I had considered attending Miss Herschel’s discussion myself. Though, since my education did not include the study of astronomy, I fear her teachings may be difficult for the laity to understand.”

Mr. St. Albans’s eyes sparkled quite suddenly. “You are an intelligent woman, Miss Chillton. Surely, if I were to accompany you to the discussion, I could explain anything you do not fully comprehend.”

Hannah smiled. He had walked directly into her snare, and she’d caught him. “Is that an invitation?”

“Indeed it is, Miss Chillton.”

“Thank you, sir, I gratefully accept.” Hannah drew back inside her chamber, but before closing the door, tossed Mr. St. Albans a coquettish smile, just for good measure. “Until tonight then, my dear Mr. St. Albans.”

He smiled back at her and returned a decidedly rakish wink. “Until tonight.”

Hannah had not been in error when she told Mr. St. Albans that Lady Letitia would be grateful for the company of the earl. Though grateful was hardly the correct superlative for Lady Letitia’s maidenlike glee upon receiving the earl’s card requesting the honor of escorting her to the Octagon that eve.

At once the excited elderly woman raced off to her chamber, dragging poor Annie to help her dress.

Hannah smiled inwardly at her own ingenuity at facilitating a potential match. Next she focused her clever eye upon Lady Viola.

“Dear lady,” Hannah began quite sweetly, as she unfurled the leading edge of her second matchmaking scheme. “I own, Bath society has never seen such a grand affair as the precomet soiree last eve.”

Lady Viola, who was resting upon the drawing-room settee with a dampened towel upon her brow, smiled proudly.

“It was lovely and a great success, was it not, Hannah?” she asked, though Hannah knew no answer was required.

It was a lovely evening, and Lady Viola was nearly entirely responsible for it—something of which she was very proud.

“Though I vow, seeing to the arrangements right down to the smallest detail has fully drained me of all strength. I shall need a sennight at the very least before I am myself again.”

“You are to be commended for having trained your staff so well to support you. I saw how hard they worked on the preparations for nearly a week, both night and day. And yet this morn, as exhausted as they must be, they rose at dawn to see to their household duties. Truly your training is to be admired.”

Lady Viola’s mouth rounded, and she drew herself upright. “Dear me, I was so weary, I had not thought to release the staff from their duties this day, though they have certainly earned a respite.”

Hannah nodded in agreement. “Indeed they have, Lady Viola.”

“Be a dove, would you, Hannah, and summon Edgar for me, please.” Lady Viola lowered her feet to the floor and handed Hannah the folded towel. “And . . . do something with this, would you? I am feeling much better now.”

“Absolutely.” Hannah excused herself from the drawing room and hurried below stairs, where she found Edgar having tea with Mrs. Penny, the housekeeper.

“Miss Chillton.” Edgar came to his feet at once. “Is something amiss for you to have ventured below stairs?”

“Oh, no, no. Though I do apologize for intruding upon you and Mrs. Penny, Edgar, but Lady Viola would like to speak with you.”

“With me?” A small smile budded on his lips. “I was under the impression she was not to be disturbed this day.”

“She is feeling much more herself now.” Hannah paused, the way she’d seen actors do to intensify their next words. “Oh, Edgar, I should allow Lady Viola to tell you this, but I am ever so worried . . .”

Mrs. Penny reached out for Hannah’s hand and drew her near. “Do sit down, Miss Chillton. You seem overwrought.”