The Fashionable Spy (13 page)

“You may have the right of it,” Leighton replied with a considering look. “Miss Elizabeth is a handful, if what I have seen is true of her nature. Mind you, she stays within the boundaries of propriety, but . . . However, I do enjoy teasing the chit.” He flashed a grin at Edward.

“Enough of this,” Edward said, nudging Leighton with his free hand. “Why do we not join the men over there? I confess I would like to ask Davy about that discovery of his, and if it is really true that this gas will alleviate pain.”

Suddenly realizing that the man at his side looked pale with the effort of standing so long, Leighton quickly agreed. The two men strolled across the room, where Sir Edward found a comfortable chair and began to quiz the famous scientist about his findings.

From her vantage point Victoria kept a surreptitious watch on Sir Edward. She knew when he had joined the group that hovered about the sisters, and when he began to chat with Lord Leighton. She immediately noticed when Sir Edward limped over to join Sir Humphry Davy, who was seated with several men of science.

It was, she reflected, a stimulating company this evening. There was not only the intriguing Mr. Turner, a man most modest about his talents, but the eminent Sir Humphry. She wondered what Sir Edward found to quiz him about with such intensity. Without managing to appear obvious, she edged and sidled her way to a place where she might catch the drift of their conversation. It assuredly was not a private one, for several others had joined in with questions of their own regarding the topic.

“Indeed, quite painless,” insisted Sir Humphry when Victoria drew close enough to overhear what was said. “I had wanted to test the gas myself, you see, and it worked well on me. I frequently do tests, not always with happy results,” the scientist admitted a bit ruefully amid light laughter from the others.

“But it only stops the pain while inhaling the gas?” Edward persisted.

“It has been demonstrated that after inhaling the nitrous oxide the person cannot feel pain, thus compelling one to accept that it possesses anesthetic properties. I believe it to have a similar effect to ether, although ether has not been sufficiently tested, to my way of thinking.”

“But it is only for a limited duration? Could it be breathed only enough for a knee surgery, for example?” Sir Edward said with an intense curiosity.

“Probably. You would still have the problem of infection to deal with, I suspect. We don’t understand why this happens, even with the best of care.” It was clear this disturbed Sir Humphry.

“Basilicum powder notwithstanding?” Sir Edward queried.

“I fear so. I have heard tell of some success with a kind of mold, but that is most likely fanciful talk by the country folk.” There was an appreciative chuckle from several who held dim views of folk medicine. “Some doctors insist upon covering a wound, others claim air is better,” Davy continued. “Most want to bleed the patient, yet a few say that the loss of blood, particularly if there is surgery involved, makes that a dangerous practice. The high loss of life is not encouraging to a surgeon, in spite of his skill with the knife.”

“Indeed.” Sir Edward appeared to give the discussion deep thought while the others in the group veered off to debate the merits of leeches as opposed to bleeding.

Victoria found the conversation depressing, and she drifted across to another part of the room. Her thoughts returned to the exchange she overheard between Sir Humphry and Sir Edward. From his strong curiosity about the painkilling nature of the nitrous oxide, she suspected Sir Edward truly suffered more than a little from his injury. Did he contemplate surgery? A dangerous undertaking at best, surgery. Few she had heard of who dared such a course survived for long. Infection, as Sir Humphry said, took its toll. Some doctors insisted it was bad humors of the blood, others, vapors in the air. But how to prevent it, or control such a thing, when you knew not what caused it?

“Dear Victoria,” gushed one of the newer writers, a Miss Courtenay, who had inveigled an invitation to this select gathering, “what is your next project? Some prominent statesman, no doubt?”

“Miss Dancy has a rare opportunity, one given to few women,” Mr. Padbury inserted with good humor. Lucius Padbury might not be a man of letters, nor inclined to the arts or science, but he was an excellent conversationalist and thus had earned a permanent place on Lady Tichbourne’s guest list.

Miss Courtenay smiled, then, unable to resist, asked, “Do tell me all.”

Victoria, knowing full well that Miss Courtenay was a gabster, sighed, then said with gracious charm, “I have been requested to create a likeness of Sir Edward Hawkswood.”

“Oh,” breathed the young writer, “I should be terrified of such a project. And do you go to his home?” she inquired with an avid expression on her pink-cheeked face.

“I trust that if she does, it is not early in the day. Sir Edward tends to spend his evenings at the clubs, one in particular,” Mr. Padbury declared with a smile.

“He is a gamester, Mr. Padbury?” Victoria said with dismay.

“As to that,” Mr. Padbury said with commendable hesitancy, “I am not certain. I have seen him thereabouts often, but if he plays at cards, it is not deeply. He seems to have the admirable notion that a man gambles only if he can afford to lose, and only with money not actually needed.”

“Praiseworthy, indeed,” Victoria murmured, casting a glance at the gentleman in question. She was startled to catch his gaze upon her, and found to her further dismay that she blushed. How deeply, she couldn’t say, but the heat in her face was evident. It was to be hoped the candlelight would diffuse her high color.

As if drawn by her look. Sir Edward rose and approached. As he drew near, Miss Courtenay vanished in the opposite direction, a flutter of pink draperies and white feathers.

“I trust I did not drive the lady away from a pleasant conversation?’’ Sir Edward said with a hint of laughter in his deep voice.

When he smiled at Victoria, she wondered for a moment what he referred to, before swiftly recalling the tiresome and garrulous young writer.

“Miss Courtenay has a tongue that flaps like a flag in a stiff breeze,” Mr. Padbury interjected, reminding Victoria that he remained at her side.

“Oh, perhaps not,” Victoria said kindly, not wishing to sound like a prattlebox herself. Miss Courtenay might be a gossip, but it was not gracious to say so. Victoria had no love for gossips, and certainly did not wish to emulate one.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Padbury asserted. “You are too generous, but then, you Dancy women are ever considerate to those less fortunate in their character.” He gave the pair a curious look, then strolled off to join Mr. Turner and several other gentlemen.

“Tell me,” Sir Edward said in an abstracted voice, “is he dangling after Mrs. Winton?”

“Julia and Mr. Padbury?” Victoria considered the matter a few moments, then replied, “I could not say. He is ever around the house, and seems content to merely be where he can admire Julia and visit with her. I cannot think him the least lover-like.”

“Genial, he might be. Lover-like, no, I must agree.”

Mindful of Sir Edward’s earlier conversation with Sir Humphry, Victoria unobtrusively guided him toward an arrangement of exceedingly comfortable chairs, gesturing with one hand. “What do you say to sitting here? I become a bit tired of standing about forever, although I hate to confess it. A young woman is not supposed to admit such, I know.” She watched with approval as he settled onto a chair that had an extra pillow at the back, with an ottoman upon which to recline his foot if he so chose.

He placed both feet upon the ottoman after her encouraging nod, keeping his cane to hand. His sigh contained a hint of frustration.

“You need have a care for your injury. Sir Edward,” Victoria chided. “Tell me, do you plan to risk surgery? I feel guilty, thinking that your rescue of me from the carriage may have made your injury worse. Please do not contemplate such an action without deep consideration of the peril involved.”

“Do you always insert yourself into others’ lives, Miss Dancy?” Edward said testily. “I am tired of people poking and prodding into the matter of my accident and resultant injury.”

Victoria repressed a hasty answer. Given the background of his accident and the comments she’d overheard, not to mention the pain he must suffer as well, it was understandable that he be irritable at times. “Sometimes,” she finally admitted. “If I find my concern is unwelcome, I usually withdraw it.”

“Forgive me. I do not mean to be an old wigsby. Most of the time my knee is tolerable. Today is worse, for some odd reason, and I snap at your kindness like an old crab.”

“My Aunt Bel would say ‘tis the damp weather. Perhaps it would be better if you went to bed earlier and kept your knee warm. Gallivanting about in the evening till late hours cannot be beneficial to one’s health,” Victoria said in what she hoped was a reasonable manner.

He gave her a narrow look. “You would have me act like a man in his dotage?” His affront was almost amusing.

“You enjoy the evening? Sir Humphry is interesting.”

He nodded, then added, “Did Mr. Turner satisfy your curiosity about his landscape?’’

“Indeed, yes. He claims the scene is as he depicted it. I should like to see it, I believe.”

“On your honeymoon, you said.” Sir Edward looked amused again.

Victoria decided to change the subject. In spite of her earlier sensation of danger emanating from this man, she now felt him to be relatively harmless at the moment— as long as he avoided the subject of marriage. Perhaps it was the thought that he suffered pain that made him appear less daunting.

“What time do you wish me to be at your home to begin work on your sculpture?” This ought to be a safe subject.

Then the image of that paper she had seen in his desk returned to mind, and she watched him with a wary eye. If she were to investigate his library, especially his desk, she wanted to begin as soon as possible. The solving of the cipher was proving an impossible task, one that was giving her severe headaches. If there might be a clue to be found, she desperately needed to find it.

Sir Edward reflected a moment, then replied, “Anytime after noon tomorrow should be fine.” He appeared to look forward to the sitting, yet she’d not missed the fleeting expression of speculation in his eyes.

Impulsively, without giving her words careful thought, Victoria said, “Quite as Mr. Padbury predicted. Do you intend to go gambling this evening, then? Even though you remain here until a late hour?”

Sir Edward stiffened slightly, and slid his good leg to the floor. “I do not believe that doing my portrait in wax permits you such liberty, Miss Dancy. And Leighton claimed you to be such a proper miss. What I do during my hours is not your affair.’’

The not-so-gentle reproof brought another blush to her cheeks. Really, Victoria chided herself, never had she been so guilty of social misconduct. “I beg your pardon, Sir Edward. Mark it to a desire to have my patron in the best possible condition for his sitting.” She forced herself to meet that steady gaze of his, refusing to flinch at what she thought she saw there.

“Apology accepted,” Edward replied handsomely. “I tend to be a bit edgy regarding my injury, if you must know.’’ Then in a rare flash of revelation he added, “I have the irrational feeling that Society knows the circumstances and is amused by them. It is not pleasant to think yourself the object of entertainment,” he concluded with a wry twist of his mouth.

Startled by this more intimate view of his thoughts, Victoria nodded with understanding. “I have at times felt censure due to my unorthodox behavior—going to various homes and staring at a gentleman’s face for hours. Julia has endured such as well. One must do what one feels necessary, however.”

The pensive look on his face made her uneasy. Whatever evaluation he did of her motives seemed severe in its conclusions.

That feeling of disquiet increased, and she rose to her feet, gesturing to Sir Edward to remain seated. “I must find my sisters, for no doubt it is time for us to depart. Please do not disturb yourself, sir.”

She whirled about and left before he had time to react.

Edward felt like a bloody fool, sitting there like an old hen that was too tired to get off the nest. She was right. He ought to go home, have hot compresses on his knee— or was it cold ones that felt better? However, self-indulgence was not permitted yet. Later, perhaps. He needed to get to his club and listen to the talk that flowed over the cards with the lubrication of liquor to loosen the tongues.

He watched as the Dancy women drifted toward the door like a sunset cloud of peach, lavender, and blue. They paused to bid their hostess a fond farewell, from the look of it, then left the room.

“Still here?” Mr. Padbury exclaimed in surprise as he bustled up to Edward. “I thought sure you’d be off to the clubs by now. But then,” he said with a genial chuckle, “the Dancy girls
are
charming. Hard for a man to ignore such grace and beauty, what?”

“Indeed,” was Edward’s only response. It was difficult for him to understand how the Dancy women could tolerate this man underfoot all the time. Unable to put his finger on the cause for his dislike, he chalked it up to the silly business of that genial smile. While in Italy he had seen a painting of a woman with a smile that resembled Padbury’s. Unsettling.

He eased himself up from the comfort of the chair, resolving to inquire of his hostess its manufactory source. Pausing to chat with Leighton again, making a date to meet soon, he then approached Lady Tichbourne to take his leave.

As he entered his carriage after paying handsome compliments and jotting the name of the chairmaker in his notebook, he returned to the matter of Victoria Dancy.

How long would he have to observe her in close quarters? While it lasted, he would make the most of his time. In the meanwhile, he would listen, see what he might hear, and only hope that someone would drop more than a mere phrase about the blue-iris group. He was determined to uncover all he could about Victoria Dancy, right down to the blue-iris locket she always wore . . . and kept concealed.