A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(2)
“I won’t be here long enough to think of anyone. I’m to sail back to the Peninsula in a week to rejoin my regiment.”
Miss Wilhern seemed to regain her composure and dipped a slight curtsy. Now he had to acknowledge her, so he bowed in her direction. She started toward him.
“She has a dowry of twenty thousand,” Edgerton said softly. “And since you have only a week to enjoy such flirtations, I shall leave you to it.” Edgerton’s smug face turned away as he headed in the opposite direction.
Nicholas greeted Miss Wilhern, careful not to express peculiar regard, lest she think he was singling her out. He remembered her as a girl who used to make calf eyes at him and try to talk with him at every opportunity before he went off to war.
Miss Wilhern inquired after the shoulder and leg wounds he had sustained in his last battle and then expressed her heartfelt thanks for his courage and valiant service, on behalf of herself and every man and woman in England. She immediately followed that with her sincere gratitude to God for saving him and bringing him back, whole and well enough to venture out tonight.
He had to admit, her enthusiasm was gratifying. Perhaps Edgerton was right: he should be more interested in Miss Wilhern than Miss Grey. A girl with twenty thousand pounds and an obvious infatuation with him was, by definition, attractive.
He asked her to dance the first dance and then excused himself to find something a little less robust to drink. He didn’t want to be stumbling about the dance floor because he’d drunk too much.
Edgerton was pouring himself another glass of brandy. Several other men were standing nearby, talking and drinking, including the host, Mr. Robert Wilhern.
A deafening sound exploded behind him. Nicholas spun around. A servant was bending to pick up a heavy glass decanter he had dropped on the floor.
The memory of being shot flashed through his mind, the sudden sharp pain of a bullet tearing through his shoulder. At the same time, his horse had reared, causing Nicholas to fall to the ground and break his leg.
His heart was pounding inside his chest, while everyone else was ignoring the incident; indeed, they had already completely forgotten it.
He concentrated on slowing his breathing as he thrust away the vivid memory, stuffing it into the corner of his mind. He tried to focus on the party and its guests. After being in a war, battling for his life, and seeing death all around him, such a gathering as this was almost surreal, the standing about doing nothing, dressed in fine clothing, striving to appear wealthy, fashionable, and important.
“You are fortunate in Miss Wilhern’s attentions.”
Edgerton had not seemed to notice his brief moments of panic, but the man’s voice was too loud, and Nicholas noticed Miss Wilhern’s father cutting his eyes at him—to gauge Nicholas’s reaction to Edgerton’s statement, no doubt. Nicholas took a sip of his weaker port wine rather than replying. He was about to excuse himself and go back to the music room when Edgerton asked him, “What will you be about this next week, while you are furloughed and unfettered? You could come to the club with me tomorrow.”
Edgerton would be at the gaming tables, no doubt. What was the appeal of betting thousands of pounds on the roll of the dice or the suit of a card?
“I’ve a task, a favor for a fellow soldier, to carry out tomorrow.”
Edgerton raised his brows. “Oh?”
“A soldier who was in the battlefield infirmary with me. Before he died, he gave me something and asked me to deliver it to a relative here in London.”
“How interesting.” And Edgerton truly looked as if he meant it. “What was your brave friend’s name, if I may ask?”
“Richard Beechum.”
Edgerton stood strangely still, his mouth going slack as his eye twitched.
“You knew him?”
Edgerton shifted his feet and shook his head slightly. “Me? No. Not I.”
His reaction seemed a bit odd, and so did the look on Wilhern’s face as he glanced their way, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching.
“So.” Edgerton cleared his throat. “This Beechum had a token for his sister, perhaps? A special watch fob to give to his father?”
“No, it was a diary. He asked me to take it to someone I’ve never heard of. But of course, in dying for his country, he deserves to have this small favor done for him.”
“Oh yes, of course! Of course. You’re a good man, Nicholas. None better. You will do the thing. It will get done. We’d better get to dancing. I hear the music starting.”
They both moved toward the larger room where the dancing would commence.
If Julia knew Phoebe, she would soon want her to switch to a livelier tune, something she and the guests could dance to.
Sure enough, when Julia sang the last note, Phoebe caught her eye and winked. Phoebe spread the word that they were about to begin a reel. While several guests paired up to dance, Julia found some appropriate music. Happily for Phoebe, Mr. Langdon had asked her to dance; they were standing up together at the head of the line.
Julia felt a flutter of excitement for Phoebe, who looked triumphant in her pale-blue dress ornamented with ribbon and lace.
Mr. Langdon’s snow-white neckcloth stood out against his dark hair, and he was fashionably dressed in dark-gray breeches and waistcoat, black Hessian boots, and a black double-breasted frock coat.
Julia’s mind raced as fast as her fingers. Would Mr. Langdon break his own rule and dance with Phoebe more than once? Or would Phoebe get the first dance with him, only to watch him dance with every other girl in the room for the rest of the night?