Courting Danger With Mr Dyer. Georgie Lee
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Moira turned to find the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline beside her, the woman as stately as a Gainsborough in her swathes of mauve silk and black netting. With her grey eyes above a thin nose, she’d turned a number of heads in London after she’d fled the Reign of Terror. Once here, she’d enjoyed her pick of suitors, settling on the much older Marquess of Camberline and the fine fortune and title he’d offered her. Despite a son who’d just reached his majority and being a widow, she was still a stunning woman with little grey in her dark hair. It should have been a relief to at last have someone to speak to, but something about the stately woman placed Moira on edge. ‘I have fond memories of your grandparents dancing at Lady Elmsworth’s parties after I came over from France. Your grandmother was one of the few who refused to wear the red ribbon around her neck. A number of people considered her eccentric because of it, but she adapted so well to England, unlike many others. Good evening, Lady Rexford.’
Her strange reminiscence shared, the Dowager Marchioness swept off to join Lord Moreau, Lord Lefevre and the young lady beside him holding his arm. The woman, who Moira didn’t recognise, was about Moira’s height with blonde hair and a gown cut much lower than even the current fashion favoured.
Lady Camberline tolerating the bold young lady surprised Moira, but not her abrupt departure from Moira. Lady Camberline had been similarly terse with her time and words when she’d extended the ball invitation to Moira and Aunt Agatha while they’d been here for the patroness meeting two days ago. She was surprised the other woman had deigned to notice her tonight, but perhaps Moira was not as easily overlooked as she’d believed.
Moira cast about in search of a familiar face or a friendly invitation by another guest to indulge in conversation. Neither was forthcoming, but she didn’t mind as much as before. In truth, it was Mr Dyer’s presence she eagerly sought instead of anyone else’s. In the few short hours since they’d parted, she’d thought of little except him and his request. Not even the dilemma of which woefully out-of-fashion gown to wear, or the worry of re-entering society after having been gone for so long, had been enough to banish the memory of his stern eyes on hers and the pointed tone of his voice. It seemed, despite the importance he’d placed on tonight, he hadn’t managed to secure an invitation. It ruined her chance of offering her assistance. Let Aunt Agatha disapprove of an acquaintance with him, it wasn’t up to her to decide who Moira did or did not consort with.
Then, at the top of the staircase, Mr Dyer entered the ballroom. He wore a sedate coat of black, a white shirt and cravat and the required fawn-coloured breeches. The darkness of his coat emphasised the seriousness of his expression and captivated Moira. She shouldn’t be this taken with his appearance, but she couldn’t help it. Thankfully, there was no one about to notice her reaction and condemn it. She didn’t need others adding their doubts to hers and making her waver in her resolve.
While the footman was busy listening to the names of an older couple waiting to descend, Mr Dyer slipped around behind him and down the short staircase. At the landing, he stopped to take in the room with the same seriousness as the moment before he’d galloped away from Aunt Agatha. He scanned the guests like a hawk does a field in search of prey, making Moira wonder who he saw and what he suspected, but she couldn’t tear her attention away from him long enough to follow his gaze.
Sensing her watching him, he turned to face her. She didn’t look away, but smiled as if he were a welcome visitor in her house. A scowl crossed his face, especially when she began to thread her way through the guests towards him. Her heart beat as fast as an out-of-control carriage the entire time she moved, afraid he’d stride away from her as quickly as he’d ridden off this afternoon. She wouldn’t blame him if he cut her, but it didn’t make the possible slight, and the disappointment it would bring, any easier to endure. She craved another taste of the hint of adventure he’d offered her this morning and at the same time recognised how silly she was for pursuing it. This was real treason with potential consequences, not some scintillating crime story in the papers. Still, she didn’t stop, but approached him with confidence, refusing to question or alter her decision.
He didn’t bolt off in the other direction, but moved down the stairs, one firm hand on the railing, watching her the entire time until he was at the bottom and she was before him.
‘Mr Dyer, I’m glad to see you tonight.’ He didn’t smell of cologne or shaving soap, but the more potent scent of sweat and leather, the same one which had enveloped her during their misguided and brief engagement. Her husband had never smelled this raw, not even in the midst of his exertions. She snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face, more to revive rather than to cool herself.
‘Are you?’ Mr Dyer challenged, his self-assurance nearly shaking hers.
‘I am.’ She adjusted one of her diamond earrings, turning to watch the crowd instead of him, but keenly aware of him beside her. ‘I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you and I discussed this morning, and this afternoon, and I’ve decided to offer my assistance by making whatever necessary introductions you need tonight. I may not know very many people here, but I know a few.’
She traced the heavy necklace pulling at the back of her neck while she waited for his response.
He didn’t smile in grateful relief, but eyed her with a strange curiosity which made her shift in her slippers. ‘What brought about this change of heart?’
She pitied the people he’d interrogated in the past. He was being kind to her and already she felt herself shrinking. ‘I’ve had more time to consider the situation and I realised you were right. This is larger than me or Freddy. I love England and I won’t see her, and with it Freddy and Nicholas’s legacies, destroyed.’
Five years ago there might have been more to her offer, but whatever intimacy they’d enjoyed had been snapped like a frayed rope pulled too hard. It couldn’t be knotted together again and she shouldn’t wish it to be. He had his duties and she had hers. Helping him was the only place where they intersected.
* * *
Bart noticed how Moira’s fingers trembled while she adjusted her necklace, the play of her fingers so near the swell of her firm breasts as startling as her offer to help him. After Rotten Row, he’d written her off, intending to come here and find some way to manage things himself. He hadn’t expected her to change her mind and he should accept her help, but he hesitated. Her offer was sincere, but he doubted the veracity of Lady Rexford’s sudden change of heart. She’d do him no good if she crumpled every time the aunt opened her mouth and he had more important business here tonight then fending off disapproving relations. If he wanted to do that he’d attend his parents’ soirée. ‘Won’t your aunt object?’
‘Yes, but it and so many other things are not her decision but mine.’ She settled her shoulders with admirable seriousness, the movement making the diamonds sparkle.
Her defiance revealed a strength of will he hadn’t witnessed in her before, one he hoped she continued to develop. He sensed her happiness relied on her doing so. It shouldn’t matter to him if it did, but by volunteering to help him she was coming under his protection and he was never one to give up on any person in his service, and he needed her. With none of his former clients in attendance, she was, at the moment, the best person to help him. ‘Thank you, Moira.’
She started at his use of her given name. He hadn’t intended to be informal with her, but it’d slipped out, her name as natural on his tongue tonight as when he’d proposed to her. He flexed his hands at his sides, refusing to dig up the past. It had no bearing on the present situation.
‘You’re welcome, Bart.’ She adjusted a comb in the tangle of blonde curls arranged high above her neck. ‘Now, who would you like to meet?’
‘The Comte de Troyen.’ Bart nodded at a dark-haired man with a long face and the longer nose of the Hapsburgs standing by the window with Prince Frederick. ‘He came over during the Peace of Amiens and is good friends with the Prince.’
‘You think he’s one of them?’
Her arm brushed Bart’s when she shifted on her feet to get a better