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Everything swirled around Gwen as though she were caught inside a kaleidoscope for the senses—the lights glittering off the evening gowns, the buzz of conversation, the clashing scents of perfume. And it was more than the dancers moving around the Stouts’ ornate ballroom. It was the eddy of emotions inside her too.
She’d felt so purposeful and independent heading to Dr. Smithfield’s office. But her bravery had been vanquished by disappointment when the clerk had brushed her off after informing her that the doctor was away on a house call. That meant she would have to arrange another time to visit.
Then when she’d returned to her aunt and uncle’s townhouse, she had been horrified to see Bert striding up the steps ahead of her, then pausing to wait for her. Gwen had exited the carriage as regally as she could, her head held high. To her relief, she hadn’t been questioned about where she had gone. But Bert had plenty to say about the impropriety of riding in a carriage unaccompanied.
His irritation over her faux pas had mingled with her regret at missing the doctor and had stolen most of her appetite at dinner. Or perhaps that had been more due to the apprehension she felt over tonight’s event, which was supposed to be the dance of the season. Anticipation of how awkward she would look and feel at sitting out added to the churning sensation in her stomach.
Gwen shifted on the cushioned chair, turning her gaze away from the whirling pageantry. It wasn’t that she longed to dance, though she supposed it might be nice with an honorable man as her partner. She simply wished she had the option to decide for herself.
At that moment she caught sight of the dogged Mr. Fipwish heading her way. Gwen suppressed a frown. In good conscience, she couldn’t ignore him, especially when he came to a stop in front of her.
“Mr. Fipwish.”
He bowed to her. “Miss Barton. I was hoping you would be here this evening. May I say how enchanting you look? Like a decanter aglow in the firelight.”
No, you may not.
The thought of saying such a thing out loud tweaked the corners of her lips, but Gwen hurried to hide the smile lest the man think it stemmed from his praise. “Thank you.”
“Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”
All of her mother’s advice, including another hissed reminder as they were helped from the carriage outside the Stouts’ residence, reverberated through Gwen’s head. She fisted one of her gloved hands as she attempted to silence the cacophony of thoughts. She’d committed to being herself, and that meant telling the truth—not making excuses. Hopefully doing so would send Mr. Fipwish fleeing for good.
“I’m afraid I cannot dance, Mr. Fipwish.”
His eyebrows rose in a quizzical expression. “You mean to say you never had dancing lessons?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought dancing lessons were part of every American heiress’s education.”
“Not for me.” She sat up straighter. “I was injured as a child, and the result is a foot that can’t bear much weight for long periods of time.” A flicker of something entered his gaze. Gwen guessed it was a mixture of shock and dismay. “I limp when I walk, which makes dancing out of the question.”
Gwen offered him a congenial smile, relieved to have the truth out in the open. After all, he wasn’t likely to stick around in the present or the future after such a candid explanation.
And that made his answering smile all the more puzzling. The uneasiness returned to her middle as the man took the vacant seat beside hers.
“If you cannot dance,” he declared, “then I shan’t dance either, Miss Barton.”
“That really isn’t—”
He leaned close. “Never fear. I will gallantly take it upon myself to provide you with all of the conversation you could desire this evening.”
She glanced around, desperately searching in vain for some reason to excuse herself. Her gaze met her mother’s across the room. There was no mistaking Cornelia’s pleased expression. Gwen felt trapped—she couldn’t abandon her would-be suitor now that her mother had seen them sitting together. Why had being herself resulted in the very thing she’d hoped to avoid?
“How is that new mare of yours?” she managed to say from her tight throat.
If she could get him talking about himself, then she likely wouldn’t have to talk at all. Instead she could think of how to ensure her plan to be herself didn’t go awry again.
“She is a sight to behold. Have I told you how well she can jump?”
As Gwen had suspected, the man launched into an equestrian monologue. She tried to listen, but the longer Mr. Fipwish talked, the more her attention and gaze strayed to the rest of those assembled. She noticed Mr. Hanbury standing to one side of the ballroom. The sight of another of her would-be suitors inspired an idea. Mr. Hanbury had kindly helped her out of an awkward situation before. Perhaps he’d do so again.
Gwen waited until he looked her way, then she offered him a genuine smile. He might be quiet, but he was nice-looking and not fond of talking only of himself. The man didn’t seem overly fond of talking at all. Which Gwen now viewed as a great blessing. If he would only come over to speak with her, then maybe she could join him—to seek refreshments or step outside for some air—and blessedly leave Mr. Fipwish behind.
Mr. Hanbury acknowledged her with a dip of his head. However, instead of moving toward her as she’d hoped, he threw Mr. Fipwish a pointed look before disappearing among the press of people. Gwen bit back a disappointed sigh. Help would not come in the form of Mr. Hanbury tonight. She would need to come up with another strategy to shake the company of Mr. Fipwish.
At that moment, she noticed Mr. Winfield moving along the perimeter of the dance floor. Her heart gave a strange leap when he met her eye and smiled. Gwen didn’t know whether to return the smile or frown instead. She was still mildly irritated at him for his bombastic comments at the Linwoods’ dinner. And yet, when she realized he was coming her way, she felt more relief than annoyance. Debating with Avery Winfield sounded far more pleasant than listening to Mr. Fipwish belabor his fascination with decanters or his mare.
“Good evening, Mr. Winfield.” She nodded to him when he stopped alongside her chair.
He inclined his head in return and bowed. “Miss Barton.” Turning to Mr. Fipwish, he acknowledged the other man. “Fipwish.”
“Winfield,” Mr. Fipwish replied with a frown.
Mr. Winfield turned his gaze toward the dancing. “Quite the ball, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Fipwish glared in annoyance at Mr. Winfield.
If he noticed, Mr. Winfield chose to ignore the other gentleman’s reaction. “I overheard Lord Dunstill talking about your mare, Fipwish.” He leaned in as he added, “I’m afraid he still thinks he has a horse that can easily out-jump yours.”
Mr. Fipwish aimed a glowering look across the room. “Is that so?” He stood and tugged his evening coat into place. “I’m afraid I must leave you, Miss Barton. The honor of my prize mare is at stake. If you’ll both excuse me . . .”
“Of course,” Gwen said, trying hard not to laugh. It was not an easy task with the way Mr. Winfield’s brown eyes were twinkling with mischief.
“I shall seek you out later.”
She held back her grimace by clasping her hands tightly together. “I’ll understand if your other . . . conversation . . . requires a great deal of your time.”
As Mr. Fipwish strode off, Mr. Winfield took his vacated seat. “Well played,” he murmured to her, his mouth twitching with a barely hidden smile.
“You as well.” She was surprised to find herself relaxing into her chair. “Was this Lord Dunstill actually talking about Mr. Fipwish’s horse?”
“I did happen to overhear him.” The merriment hadn’t disappeared from his gaze. “However, even if I hadn’t, I would have been safe in my claims. Lord Dunstill can’t attend an event with Mr. Fipwish without disparaging the man’s horses at some point during the evening.”
Gwen studied him with a mixture of bewilderment and gratitude. “So you planned to approach Mr. Fipwish whether you overheard that conversation or not. Why?”
“Because I’m all too aware of how long-winded he can be. Especially when it comes to whatever new horse he’s purchased.” Mr. Winfield exchanged a smile with her, then turned to watch the dancing again. “I suppose you could say I was aiding a damsel in distress.”
“Ha. I was hardly in distress.” The laugh she’d suppressed earlier spilled from her lips. “All right, so I might have been experiencing a little distress.”
He faced her once more. “I guessed as much. And as a reward for my benevolence, I should like to know why you aren’t dancing this evening.”
Had he been watching her longer than she was aware? Gwen found the prospect as unsettling as it was pleasing.
“I’ll gladly tell you why I’m not dancing.” She motioned to her left foot as she shifted it slightly beyond the hem of her ball gown. “As a child, I was in a carriage accident and injured my foot. In spite of the doctor’s care, the foot didn’t heal correctly.”
Mr. Winfield nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why you walk with a limp.”
“Yes.” She wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed—not with how astute he’d been in his observations the other night. But she appreciated the lack of feigned sympathy from him. “It’s also why I can’t dance.”
“And are thus at the mercy of Mr. Fipwish.”
Gwen laughed lightly. “Exactly. But why aren’t you dancing, Mr. Winfield?”
“Ahh.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tonight, I find that I prefer enlightening conversation to dancing.”
He found their conversation enlightening? Gwen wasn’t sure she could say the same. Except . . . he had seen her distress and responded to it. And after resolving her difficulty, he’d stayed and appeared genuinely interested in continuing to talk with her. Surprisingly, she found the idea of conversing with him less appalling than she might have earlier.
“What enlightening topic should we discuss, then?”
Mr. Winfield appeared to think her question over. “Are you finding the season’s social events to your liking? And, remember, I expect you to speak plainly.” He waved his gloved finger at her.
“That’s what you deem enlightening?” she countered with another laugh. He offered a shrug, though his expression conveyed his amusement. “Fine. I’ve enjoyed the theater and the opera and some of the dinners. Although I did have a rather irritating companion when I dined at Lord and Lady Linwood’s home last week.”
Placing his fist against his chest, he shook his head as though deeply pained. “You wound me, Miss Barton.”
“I’m sorry.” Though she wasn’t, not really. The man had been much too free with his views that night. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Nor could I,” she thought she heard him murmur. “Have you seen much of London besides townhouse drawing rooms and the theater?”
It was her turn to shake her head. “Not as much as I’d like.”
“What do you wish to see?”
Besides Dr. Smithfield’s office, Gwen considered where else she wanted to visit. “I’d like to see Hyde Park and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Oh, and an orphanage for crippled children if there’s something like that here.”
Mr. Winfield looked momentarily taken aback by her response. “Why would you wish to see an orphanage?”
“I work at the one my cousin founded back in New York, and I’m curious to see how they operate in London.”
He cleared his throat. “Will your mother be accompanying you on your visits to such sights? Or perhaps one of your suitors?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, glancing to the spot where she’d last seen her mother. Gwen felt relieved when she noted Cornelia was no longer there. Her mother didn’t need to see her daughter conversing with the nephew of a duke. Cornelia would inevitably view it as something more than two people talking and would likely push Gwen toward Mr. Winfield.
He also appeared to be studying something across the room. “You won’t attempt to go somewhere alone again, will you?”
“Again?” She threw him a sharp look. Some of the affability between them began to bleed away at the bizarre turn to their conversation. “How do you know I’ve gone anywhere alone?”
Mr. Winfield shifted slightly away from her as if uncomfortable. “I happened by your aunt and uncle’s townhouse earlier today and saw you alight from their carriage—alone.”
“No need to bother with offering ‘friendly advice’ in that regard, Mr. Winfield.” Gwen clasped her hands tightly in her lap as frustration rose warm inside her. “My cousin Bert already did that. Apparently well-bred ladies don’t travel in carriages alone here in London.”
Was she mistaken in thinking the man looked relieved? “That is correct. I take it you didn’t understand that before today?”
“No, I did not.” It was her turn to inch away from him. Her welcome champion was fast becoming a bothersome offender.
His smile looked a bit forced as he asked, “Searching for a new hat or some other piece of costuming?”
“Hardly,” Gwen muttered. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone about her important errand, not even Syble. At least not yet. Not until she’d seen the doctor and learned if he’d be able to help her or not. Speaking of it to another person before then would only raise her hopes and expectations, which might very well be dashed. Besides, if word got back to her mother from her cousin or one of the servants, Gwen might not be allowed to make another visit to the doctor’s office, especially by herself.
She glanced at Mr. Winfield as the tense silence stretched long between them. From the outside, he appeared to be the charming gentleman. And yet she sensed tightness in the line of his shoulders and an irritation his sociable words and expression couldn’t hide.
“Do you live near my aunt and uncle, Mr. Winfield?”
He looked as if he’d been startled out of his thoughts. “No,” he answered quickly. “My residence is in Belgrave Square.”
“How interesting.” Gwen cocked her head and eyed him shrewdly. She was beginning to learn the best way to manage her interactions with this man and all his contradictions was to turn the table on his questioning. “And yet you just so happened to come by the Rodmills’ townhouse in Mayfair while I was climbing out of the carriage?”
The man stood up so abruptly he nearly trampled on the train of her dress. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Barton. I have another commitment to attend to. Thank you for indulging me in conversation.”
“Oh . . . you’re welcome.” She hadn’t exactly meant to drive him off, though she wished they could have kept their exchange as easy and friendly as it had been at first after he’d come to her aid. “Thank you for helping me earlier.”
He bowed, the lines around his brown eyes softening. “My pleasure.”
With that he strode away. Gwen lost sight of him after a few moments. He hadn’t been as blatantly offensive tonight, and yet she couldn’t riddle him out either. Who was the real Avery Winfield? The sharp-eyed gentleman of many questions or the gallant, appealing one? She found she actually wanted to know—and that was likely the most startling observation either of them had yet made.
*
Avery sought refuge in the card room, though he didn’t join any of the current games. Instead he found a comfortable seat in the corner to collect his thoughts and plan his next move.
His interaction with Miss Barton had gone dreadfully awry. Avery shook his head. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d felt that same measure of compassion for her that he had at the Linwoods’ dinner when he had noticed Fipwish blathering away to her. A desire to come to her aid had been his motive as much as finding out where she’d gone alone earlier.
He’d enjoyed their friendly banter. Perhaps a bit too much. He had nearly forgotten what he’d gone over to ask her in the first place.
Something about Miss Barton intrigued him. She’d matter-of-factly told him about her injured foot and its resulting consequences without an ounce of pity for herself. The young lady also possessed a quick wit along with unexpected fortitude. And she hoped to see an orphanage while in London. An orphanage! By the earnest, animated light in her hazel eyes he knew she wasn’t overstating the truth of her commitment to children in need.
It was at that moment he began to question if he’d made an erroneous assumption about her. Surely she wasn’t involved with her cousin and the Germans. And yet not only had she refused to mention where she had gone, she’d also reverted to questioning him. How had an American girl, with supposedly no spy connections, caught the inconsistency in his story about happening by the Rodmills’ when he lived elsewhere in the city?
He tugged at his cravat in irritation, trying to determine where and how he’d mucked up his chance to glean more information from her. Was Miss Barton a dead end? He wanted to believe it. If so, then she wasn’t acting in order to appear normal, as he often felt the need to. She was merely being herself.
Which is something I’ve never been able to be.
The idea of truly being himself felt as liberating as it did sobering. As a spy for Captain Kell, Avery couldn’t be himself, even if he wanted to. But tonight, that thought didn’t bring its usual relief. Having shared another fascinating exchange with Miss Barton, Avery suddenly wished he could be himself. At least with her. That’s how he’d imagined he would be with his opera young lady if there were no impediments to their meeting again.
Avery gave the chair arms a resolute slap with his gloved hands and rose to his feet. He might have learned nothing particularly new about Miss Barton, save for why she limped and was required to sit out from dancing. However, the evening wasn’t over yet. For now, he would put aside his hopes at catching a German spy and would turn his attention to his own mystery. The final American heiress he had yet to meet was here, and Avery had managed to place his name on her dance card.
A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly time to claim his partner. Determined once more, he quit the card room for the ballroom. He looked for Miss Edith Dyer, but he couldn’t find her. The music began again, signaling their dance had started. Where could the girl have gone? At last, Avery decided it would be best to ask the young lady’s father if he knew where his daughter might be.
Avery approached the older man, who was conversing with several other gentlemen, and waited to be acknowledged. When the American turned to face him, Avery wasted no time in getting right to the point. “Mr. Dyer, I am Avery Winfield. I believe I was to have this dance with your daughter. Do you know where I might find her?”
“I’m sorry to say Edith has left, Mr. Winfield.” The man gave a sad shake of his head. “Such a pity too. She was looking forward to the evening.”
“Has she taken ill?”
Mr. Dyer shook his head again. “Not in a manner of speaking.” He glanced around and took a step closer to Avery. “Some girl was accidentally knocked in the nose after one of the dances. Unfortunately, her nose started to bleed. And when Edith saw it, she fainted dead away.” The father gave a helpless shrug as he grimaced. “My daughter really can’t abide the sight of blood.”
If this American girl couldn’t handle seeing blood, then she couldn’t be the one who’d bandaged Avery’s wound in the opera box. He fought to hide the frustration the revelation brought him.
He’d met every American girl in London this season, and yet not one of them seemed to be his mystery young lady. “I imagine that was very distressful for her,” Avery managed to say. “Please inform her that I hope she recovers quickly.”
The man nodded. “I will. Thank you, Mr. Winfield.”
Avery bowed, then headed in the opposite direction before realizing he wasn’t sure where he was going. Dancing or talking held little interest to him now. He turned and made his way to the grand staircase, more than ready to make his exit.
Once inside his carriage, he sank back into the corner of the seat. He’d met with disappointment after disappointment rather than success tonight. Even the satisfaction he’d felt at finding Rodmill’s incriminating note earlier had paled. The German spy among the ton and the girl from the opera were both still mysteries to him.
Which led Avery to wonder, as the carriage rolled toward home, if he should have followed his best friend’s example and skipped the dance altogether. Of course he needed to attend the most popular social events—both for his espionage work and for his uncle. But tonight, the rest of the season stretched painfully long before him and made him wish, if just for a moment, that he’d chosen some other profession than the Secret Service.