“Not that I am complaining,” Atlas said as he escorted Lilliana to the ballroom, “but I do not recall writing my name down on your dance card.”
“I took the liberty of adding you myself,” she said smoothly, looking straight ahead as they conversed. “Gentlemen are supposed to keep pencils with them in order to write their names on ladies’ dance cards. I presumed you would not have a pencil.”
He was flattered. But then she added, “Besides, this gives us an opportunity to speak in private.”
They passed through elaborately gilded doors and into as opulent a room as Atlas had ever seen. The space was mammoth, its walls hung with red damask, the windows and paintings all encased in gilded frames. The vaulted blue-and-white compartmentalized ceiling was adorned with gold medallions. As they waited at the side for the present dance to end, Atlas filled Lilliana in on his conversation with Merton.
“I have taken it upon myself to befriend the girl,” Lilliana said when he had finished. “It seems my maid’s younger brother had prurient interests.”
“Lady Lavinia told you this?”
Lilliana dipped her chin in affirmation. “I called upon her earlier this week, and we spoke again this evening. She was most forthcoming.”
Atlas didn’t hide his shock. “Lady Lavinia told you of these lewd interests of his?”
A corner of her small mouth hitched up. Her smile had always intrigued him. Her lips were slightly crooked so that, when she smiled, she seemed to smirk, lending her a certain haughty smugness. “She has proof of it.”
He inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon.” Maybe he’d been mistaken. Perhaps Lavinia was the lustful lady Davis had bedded many times over. “What sort of proof?”
“She wouldn’t say. But Lady Lavinia has promised to call on me on the morrow and bring this evidence with her.”
The current dance ended, and their conversation ceased while they made their way onto the dance floor. There was quite a crush, but everyone made way for their hostess, sister to the venerable Duke of Somerville. The duke’s guests also pretended not to stare, but more than a few eyes followed Atlas and Lilliana.
They came to a stop at the center of the dance floor. Atlas put his right hand around Lilliana’s trim waist and held her gloved hand. He had never danced with her before. Even though he was a large man, well over six feet with the strapping form of an athlete, she was statuesque enough to easily rest her left hand on his shoulder as they glided into a waltz. He concentrated on the steps—he was not one who waltzed often—conscious of the curious eyes closely monitoring their movements. He felt big and awkward next to Lilliana, whose posture was sublime as she waltzed with such grace that it seemed as though dancing came as naturally to her as breathing.
“I begin to see how the rhinoceros at the Exeter Exchange must feel,” he remarked, referring to the royal menagerie on the north side of the Strand, which also included a tiger, a lion, a camel, monkeys, a hyena, and a hippopotamus. “I am unused to being on display.”
“Rhinoceros? Surely not.” Her topaz eyes twinkled. “At the very least, you should count yourself as one of the big cats. You can be rather fierce at times.”
“You are teasing me, which is most uncharitable.” He led her in a circle, trying his best to avoid entangling them with another dancing couple. “I am far more accustomed to the role of inconspicuous observer.”
“You could never go unnoticed.” He assumed she referred to his size, but then she added, “I have caught more than one lady taking your measure this evening.”
“They are no doubt wondering the identity of the man to whom the lovely Lady Roslyn has deigned to grant a waltz.”
“Some of them, perhaps,” she allowed. “But that is not why the young marriage-minded maidens are watching you with such unabashed curiosity.”
He brushed off the notion. “Once they learn I have neither a fortune nor a title, they will turn their attentions elsewhere.”
“I would not be so certain of that if I were you.” They took another smooth turn. “In any case, the reason we are drawing more than our share of attention is because this is my first major entertainment since leaving off my mourning.”
“I hadn’t realized.”
They glided past Thea, who was dancing with Charlton. She was rigid in the earl’s arms, her lips pressed into a hard line, the rest of her face stamped with the exasperated expression she often wore in the earl’s company.
Lilliana noticed them as well. “I see Charlton has finally persuaded Thea to take a turn with him.”
“I wonder why he bothers. She treats him abominably.”
She regarded him with surprise. “Surely you’ve noticed Charlton has a tendre for your sister.”
“What?” Atlas scoffed. “That’s absurd.”
She shook her head. “For an observant man, you can be remarkably obtuse at times.”
He gave a huff of skepticism. “Thea is hardly the sort of woman to interest Charlton. For one thing, she is married, and he is drawn toward—” He stopped short, not wishing to discuss with Lilliana the earl’s sexual exploits.
“Actresses and opera singers,” she said tartly. “Yes, I am aware.”
“And Thea is a prickly mathematician who pays little attention to her appearance and even less to the social graces.” His sister couldn’t be more different than Charlton’s usual painted beauties, who excelled in the art of conversation, flirtation, and, well, sexual congress.
“Men.” She shook her head. “At times you cannot see what is right before your eyes.”
He scanned the crowded dance floor until he found his sister and friend again. The earl was certainly staring at his sister with keen appreciative interest. He frowned, considering the possibility that Lilliana might be correct. “Charlton is holding her rather closer than he should.”
“Nonsense. There’s a perfectly respectable distance between them.”
“How long has this been going on?” The thought crossed Atlas’s mind that perhaps his travels had put him too out of touch with important happenings in his own family.
She looked heavenward. “Nothing is ‘going on,’ as you put it. Thea is a married woman.”
“True, but her husband is rarely in residence.” Charles Palmer spent most of his time in the country. It was unfashionable for married couples to appear too fond of each other, but Atlas had always sensed that Palmer would prefer to spend more time with his wife. “Is Charlton the reason she doesn’t want Palmer around?”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.” They executed a one-two-three promenade. “While it is true that Charlton carries a torch for your sister, I’m fairly certain she’ll douse that flame with a bucket of ice water should he ever find the courage to declare himself.”
“Oh.” A strange sort of relief filtered through him. “So I’m not completely mistaken. She does find him tiresome?”
Lilliana lifted one elegant shoulder. “It would appear so.”
It took him a moment to realize the music had stopped, bringing their dance to an end. As he escorted her off the floor, Atlas’s thoughts returned to the investigation. “When did you say Lady Lavinia plans to call upon you, with the . . . erm . . . proof of Davis’s prurient nature?”
“On the morrow. At two o’clock.”
He frowned, filtering the possibilities through his mind. “I still cannot imagine what form this evidence might take.”
“Come and see me tomorrow at three o’clock if you’d like to find out,” she said as they reached the side of the ballroom—just before her next dance partner whisked her away.
* * *
The following day, when Atlas called upon Lilliana at the prescribed time, he expected to be shown to the same tasteful sitting room as when he’d last visited, but she received him instead in one of the duke’s numerous formal drawing rooms.
The space was elegantly ornamented with flowers, plants, sculptures, and engravings, artfully arranged on various mahogany and marble tabletops. Gilded mirrors adorned the walls, reflecting the daylight filtering through the drawing room’s sizable windows, which gave the room a light and airy feel. Atlas suspected the value of the artifacts in that room alone far exceeded that of everything he would own in his lifetime.
As soon as he joined Lilliana, Atlas saw she was not alone. While Lady Lavinia was nowhere in evidence, a well-dressed gentleman Atlas had never seen before was ensconced in the stuffed chair opposite Lilliana.
“Atlas,” she said after Hastings, the butler, announced him. “Do you know Roxbury?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, yet Atlas felt fairly certain he’d never met the pleasant-faced man taking tea with Lilliana. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure.”
The man rose to his feet. He was of medium height and cut a fine figure in his expensive tailored clothing. “Jonathan Bradford, Marquess of Roxbury.”
Atlas bowed. “I believe I am acquainted with your brother, Adam. We were at Harrow together. I hope he fares well.”
In that moment, Atlas recalled why the name sounded familiar. Charlton had mentioned that Roxbury was courting Lilliana.
At the lady’s invitation, Atlas took a seat, discreetly examining the man with more interest. Roxbury had an agreeable demeanor, and while not overtly handsome, the marquess’s features were neat and even. Atlas judged him to be in his late thirties, about a decade older than Lilliana.
“I understand you were most recently in Jamaica.” The marquess exuded an easy confidence. “Lady Roslyn has told me as much.”
Lilliana had discussed him with the marquess? At his surprised look, she interjected, “Roxbury was present when your sister last visited. Mrs. Palmer was kind enough to share the contents of your letters with us.”
Not that there was anything particularly intimate in his rambling missives, but it had never occurred to Atlas that Thea might share their contents with others. “I do beg your pardon if she bored you with the details of my journey.”
Lilliana regarded him over the rim of her porcelain teacup. “I was anything but bored.”
“Your descriptions of the sugarcane fields were most vivid,” the marquess said. “How will the island fare, I wonder, now that the slave trade has been abolished?”
“The slave trade is banned. However, slavery itself is still firmly entrenched in Jamaica.” He accepted a cup of tea that the butler brought in for him.
“Your abhorrence of slavery is quite apparent in your letters,” Lilliana remarked. “You were most passionate.”
His face warmed. As a rule, he did not guard his emotions in letters to his sister in the way he might to others, but they’d touched upon a subject that Atlas felt strongly about. “Until the very institution of slavery is banned, I suspect the island will continue on its current course, at its own peril. It is inevitable that an economy based on enslaved people will eventually fail.”
“An interesting point.” Interest flicked in the marquess’s eyes as they continued the conversation about Atlas’s time in Jamaica. Thirty minutes later, both men had finished their tea, but neither showed any sign of departing. As a rule, morning calls were not long, and Roxbury had far exceeded the acceptable duration of a visit. Perhaps Lilliana regularly allowed the marquess this particular liberty. However, Atlas noted with satisfaction, she had not invited her suitor into her private sitting room as she had Atlas.
“More tea?” Lilliana finally asked. “Shall I ring for Hastings to bring in a fresh pot?”
Roxbury stood, no doubt because he’d stretched the rules of protocol almost to the breaking point. Lords were expected to set an example by adhering to etiquette rather than flouting it. “No, thank you, my dear. I really should be leaving.” He paused, casting an inquiring glance at Atlas.
Atlas did not take the other man’s unsubtle hint. He felt no compunction to abide by the ton’s rigid strictures. After all, Lilliana had invited him to call upon her at three o’clock, a time when morning calls normally ended. Besides, he had no intention of going anywhere until he saw the evidence Lady Lavinia had dropped off.
Lilliana answered for him. “It was good of you to come, Roxbury.” She rose and rang the bell. “Hastings will see you out.”
If Roxbury was surprised by her less-than-subtle dismissal, he gave no sign of it. He made his farewell with grace and followed the butler out the door. Once the door closed behind them, Lilliana exhaled.
“Thank goodness he’s gone.”
Her candor took Atlas by surprise. “Roxbury seems like an amiable enough fellow.”
“Oh, he is. Most amiable and very charming.” She whisked over to a settee by the window and knelt beside it. “But I am keen to see what proofs Lavinia Fenton has of Gordon Davis’s lesser nature.”
She pulled a small box out from under the settee and tossed the top off. Her face fell.
“Why, it’s just a book.” She lifted the tome out and flipped through a couple of pages, and her dubious expression transformed into one of complete shock. “Oh, my.”