Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable. Deb Marlowe

It was far more comfortable, after all, to make a study of rage or longing than to experience it oneself. Such things were of interest in Greek tragedy, but dashed inconvenient in real life.

      Logic dictated, therefore, that he should have been repelled by this young beauty. She reeked of emotion. She had appeared to be at the mercy of several very strong sensations in succession. Jack should have felt eager to escape her company.

      But as had happened all too frequently in the last weeks, his reason deserted him. He was not wild to make his apologies and move on. He wanted to discover how she would look under the onslaught of the next feeling. Would those warm blue eyes ice over in anger? Could he make that gorgeous wide mouth quiver in desire?

      ‘Mister Alden.’

      His musings died a quick death. That ringing voice was familiar.

      ‘Lady Ashford.’ He knew before he even turned around.

      ‘I am unsurprised to find you in the midst of this ruckus, Mr Alden.’ The countess skimmed over to them and pinned an eagle eye on the girl. ‘But you disappoint me, Miss Beecham.’

      The name reverberated inside Jack’s head, sending a jolt down his spine. Beecham? The girl’s name was Beecham? It was a name that had weighed heavily on his mind of late.

      They were joined again by the girl’s mother and the red-faced Mr Cooperage, but Lady Ashford had not finished with the young lady.

      ‘There are two, perhaps three, men in London who are worth throwing yourself under the wheels of a carriage, Miss Beecham. I regret to inform you that Mr Alden is not one of them.’

      No one laughed. Jack was relieved, because he rather thought that the countess meant what she said.

      Clearly distressed, the girl had no answer. Jack was certainly not fool enough to respond. Fortunately for them both, someone new pushed her way through the crowd. It was his mother, coming to the rescue.

      Lady Dayle burst into their little group like a siege mortar hitting a French garrison. Passing Jack by, she scattered the others as she rushed to embrace the girl like a long-lost daughter. She clucked, she crooned, she examined her at arm’s length and then held her fast to her bosom.

      ‘Jack Alden,’ she scolded, ‘I could scarcely believe it when I heard that you were the one disrupting the fair and causing such a frenzy of gossip! People are saying you nearly ran this poor girl down in the street!’ Her gaze wandered over to the phaeton and fell on Charles. He gave a little wave of his hand, but did not leave the horses.

      ‘Charles! I should have known you would be mixed up in this. Shame on the pair of you!’ She stroked the girl’s arm. ‘Poor lamb! Are you sure you are unhurt?’

      Had Jack been a boy, he might have been resentful that his mother’s attention was focused elsewhere. He was not. He was a man grown, and therefore only slightly put out that he could not show the girl the same sort of consideration.

      Mrs Beecham looked outraged. Miss Beecham merely looked confused. Lady Ashford looked as if she’d had enough.

      ‘Elenor,’ the countess said, ‘you are causing another scene. I do not want these people to stand and watch you cluck like a hen with one chick. I want them to go inside and spend their money at my fair. Do take your son and have his arm seen to.’

      ‘Oh, Jack,’ his mother reproved, her arm still wrapped comfortingly about the girl. ‘Have you re-injured your arm?’

      Lady Ashford let her gaze slide over the rest of the group. ‘Elenor dear, do let go of the girl and take him to find out. Mr Cooperage, you will come with me and greet the women who labour in your interest today. The rest of you may return to what you were doing.’

      ‘Lilith has had a fright, Lady Ashford,’ Mrs Beecham said firmly. ‘I’ll just take her back to our rooms.’

      ‘Nonsense, that will leave the Book Table unattended,’ the countess objected.

      ‘Nevertheless …’ Mrs Beecham’s lips were folded extremely thin.

      ‘I shall see to her,’ Lady Dayle declared. ‘Jack, can you take us in your … Oh, I see. Whose vehicle are you driving, dear? Never mind, I shall just get a hackney to take us home.’

      Mrs Beecham started to protest, and a general babble of conversation broke out. It was put to rout by Lady Ashford. ‘Very well,’ she declared loudly and everyone else fell silent. ‘You can trust Lady Dayle to see to your daughter, Mrs Beecham. I will take you to fetch the girl myself once the day is done.’

      She paused to point a finger. ‘Mr Wilberforce’s barouche is still here. I’m certain he will not mind dropping the pair of them off,’ she said, ‘especially since he has only just made you a much larger request. I shall arrange it.’ She beckoned to the missionary. ‘Mr Cooperage, if you would come with me?’

      Everyone moved to follow the countess’s orders. Not for the first time, Jack thought that had Lady Ashford been a man, the Peninsular War might have been but a minor skirmish.

      With a last, quick glance at the girl on his mother’s arm, he turned back to his brother and the cursed team of horses.

      But Lady Ashford had not done with him. ‘Are those Pettigrew’s animals, Mr Alden?’ she called. She did not wait for an answer. ‘Take yourself on home and see to your arm—and do not let Pettigrew lure you into buying those bays. I hear they are vicious.’

      ‘Thank you for the advice, Lady Ashford,’ he said, and, oddly, he meant it. Charles stood, a knowing grin spreading rapidly across his face.

      ‘Not a word, Charles,’ Jack threatened.

      ‘I wasn’t going to say a thing.’

      Wincing, Jack climbed up into the rig and took up the ribbons. Charles took his seat beside him and leaned back, silent, but with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

      ‘The girl’s surname is Beecham.’

      Charles sat a little straighter. ‘Beecham?’ he repeated with studied nonchalance. ‘It’s a common enough name.’

      ‘It’s that shipbuilder’s name and you know it, Charles. The man who is supposedly mixed up with Batiste.’

      His brother sighed. ‘It’s not your responsibility to bring that scoundrel of a sea captain to justice, Jack.’

      Jack stilled. A wave of frustration and anger swept over him at his brother’s words. He fought to recover his equilibrium. This volatility was unacceptable. He must regain control.

      ‘I know that,’ he said tightly. ‘But I can’t focus on anything else. I keep thinking of Batiste skipping away without so much as a slap on the hand.’ Charles was the only person to whom Jack had confided the truth about his wound and the misadventures that had led to it. Even then, there were details he’d been honour-bound to hold back. ‘It’s bad enough that the man is a thief and a slaver as well. But by all accounts the man is mad—I worry that he might come after old Mervyn Latimer again, or even try to avenge himself on Trey and Chione.’

      It wasn’t Charles’s fault that he couldn’t understand. Though he knew most of the story, he didn’t know about the aftermath. Jack didn’t want him—or anyone else—to know how intensely he’d been affected. Charles must never know about his nightmares. He didn’t understand himself how or why all this should have roused his latent resentment towards their cold and distant father, but one thing he did know—he would never burden Charles with the knowledge. His older brother had his own weighty issues to contend with in that direction.

      ‘Would you like me to make some inquiries?’ Charles asked.

      ‘Both Treyford and I already have. Batiste has disappeared. He could be anywhere. All the Foreign Office could give me was that name—Matthew Beecham. A young shipbuilder—an Englishman from Dorset who moved to America to pursue his craft. Somehow he became mixed up with Batiste, and found himself