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He stopped abruptly. The terrace had gone silent. Guests clustered in frozen surprise, all attention fixed on one scandalous tableau.
Bad show!
Abbott had his arms wrapped around a young woman in pale muslin, framed dramatically by the full moon overhead. Worse, he was kissing her, heedless of the assembled eyes.
This is what comes of being wound so tight! Julius’s heart sank as the couple jerked apart. Abbott shifted to block her from the shocked crowd, but it was too late. Julius’s gaze caught on the young lady’s distinctive height and coloring, and horror twisted in his gut. Smythe’s daughter.
Blasted idiot!
Abbott blinked, realization dawning as he noticed the gaping audience.
At the back, Julius stood appalled, mouth dry, dragging gloved fingers through his carefully styled curls. He let out an exasperated breath and lifted his hands in mute surrender. There was no fixing this.
“It’s Moreland’s heir!”
Lady Astley’s shrill exclamation shattered the hush, making nearby guests flinch.
“Is that Miss Smythe?” asked Lord Astley, peering with narrowed eyes.
Julius cleared his throat painfully. “I am sure it is not what we think. Lord Abbott is a nobleman of the highest order.”
Abbott shot him a furious, helpless glare. They both knew this was a disaster for the poor girl’s reputation.
Julius’s mind raced as they locked eyes across the stunned crowd. He shook his head in warning, hand flicking to stop Abbott’s next words—
But Abbott straightened and called out with determined dignity.
“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage … and she accepted.”
Blazes! Julius could already imagine Lord Snarling’s reaction.
AUGUST 14, 1821
Audrey Gideon lifted the colorful starling from the terrace paving, its iridescent feathers flashing green and blue in the bright afternoon light. The warm sun shone steadily upon the secluded walled garden of Lord Stirling’s London townhouse, illuminating beds of carefully tended roses and low clipped boxwood hedges that released a faint, resinous scent in the heat.
The little bird had flown into one of the many gleaming windows that lined the garden front and now lay dazed on the sun-warmed masonry. Wishing to assess its condition, Audrey folded the fragile creature carefully into her lace-edged handkerchief, its delicate fabric shielding the bird’s frantic wings from further harm.
She walked with measured steps toward a stone bench nestled against the terrace balustrade, where her small leather valise rested beside a narrow wrought-iron table. The bench felt cool beneath her light muslin gown as she settled onto it, skirts rustling softly.
Raising the injured starling to eye level, she gently loosened the folds of linen to reveal its sleek wing. Using the lightest touch of her gloved fingertip, she held the limb steady, studying the angle of the break.
It was as she had suspected—a fracture, but not badly splintered. A careful splint would suffice. She exhaled slowly in relief. Thankfully, she had brought her valise outside to take inventory. Between its small store of linen bandage and the pliant twigs she could gather from the ivy and shrubbery climbing the terrace wall, she would have what she needed to treat the bird properly.
Audrey released another breath, this one tinged with satisfaction. It felt good to have purpose. Since her father, Dr. John Gideon, had died, she had been living under the roof of Lord Stirling—her late father’s close friend and patron. London life had proved unbearably dull to her country-reared senses, full of smoke, noise, and restless energy.
All she could think of was returning to Stirling itself once she reached her majority—to the quiet village lanes lined with hedgerows, to the familiarity of neighbors she had known since childhood, to the simple joy of assisting with fevers and sprained ankles.
In the meantime, stuck in this city of sooty façades and teeming crowds, it was a blessed comfort to focus on a small patient in need of her skill. Cradling the trembling bird felt like a memory of better days spent beside her father’s worktable, pestle in hand, preparing liniments while he murmured instructions in his gentle voice.
But her peace was interrupted by terse voices that floated through the tall open doors of the nearby study. Audrey winced at the sound, realizing she had seated herself rather too close.
“Lady Hays has informed me of your antics last evening with Moreland’s heir.”
“Tsk, tsk. So formal. Aunty Gertrude informed you of my antics last evening.”
It was no secret in the household that Lord Julius Trafford and the Earl of Stirling had never seen eye to eye. Trafford was a notorious dandy, given to ostentatious attire and irreverent wit, while the earl was the very embodiment of solemn tradition, his moral code as stiff as the starch in his neckcloth.
Audrey knew this well. She had petitioned the earl more than once to allow her to return home to Stirling, but he insisted she remain in Town to protect her reputation. Under the law, she was still a minor, and she had little choice but to comply, despite the yearning in her heart for country quiet.
