Page 19 of Just a Little Daring

August threw up his hands in exasperation. “What the devil does it mean?”

“It means she doesn’t need you. She wants you, you great blockhead.”

“And so?”

“And so why not give it a chance? Throw caution to the wind and, for once in your life, don’t pretend someone else is responsible for doing it. Kick up your heels. A week in her company, August. Why not? It’s not much to ask, is it?”

August sighed. He was uncertain if he was just giving in because he wanted to anyway, or because there was just no point in denying Bainbridge, who treated every problem in his path the same way. He mowed it down until it was gone. He suspected it wasn’t standing up to Bainbridge that was the problem. He’d played immovable object to Bainbridge’s unstoppable force before now and was not so easily mown. He wanted to see Miss Anson. That was the devil of it. Satan’s balls! He was wanty too.

“Fine,” he said ungraciously. “A week. And if it all goes to hell, you’d damn well better come and bail me out.”

“Consider it done, old man,” Bainbridge said, beaming at him. “Consider it done.”

Chapter 7

Monsieur le Comte,

I did indeed succumb to a nasty cold, but I am much better now, helped in no small part by the lavish parcel. My word, whatever possessed you? I’ve had the devil of a job hiding it all from Papa. I even had to bribe two of the footmen into holding their tongues.

I have never received such a thoughtful combination of gifts, however. The books are marvellous, the chocolates divine, but the mechanical singing bird in a golden cage—Louis, words fail me. It is so lovely, yet I have been forced to hide it in the back of a cupboard which breaks my heart. I cannot begin to imagine how much it cost, but it is far too generous a gift. You know very well that I ought not to accept it, but I shall because you were so thoughtful as to choose it for me and I cannot bear to be parted from it.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

23rd February 1841, Axton House, The Strand, London.

Ash looked at his sister as her maid put the finishing touches to her coiffure. “Stop looking so smug. If your smile grows any wider, you’ll strain something.”

Vivien shrugged, unrepentant. “I don’t care. I’m too happy. He’s here, Ash, and even if he didn’t know I was coming—which Arabella says is true—well, he didn’t run away screaming, did he?”

“Give it time,” Ash murmured.

Vivien stuck her tongue out at him and marched past with her nose in the air. “Come along, or we shall be late.”

Ash groaned, not being a huge fan of the coming ordeal. Arabella had been most apologetic but had asked that they show their support at her Fancy Fair. Her arch nemesis, Mrs Wibberley, the vicar’s wife, with her tales of self-sacrificing charitable fundraising efforts, had goaded Arabella into raising some funds of her own. Despite Bainbridge’s munificence and support for those who fell within his purview, and Arabella’s generosity in the time she gave to local events and visiting the sick and the elderly, Mrs Wibberley continued to nitpick and undermine her wherever she could. Determined to shut the blasted woman up once and for all, Arabella had gone all out to raise a small fortune. Through her efforts, various items had been donated by—or sometimes blackmailed out of—the wealthiest members of the ton, and would now be sold off, with the funds going to charity. An impressive auction was to be held in the afternoon. The event revolved around the indoor Fancy Fair, where the smaller donated items and handcrafted gifts created by the ladies of the ton were to be sold at individual little stalls run by the ladies themselves, and tickets sold for admission to the fair. The sticklers among the ton were aghast at ladies behaving like common tradespeople, but as it was for charity, and merely a bit of fun, most people enjoyed it for the harmless event it was. There would also be some real tradespeople selling food and drink, and some entertainment, such as musicians and jugglers. Vivien was looking forward to it immensely. Not least because Mr Lane-Fox would be there, too.

Vivien hurried down the stairs, only to pause halfway down as she saw him waiting in the entrance hall. He looked up and smiled, and Viv’s heart gave an odd little kick in her chest.

“Miss Anson. May I say how lovely you look today?”

Viv smiled, a little startled to feel a blush colour her cheeks. “Thank you, sir. You are most kind.”

“Hardly,” he said ruefully. “It’s no more than the truth, though if I were being strictly accurate, I ought to say, how lovely you look every day.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been stuck with her when she had a head-cold a few weeks ago,” Ash said cheerfully, ignoring the incinerating glare Viv shot his way. “She looked wretched then, I promise.”

Mr Lane-Fox laughed at Viv’s obvious consternation. “There, there, Miss Anson, take heart. I have sisters, you know, and they love to make me seem a fool at every opportunity. I pay your brother no mind, I promise.”

“You relieve my mind, and I commend your good sense. No one else pays Ash any mind either,” she said, giving her twin a serves you right smirk as a footman helped her on with her pelerine.

They made it out to the carriage with no further bickering and arrived at the Fancy Fair in good time. Arabella had hired a large hall and had it decorated in the manner of a spring fair. Colourful bunting crisscrossed back and forth above the capacious area, and each individual stallholder had decorated their own stand, some with more finesse than others. That the competition between stall holders was fierce became increasingly obvious within moments, as Mr Lane-Fox was almost bodily dragged to a stall run by the Misses Rivenhall, the beautiful granddaughters of the Duke of Sefton. Before Vivien could make a comment to her brother about their audacity, he too had been nabbed, rounded up like a lone sheep and herded towards a stall selling crocheted… things. Vivien wasn’t entirely certain what they were.

“Heavens, it’s brutal,” exclaimed a voice from beside her, and Viv looked around to find Evie at her side.

“You’re not wrong. I’ve lost Mr Lane-Fox and Ash and we’ve barely set foot in the room,” Viv observed.

Evie shook her head in wonder. “I tried to get to Rosamund’s stall a moment ago and got so jostled by her admirers in their desperation to get to her, I’m sure I’ll be black and blue in the morning. She’ll have nothing left to sell by now, and she’ll tell you herself her embroidery is hardly a thing of beauty.”

“No, but she is, so the young bucks want to impress her by buying all her wares.”