Mr. Barlow, following the precedence of the estate manager before him, kept a log of all outgoing and incoming postage paid. It seemed an onerous task to log every letter, but in the case of servants, if an excessive number were received postage due, the amount was garnished from their wages.
Sally Jones, upper housemaid, received frequent letters from a gentleman in Bodmin, Alec noted, wondering if the sender was a doting relative or a sweetheart.
Lady Amelia received several newspapers, letters from a London solicitor and a modiste, as well as regular letters from Plymouth, notated as Tremelling, Royal Navy. Alec idly wondered what business Lady Amelia had with the navy, or if this Tremelling was some relative. Reading on, he noted that she also posted replies to the same name. Did Lady Amelia—a widow—have a sweetheart? She was not too old. And if she were not forever looking stern and disapproving, she would be a handsome woman. But even so, it was difficult to imagine.
A few minutes later, Mr. Barlow returned from his meeting. But before Alec could ask him any questions, the estate manager informed him that Lady Amelia wished to see him directly.
Alec knocked on the paneled door and entered the library when bid. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the wall of windows onto the carpet and bookshelves. The many windows afforded a great deal of light for reading but also cost a great deal in taxes, as Alec now knew.
Lady Amelia, seated at the wide mahogany desk, gestured him closer.
“Please. Have a seat.”
Alec sat in a chair facing the desk, unsure if he should feel like a wayward servant, as usual, or perhaps even a criminal on trial.
“Mr. Valcourt, now that you are in my employ and under my roof each day, I don’t think it unreasonable to ask more about your background.”
Alec felt his heart rate accelerate. “Oh?”
“May I ask why you and your family have come here to Beaworthy?”
This again? “As you know, this is where my uncle lives.”
“Yes. But is he your only living relation?”
“We haven’t a large family.” Alec faltered. “And he was willing to . . . That is, he offered to take us in and—”
“Why had you the need to be, as you say, ‘taken in’? Were you unable to support yourselves in London?”
Alec squirmed. “We thought it best. That is, my mother wished to quit town for several reasons.”
Her fine brows rose. “What reasons?”
He hesitated. “My father, having recently . . .” Alec swallowed. “Gone. We—”
She said briskly, “I see that your mother still wears mourning. When did Mr. Valcourt pass on?”
“He has been gone these five months.” God forgive me, Alec thought.
“Why could you not continue on without him?”
Alec squeezed the arms of the chair. Tightly. “Your ladyship, if you are unhappy with the discharge of my duties, please say so.”
She leaned back and lifted a dismissive gesture. “Not at all. Barlow seems quite satisfied with your work. In fact, it seems to have freed his time to visit the stables.” She gave him a pointed look.
Alec considered how best to answer. “I did have several clients—pupils who would have continued their lessons with me—but not enough to keep the place going and support my family. And my mother thought it best to leave the scene of our . . . unhappiness.”
“But to leave an established academy?”
Alec felt frustration mounting. “I do not see that I am obligated to air all of our personal problems, your ladyship, but if you must know, my father left behind debts. We had to sell our property to satisfy them.”
She considered this. “Be that as it may, to come to a small, unfamiliar village in hopes of establishing a new following . . . Well, pardon me for saying so, but it seems very unwise.”
He clasped his hands together and struggled to constrain his emotions. “Perhaps, in hindsight, it was. But here we are.”
“Yes.” Her gaze took in his features, his clasped hands. “Here you are.”
She entwined her fingers on the desk and asked, “You would have no objection, I presume, were I to write to a London acquaintance to inquire into your reputation there?”
He stared at her, his cravat suddenly seeming too tight. “You asked for no character reference beyond my uncle’s when you engaged me, but now . . . ?”
She lifted her chin. “When I engaged you, I thought I made it clear that you were to have little to do with my daughter. But apparently, the two of you have decided to ignore my wishes in that regard. If you are going to continue to spend time in my daughter’s company, then yes, I feel it my right, even my duty, to know precisely whom I have hired.”
He swallowed. “I was not such a popular dancing master that I flatter myself to think an acquaintance of yours would have heard of me. Let alone be able to comment on my character or reputation.”
She formed a small smile. “Leave that to me. I have many acquaintances in town.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her top drawer, slid it across the desk toward him, and held out a quill. “If you would be so kind as to provide your former direction or at least the street where your academy was located?”
Alec stared blindly at the quill, his mind as empty as the blank page before him. The trap had been set and he was about to place his foot squarely into it.
What could he do? He wouldn’t give a false address. Should he try to preempt her? Explain away what she might discover? Perhaps she would find nothing. But somehow, glancing into those speculative blue-green eyes of hers, he doubted it.
He stood over the desk, dipped the quill, and wrote the number and street of the former Valcourt Dancing and Fencing Academy, quite certain he was sealing his fate in the bargain.
Alec walked home that afternoon, feeling as though a fuse had been lit. It was only a matter of time now. His past would catch up with him, and his future vanish with it. He wanted—needed—to support his mother and sister. He was the man of the family now. It was up to him. He’d planned to give his uncle half of his earnings for their upkeep, and divide another quarter between his mother and sister, so they would each have a little money of their own. It would not stretch far enough to cover folderols or new clothes, but he had so looked forward to ensuring his mother would not have to ask her brother for spending money as well as a place to live.
What should he do now—begin looking for another place, giving up excellent wages on the chance someone she knew was acquainted with their academy? And if a negative report did arrive—what then? Lady Amelia would lose no time in dismissing him, and likely make certain everyone in the village knew not to trust him or engage him for any sort of position, let alone dancing lessons.
Why did this have to happen? Alec asked his father—both earthly and heavenly.
Why?
The next day, Alec returned to his duties as though all were well. Maybe it would be. Maybe his bluff would stand. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother to send a letter—perhaps she had been bluffing as well.
His hopes were dashed, however, when he saw the day’s outgoing letters stacked on the hall table, ready for the post.
On the top: one addressed in a fine hand to Mrs. Leticia Garwood, 14 Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury, London. Queen’s Square . . . only a few blocks from their former academy. They were doomed.
He decided then and there that he might as well accept the Allens’ offer to teach private dancing lessons at Medlands. With the hatchet destined to fall someday soon, he could not afford to turn down any paying position.
After Alec worked his half day on Saturday, he took his borrowed sword with him into the churchyard. Walter had insisted he use one of their neglected swords, until his own had been repaired. Alec was still sore from the beating he’d taken from the Wilcoxes on Monday, but he thought he would at least stretch his aching muscles.
Making his way to the paved path outside the church doors, Alec set down his hat and sword on a headstone and gingerly peeled off his snu
g frock coat, his side protesting with each tug. He draped the coat over the headstone and removed his cravat as well. He carefully stretched his arms and upper body, then lunged low, one leg forward, then the other, his injured leg aching as he did so.
He picked up the sword and slid it from its scabbard. The hilt was gilded and decorative, likely far more costly than his own, but he missed having his grandfather’s sword and hoped the smith could repair it. He determined to walk out to the forge sometime soon to check on its progress.
He faced the headstone that wore his coat and hat, as though an actual foe. Blade in ready position, he slowly began his routine: Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Strike, parry-riposte. Feint, attack, parry-riposte . . .
He hoped the Wilcox brothers would not make another appearance, but if they did, this time he would be better prepared.
At the sound of a voice, Alec jumped and whirled about.
Julia Midwinter stood there, eyes wide. “My goodness,” she said, with a glance at his sword. “A good thing I was not standing closer.”
“Miss Midwinter.” He lowered the weapon. “Forgive me.”
Her gaze skated from his face to his shirtsleeves and open collar and back again. “Fighting phantoms again, are we?”
“You could say that.” He sheathed the sword and picked up his coat from the headstone. “Please excuse my appearance.”
She squinted at the name carved in the stone. “I remember Ezra Greenslade. I don’t think he’d mind holding your coat.”
As Alec slipped his hand into the sleeve, he observed her appearance—her lovely face framed by honey curls and a straw bonnet. A figure-hugging spencer over her gown, with ribbon trim on the sleeves and beneath her bosom. His mouth went dry to even think the word in her presence.
“What?” She looked down at herself, as though to flick away an offending insect or speck of soil.
“Nothing.” Self-conscious, he struggled into the frock coat. A difficult feat, considering the snug cut, his aching ribs, and his audience.
She watched him with mild amusement. “You do not shock my maidenly sensibilities, Mr. Valcourt. Have no fear.”
“May I help you with something, Miss Midwinter?” he said officiously, hoping to chase the self-satisfied grin from her face. And quell his own nerves in the bargain.
“Yes, actually.” She clasped her hands. “I’ve come for a dancing lesson.”
“Pardon?”
“A dancing lesson. Here—since Lady Amelia would never allow it in the house.”
He licked dry lips and felt his pulse rate quicken. His mind whirled with conflicting emotions. Part of him relished the notion of being alone with Miss Midwinter. Enjoying her company and her undivided attention. Taking her hand in his to lead her through a private dance in a deserted churchyard . . . His chest tightened at the thought.
But he knew all too well the possible consequences of such stolen moments. Such seemingly innocent beginnings.
She took a step forward.
Alec took a step backward, reminded of his horse.
Again she stepped forward, and he stepped back. She performing the chassé, and he performing the dance of retreat.
“What is it, Mr. Valcourt?” She grinned. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of me.”
“You know Lady Amelia would not approve.”
“What has that to say to anything?” She stepped toward him, but he sidestepped. A matador avoiding the charge.
“Miss Midwinter. Before we proceed any further, I must tell you that I have a strict policy against any romantic . . . uh, personal involvement with my pupils.”
She blinked, momentarily taken aback. “In that case, perhaps I ought to reconsider becoming a pupil of yours.”
“Perhaps you should.”
She propped a hand on her waist. “My goodness, Mr. Valcourt. How proper you’ve become all of a sudden. Do you not like women in general, or is it just me you dislike?”
Alec recognized a trap when he saw one. “I like women in general, Miss Midwinter. But . . .”
“But I make you nervous,” she suggested.
Alec nodded. Had he just admitted it? He had not meant to.
“Do I?” One fair brow rose high. She clearly took pleasure in the confession. He had not intended that either.
“It is only natural,” he insisted, attempting nonchalance. “After all, you are the daughter of my employer. You have the power to see me put out of a favorable post.”
“Is that all? I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. I quite like having you about the place. Life has become much more interesting since you’ve joined us.”
“Perhaps you would not intentionally have me dismissed. But your mother has made it quite clear she doesn’t wish us to spend time together. And we both know she would not approve of our dancing together.”
“True.” A shadow fell over Julia’s face. “But then, she often disapproves of me.” She sobered, her flirtatious manner falling away.
There it was again. That rare glimpse of vulnerability. He felt as if he’d been given a fleeting look into the soul of the real Julia Midwinter. Or was he fooling himself, seeing what he wanted to see? Imagining depth and substance where only shallow vanity existed?
A moment later, her guard went back up and vulnerable Julia was gone. She smiled coyly. “What do we do first?”
Her smirking innuendo suddenly reminded him far too much of scheming Miss Underhill. His defenses rose. If she wanted a lesson, he’d give her one she really needed.
“First, you must learn the etiquette of the ballroom.”
“Etiquette? That’s not what I had in mind.”
Obviously. Alec cleared his throat and began, “A lady may not ask a man to dance. She must wait for him to ask her.” He gave her a pointed look. “A gentleman, you see, prefers to do the pursuing.”
She self-consciously lowered her eyes.
“And when he does ask,” Alec continued, “she must not forget her engagement and dance with someone else. A lady must dance neatly and with decorum, no capering about or bumping into others. And no noisy talking or boisterous laughter.”
Julia frowned. “All these rules for ladies. It hardly seems fair.”
“Don’t worry. Gentlemen have a long list of their own rules to follow. Now, where was I . . . ?” Alec thought, then continued, “Yes. Always wear gloves while dancing, preferably white. Ladies and gentlemen may not dance together unless they have first been introduced. And a couple should dance no more than two sets together in one evening.”
He turned to the nearest headstone, still wearing his hat. “And, say Mr. Ezra Greenslade here asks you to dance—”
“Mr. Greenslade!” Julia interrupted. “A kindly undertaker to be sure, but not someone I should like to dance with.” She shuddered theatrically.
“Very well, but if you refuse poor Mr. Greenslade, saying for example that you are too tired to dance, and then some dashing fellow asks—”
“Like you?” She fluttered her lashes.
He ignored that. “You would not be at liberty to accept. You must sit out the entire set.”
“Can’t have that,” she said, turning to the headstone. “All right, Ezra. Wash your hands and I shall dance with you.”
He bit back a grin. “The proper response to ‘May I have this dance?’ is ‘I would be delighted’ or ‘With pleasure.’ Something of that nature. Let’s try again.” He tipped the hat atop the stone and asked in a raspy accent, “May I ’ave this dance, Miss Midwinter?”
She curtsied and said sweetly, “I should enjoy it above all things.”
The woman was a quick study. It was too bad, really. Because it seemed unlikely Miss Midwinter would ever attend an actual ball.
He would have liked to invite her to the dance lessons he hoped to begin at Medlands but knew it wasn’t his place to do so. Nor was he sure it would be wise to tempt fate by including Lady Amelia’s daughter in the forbidden activity. At least not as long as he was cl
erk at Buckleigh Manor.
In the Medlands music room late the following Tuesday afternoon, Alec faced his pupils—James Allen, Patience Allen, and Walter Allen. His sister, Aurora, stood off to the side, ready to demonstrate, assist, or play the pianoforte as needed.
As Alec led the Allens through the beginning exercises, it became quickly evident that James possessed a natural athletic ability and Patience, feminine charm and willingness if not an abundance of grace. Walter, however, stood stiffly and sullenly, frozen in a mockery of the first position.
“Come on, Walter,” Alec urged. “At least try.”
“This is ridiculous. I look like a fop. Who stands like this?”
“Dancers do.”
“I am no dancer.”
“That’s the truth,” James teased. “We spent a fortnight in London a few years ago, and attended a ball while we were there. I roused my courage and asked two young ladies to dance. But old Walt here spent the entire evening holding up the wall.”
“Even though gentlemen were scarce,” Patience added gently, “and several young ladies were sitting down in want of a partner.”
“Don’t you start, Pet.”
“Try again,” Alec said. “Heels together, feet turned outward.”
“I look like a dashed waddling duck,” Walter grumbled.
Alec bit back a grin at the apt description. “And now the second position. Move the right foot to the side, and rest your toes on the floor.”
“Must I?”
“These basic positions form the fundamental steps of many dances.”
Alec demonstrated the position, and Walter tried to force his feet into submission.
“Stand up straight, Walter. Don’t slouch. Relax and stand comfortably—”
“Well, which is it?”
“Stand with your arms hanging naturally at your sides. You are not a soldier at attention.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“Come, let’s have a smile,” Aurora encouraged. “Dancing is meant to be enjoyable.”
“It’s torture—that’s what it is. I only wanted to learn fencing, not dancing.”
“Come on, Walter.” Alec lowered his voice. “Don’t you want to impress the ladies?”