All the stories about Thaddeus Middleton were like that. If someone was in trouble, he was the first to help. No doddering chaperone left behind, no dance card left empty.
Lest he seem too perfect, Mr. Middleton was also known for his affiliation with the Wicked Duke tavern, a pub teetering on the brink of losing all respectability due to its flagrant admission of persons Not Good Enough for the beau monde.
Plus two hundred points for Middleton and all the other wicked dukes. As soon as she gained her inheritance, Priscilla was going adventuring thousands of miles away from peerage and patronesses. She couldn’t wait to be too scandalous to deserve her Almack’s voucher.
Which meant Thaddeus Middleton was exactly the sort of gentleman Priscilla would have loved to converse with. If it weren’t for unusual circumstances, she would agree to a lot more than a mere stroll about the ballroom on his elbow. Mr. Middleton seemed the sort who would make a marvelous friend.
Her gaze slid to him for the dozenth time since this minuet began. Minus five points for each glance, she scolded herself. And minus fifty for letting thoughts of him fill her mind.
“I saved a spot on my dance card for Lord Raymore,” came a nervous voice beside her. “Am I being foolish?”
“Miss Corning,” Priscilla exhaled in relief. “Thank heavens.”
Finally, something to occupy her besides Thaddeus Middleton’s broad shoulders and seductive smile.
Although she did everything in her power to avoid eligible gentlemen, the opposite was true of ineligible gentlemen and women of all kinds. Priscilla was sociable by nature, and had become something of a fortune-teller to the debutantes.
All that time spent memorizing Debrett’s Peerage in order to know who to avoid had made Priscilla an expert in who was related to whom and set to inherit what. If a young lady wished to dance with a certain gentleman but had not yet been formally presented, it would take Priscilla no time at all to work out how to make it happen.
“You don’t know the marquess,” she reminded Miss Corning, “but your brother is friends with the brother of the marquess’s cousin, and all four are present tonight. Did you get the dances in the order I told you?”
Miss Corning nodded and held up her card.
Priscilla scanned the names and smiled. “Perfect. When you dance with the marquess’s cousin, mention your love of fox hunting. He has a large entailed estate in Norfolk and is passionate about the sport.”
Miss Corning stared up at her doubtfully. “I don’t know anything about fox hunting.”
“Men never expect women to know things,” Priscilla assured her, “and you wouldn’t be invited along even if you did.”
Miss Corning frowned. “Then how does it help?”
“Your dance partner won’t be able to hear the words ‘fox hunt’ without mentioning his cousin, at which point you innocently remark that you’ve never met the man. He’ll be obligated to perform the introduction. Since there can be no greater recommendation than to be presented on the arm of a cousin who has favored you with a dance, the marquess will feel honor-bound to do the same.”
Miss Corning wrung her hands. “And then what do I do? How do I bewitch him?”
“No idea,” Priscilla replied cheerfully. “I don’t know what’s said during waltzes, I’ve just observed the steps people take to get there. I’ve no firsthand experience with flirtation.”
Miss Corning’s cheeks flushed pink. “I do.”
“Then you’ll be fine.” Priscilla swirled her lemonade. “All I can do is put you in the marquess’s arms. The rest is up to you.”
Miss Corning marveled at her. “You’re the cleverest person I’ve ever met.”
Priscilla wanted to say, I have to be clever. A henwitted adventuress won’t last a day in the wilds.
But the confidentiality terms of her inheritance prevented her from acknowledging its existence.
“Go on,” she said instead. “The minuet is ending. You’ve a marquess to bewitch.”
“Fox hunting,” Miss Corning replied and strode into the thick of it.
Priscilla couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a romantical adventure rather than devise stratagems for others from the shadows.
Soon, she reminded herself. In eighteen months, she’d be riding across the Serengeti on the back of a sturdy pony and she’d never step foot in a ballroom again. She’d cross paths with a fearless adventurer with the heart of a warrior and the soul of a poet, and together, they’d—
Last until sunrise.
Maybe.
