Her aunt grinned. “I know. Don’t tell your mother.”
Joan shook her head and turned to go, but the butler came into the room again with the post. She lingered as Evangeline sorted through it.
“Several invitations,” she remarked. “And—oh my—“ She dropped the stack of letters and tore one open.
Joan tried not to spy, but abandoned all pretense when she recognized the writing on the front. “It’s from Papa!”
“Yes, it is. Here is one for you.” Her aunt handed over a smaller letter, which had been sealed inside the other. Joan seized it and unfolded it, and the room was quiet as they both read.
Papa wrote that they had remained in Bath. Mother had been very tired from the journey that far, and once she recovered enough to go on, she had asked him to reconsider going all the way to Cornwall. The weather in Bath was very fine, enabling them to venture out almost every day, and Mother’s lungs seemed to be improving in the country air. They had taken a house in the Crescent and were spending the days very quietly, although Mother hoped to have some society as her health returned. Papa was insisting that she visit the hot baths every day, and the waters had done her a world of good. The tone of his letter was wry and amused, and Joan unconsciously relaxed as she read. It had been a fortnight since her parents had left, and she could tell Papa was far less worried about Mother now than he had been. Mother must be improving if she had the strength to argue with Papa over going to the baths.
“Mother is doing much better,” she said, folding her letter. “I’m so relieved!”
“Yes, it is very good news!” Evangeline beamed at her. “Your father says they might return within the month.”
“So soon?” Joan tried not to think what that would mean for drives in the park with Lord Burke. “The doctors must be very confident. I thought Papa would insist she remain in the country for the rest of this year.”
Evangeline ducked her head and began folding her own letter. “Yes, he’s always been very protective of her. And wisely so, in this case.”
And when Mother and Papa returned, Evangeline would leave. Joan gazed at her aunt, whom she had barely known a fortnight ago and now felt a deep kinship with. She would miss her aunt, with her unconventional demeanor and agreeable nature. She got up again to leave, then hesitated at the door. “I do hope Louis comes again. And Sir Richard, if you would like to see him. I’m sure my mother wouldn’t object.” After all, Mother had allowed Evangeline to come in the first place. Joan told herself a short visit from a small dog surely wouldn’t count for much, and Sir Richard had behaved as properly as anyone might wish.
Evangeline’s face softened. “Thank you, dear. Thank you so much.”
Chapter 18
Aside from the note with the lilies, there was no further word from Lord Burke about their drive. Joan told herself not to count on him, but when she found herself awake early on the morning he’d indicated, she got up and dressed instead of lying in. She reasoned it was just so she wouldn’t be caught off guard, or that perhaps Sir Richard would bring Louis to visit again, and in any event it was healthy to get up early. She could walk in the park with Abigail, or persuade Evangeline to take a trip down Piccadilly in search of new bonnet trimmings. She certainly wasn’t going to spend her day waiting on Tristan Burke, but neither was she going to allow him to find her unprepared.
And it was all a good thing, she found, when the sound of carriage wheels rattled to a stop on the street outside just as she finished her breakfast. Joan almost broke her teacup, setting it down with a crash of china. She hurried into the hall to catch Smythe before he could send Lord Burke—if indeed it was he—on his way.
The butler had just opened the door, revealing the infuriating man himself on the doorstep. “I’ve come to call for Miss Bennet,” he said, looking far too alert for this time of day—and unspeakably attractive. It hit her anew how terribly handsome he was, especially when he wasn’t bent on tormenting her. The slanting morning light seemed to magnify the span of his shoulders and render the angles and planes of his face in stark, glowing relief.
Smythe turned around, his expression stiff with disapproval. He had seen her come running and now waited for a word from her. Joan checked the urge to rush forward, and managed to glide into the hall as gracefully as Mother might have done. “Good morning, sir,” she said with a proper curtsy. “You were right to specify ‘early.’ ”
A grin lit his face. The dimple was especially noticeable today. “Grand adventures take a bit of time.”
“Grand adventure?”
He just dipped his head. “Are you ready to go?”
Goodness. Grand adventure! What on earth could he mean by that? As usual, he was not behaving as she expected ... and as usual, it made her unbearably intrigued. “Just a moment.”
Joan hurried to get ready. She buttoned up her gray spencer with unsteady fingers, and had to take a deep calming breath before allowing herself to go back downstairs, this time at a stately, dignified pace that hopefully hid her quickened pulse.
Outside a very smart curricle waited, gleaming in the early light. A fresh-faced boy in livery held the horses’ heads. Tristan helped her into the carriage and took the reins from his tiger. He snapped the reins and the horses started off. When she asked what grand adventure he was taking her on, he refused to say. He headed north, out of town, and for a while Joan just watched the scenery go by, enjoying a ride through the streets at an hour when she was normally still abed. It was like a different town, with maids out busily sweeping the steps and the main streets filled with carts on their way to market instead of carriages carrying ladies on calls. They rolled past the park, where a bank of mist hovered over the open grass, and crossed Oxford Road, leaving the familiar part of town behind. The fog was thicker here in the larger fields and more scattered houses, and it was like driving into a fairyland.
She had just begun to wonder where he was taking her when he pulled something from his coat pocket. “I mustn’t forget to deliver the object of your desires,” he said, holding out a crisp issue of50 Ways to Sin.
Joan gaped at it before snatching it from his hand. “Thank you.”
He watched her try to conceal it under her gloves. “The shopkeeper gave me quite a look when I asked for it.”
“I’m sure he did.” She prayed the breeze would keep her blush at bay. Affecting disinterest, she stuffed the pamphlet into her reticule. “I told you it’s a lady’s serial. You’re likely the first gentleman in all of London to purchase it.”
“It’s got a lurid title.” He lowered his voice suggestively. “Are you certain you’re not reading something you should not?”
“It’s a comedy of love, ironically titled,” she lied. “Very romantic, with scandalous rakes pursuing fair ladies, who hold them at bay until they declare their love in poetry and song and repent of their sins to become devoted husbands. You may read it if you like.” It was a bold move; if he called her bluff...
“No, thank you. Just knowing it’s a ladies’ serial is enough deterrent.” He reached into his pocket again, and slapped something down on his knee. A bright shilling winked up at her. “And there’s my stake,” he said, “for our wager.”
