Page 1 of The Baron Without Blame
Chapter One
London, 1788
On that marble balcony of Lord Leighster’s townhouse, wreathed by an overly-ornate iron railing, it occurred to Martin Preston that human sewage stank no matter in which city one found oneself. It fouled the sights of Calcutta as easily as it did Casablanca, sometimes stinking in town worse than seven weeks at sea. Even at this most magnificent ball in the great imperial center of London, Martin caught its unmistakable whiff above the fragrant springtime garden blooms.
It occurred to him, too, that the thought proved he was in no mood to fraternize at Lady Leighster’s soiree. His head was too muddled from his travels, when instead he should be discussing the latest horse races or flirting with a pretty lady. He would do better to go straight home to his dark room and nurse a glass of Madeira. Except Madeira was out, since it arrived from the subjugated Portuguese colonies; and so too was his other old favorite, the smoking pipe, whose tobacco came from the slave trade. He would have to rely on warm milk, then, with a splash of honey.
Small comfort that would be.
Martin took another deep breath, trying to summon the proper spirits to return to the ballroom, when he realized that on top of the garden roses and the city stench, there was another scent. A better scent.
A human scent.
Then came the sneeze. It was louder than any sneeze had a right to be. Martin could practically hear the mucus propelling out the nose.
He wasn’t sure which was worse: realizing he was not alone on the balcony or overhearing such a viscerally personal experience. He angled his shoulders away from the noise. Whoever was suffering such a violent eruption surely wanted their privacy. “I beg your pardon. I did not realize this balcony was occupied.”
The sneezer sniffled methodically into a handkerchief. “The fault is mine. I did not make myself known.”
The voice was female. Light, clear, and a faint flatness to her vowels that made Martin think of the far side of the ocean.
“I’m having an attack of allergies, I’m afraid. I blame Mr. Montague’s cologne.”
Martin swallowed back any reply. He should not be on a dark balcony alone with this voice.
“I thought you were my mother, which is why I didn’t say anything,” the voice continued before he could move. “She bid me wait here while she fetches more handkerchiefs from the retiring room. Only I’ve been waiting for eons. Perhaps she is having a nap.”
An unchaperoned female voice. Now Martin really did reach for the door. “I shall fetch your mother for you. Whom may I inquire after?”
Her reply was another sneeze. Now that he knew his companion was female, he could revel in how unladylike the sound was. No wonder her chaperone had shunted her onto a dark balcony; no husband could be caught when one sneezed like a blacksmith.
“Bless you.”
“Oh, I so hate allergies!” Her skirts rustled underneath this reply. Martin had an instant vision of Smyrna silk draped over the wide circumference of a pannier. Then – startlingly – he heard a soft thud, followed by a yelp.
Martin didn’t dare turn around. “Are you quite alright?”
“Yes,” the voice huffed. Then, reluctantly, “I suppose not. My skirts seem to have gotten caught on the railing.”
Even in the darkness, Martin blushed. He most definitely should not be discussing skirts with an unchaperoned young lady.
He reined in his thoughts before they could race after images of petticoats and slim legs.
The most proper thing to do was fetch her chaperone. But if he left her alone on this balcony, someone else could just as easily step out and discover her trapped.
Which was how he found himself asking, “May I offer my assistance?”
There was a long, reluctant silence. Then, “I suppose so. Thank you.”
Martin turned. He could just make out her silhouette, leaning awkwardly into the wall while her skirt ballooned against the wrought-iron railing. Her gown was pale – a virgin white, perhaps – and shone in the dim moonlight. The rest of her melted into the shadows.
Clearing his throat, he crossed to the railing. His guess was one of her pannier hoops had hooked onto an ornamentation. He knelt, all too aware of her perfume – which brought to mind a summer morning’s mist – and tried to lift the skirt off the iron. He freed the hoop, but the silk overskirt still clung to the balcony, and Martin now saw it had been impaled, a long gash like a lightning bolt revealing the ruffled petticoat beneath.
He worked the silk carefully so as not to tear it any further. He had just freed it of the pineapple-shaped spear when the balcony doors swung open.
With a shriek, his companion jumped. She landed even closer to the wall. Most of her skirt went with her, but the triangle of fabric in Martin’s fingers ripped away.
Which meant he had a fistful of her dress in his palm when he turned to face the new arrival.
