The young lady shook her head and glanced back at her friends, but Mr. Morton hovered nearby. Time for a rescue.
Meredith walked as quickly as possible to Miss Harris's side. "Good evening, Miss Harris. Are you enjoying yourself?" She glanced at Mr. Morton in clear challenge.
He blinked at her as if uncertain how to proceed now that she had intervened.
Miss Harris, however, greeted her enthusiastically. "I had hoped to speak with you again this eve. Please, do tell me the end of that delightful story." Though Miss Harris would not be classified as pretty, her sweetness gave her a certain appeal.
Meredith smiled. "If you wish. I did not imagine it would be such a popular story." Mr. Partridge had, surprisingly, made the same request, and with such compelling earnestness that she would have found it hard to refuse him anything. Which made him exactly the kind of man she ought to avoid.
Quickly, she completed the tale. Miss Harris laughed over the ending. Still standing awkwardly nearby, her suitor smiled in an attempt to be part of the conversation. Meredith asked him benign questions and shrewdly watched him. Mr. Partridge was right; the gentleman showed no signs of the kind of smooth charm found in roués. Still, he might have a hidden agenda. Fortune hunters came in all packages.
An older woman bearing such a strong resemblance that she must surely be Miss Harris's mother gestured. "Come along, Cora dear, our carriage awaits."
Mr. Morton addressed Miss Harris. "Tomorrow, then, Miss Harris?"
Miss Harris nodded. "I look forward to it."
Miss Harris explained to Meredith, "Tomorrow we are viewing the Earl of Tarrington's private art collection. Would you come as well?"
Meredith considered. It would provide another opportunity to observe Mr. Morton and his behavior toward the sweet Miss Harris to determine whether she ought to issue a warning about the young lady's suitor. "That's very kind, but I wouldn't wish to intrude."
"Not at all. It's a small group, but a few more won't make any difference. Perhaps your cousin would join us? Annabel, isn't it?"
Meredith smiled. "Yes. I'm certain she'd be delighted. And of course, we must seek permission from my aunt. Thank you for including us."
As they explained their plan to Annabel, she happily agreed and sought Aunt's permission. The party broke up as guests said goodbyes. Meredith, next to Annabel, followed her aunt and uncle outside.
A male voice, smoother than chocolate, called, "Miss Brown."
Meredith turned. Mr. Partridge strode to her. Her breath stilled. How could she stay strong against him? Not only his handsome face, but his seemingly sincere words tugged at the loose threads of her resolve. One day, it may unravel fully, and she would be once more vulnerable to heartache. Twice was enough; she dared not risk a third.
"May I call upon you tomorrow?" That dimple appeared.
Fortunately, she had the perfect excuse to avoid spending time with forbidden fruit. "I have plans with friends tomorrow."
His gaze darted to Miss Harris and then back to her. "Tarrington's private art collection?"
She managed an articulate, "Er . . ."
"The very outing to which I had hoped to persuade you to join me." Again, that tempting dimple shone like a lighthouse guiding her to his mouth. How would those lips feel against hers? Ahem! Really, she ought to control her thoughts.
She glanced at Annabel, who smiled. No help from that quarter.
Mr. Partridge took a step nearer. "My friend Michael Cavenleigh and I would be delighted to offer you both a ride in my carriage." His glance included Annabel before he looked to Aunt Paulette. "With your permission, Mrs. Stafford. It's a landau-open and very proper."
Her traitorous aunt, insensitive to Meredith's concerns about Mr. Partridge, nodded with a kindly smile. "Of course you may escort them. I trust you'll take good care of my girls."
"You may count on me, madam." He bowed. "Until tomorrow, then."
No amount of pleading to be let out of tomorrow's outing with Mr. Partridge's tantalizing company succeeded in excusing Meredith from the trip to the private art gallery. Aunt Paulette and even Annabel held firm. Finally, Meredith mutinied the only way she knew how-wearing her oldest frock and pelisse and a plain, unadorned straw hat. Frowning, she descended the stairs, prepared to do battle with her aunt over her apparel, but Aunt Paulette only looked her over and gave her a knowing smile.
Mr. Partridge and Mr. Cavenleigh arrived. Mr. Cavenleigh, as usual, said little, though his expression remained pleasant. Mr. Partridge greeted them all with a wide smile. Did he know the power of his dimple?
As he offered Meredith his arm, he said, "What a pretty picture you make, Miss Brown. How refreshing to see such an elegantly simple ensemble."
She looked down at her faded apricot frockcoat over her plainest cream morning gown. "You're twitting me."
"Not at all. It's nice to see something so unadorned. Most ladies' clothing is buried under mountains of lace and ruffles. Yours is tasteful and a breath of fresh air."
Either he was a quick-thinking smooth talker or an unusual man with simple tastes. As the son of a duke, the likelihood of him being the former seemed great.
Under a gloomy, rain-laden sky, they stepped into the carriage. Mr. Partridge held Meredith steady as she stepped in. She clenched her teeth and put out of her mind the strength and gentleness in his hands. The seats sank under her, soft as a feather bed. Both gentlemen sat across from them, facing backward. Mr. Cavenleigh turned his focus to shops and buildings lining the road.
With a warm smile, Mr. Partridge locked his gaze with Meredith. "Thank you for accompanying us today on such short notice."
"I couldn't refuse." Meredith shot a meaning look at Annabel, but it had no effect on the unrepentant gleam in her cousin's eye.
"We're happy to oblige," Annabel chirped. "I have heard so much about the earl's house and its astonishing art collection. Meredith has quite an eye for art."
"Do you?" Mr. Partridge said, his eyes alight. "Have you a favorite artist?"
Meredith shot another warning look at her cousin, who seemed oblivious. Clearly, Meredith needed to work on her chilling glare. "Er, I'm not a true art aficionado, but I do enjoy Thomas Gainsborough landscapes. I also saw one by a living artist, Christian Amesbury, that caught my eye."
"Ah, yes, Lord Tarrington's youngest son. I've seen his work as well. It's excellent. He did such a lifelike portrait of my mother that I always half expect it to turn its head."
They chatted as they began the short distance to the London home of the Earl of Tarrington in Pall Mall near Green Park. The luxurious conveyance virtually glided over the cobbled streets. They turned a corner and met such heavy traffic that they could not proceed.
Mr. Partridge craned his neck. "I wonder what's amiss."
"It looks like an accident up ahead, sir," the driver commented.
"It does, indeed." Mr. Partridge stood. "Is that the Daubreys' coach?"
Annabel caught her breath. "I do hope not."
Mr. Partridge said, "I'm going to offer assistance." As he stepped out, he shot a concerned look at Meredith. "Forgive me for abandoning you."
Meredith stood. "I'll help."
She followed him down the sides of the street, stepping around groups who had gathered to watch.
He reached back and took her hand. "Stay close. I don't want us to get separated." His hand closed over hers, safe and reassuring. An illusion, surely.
With linked hands, they wound through vehicles, animals, and pedestrians until they reached the accident.
Mr. Partridge let out his breath. "It isn't the Daubreys." Still, he proceeded forward.
A town coach with a missing wheel tilted at a sharp angle nearly touching the ground. The other, a curricle, lay on one side, its axle shattered. Two sets of horses, still in their bridles, bits, and reins, pranced nervously nearby. Someone had thankfully unbuckled their harnesses from the damaged carriages. A coachman held the bridles of each teams' lead horse, speaking in low, soothing tones, a contrast to the shouts of two men gesturing wildly at one another. Both teams danced and shook their heads trying to escape the hands that held them.
Mr. Partridge went to the two shouting men. With his voice turned away from her and the noises of the crowd, his words failed to reach Meredith, but both men instantly turned to him, raising their voices as if trying to plead their case to the newcomer.
Meredith approached the team dancing about most nervously. "There now," she cooed to the lead horse. "All is well."
As she stroked their noses and looked them over for injuries, they settled, their ears swiveling to hear her.
"They ain't hurt," the coachman said. "I checked 'em."