They approached the front of the tavern and stopped, scanning their surroundings. Prim recognized several people from inside the tavern now lingering about, but no bright canary dress in sight.
“Do you see your friend?” he asked.
“No.” Frowning, she shook her head.
He motioned down the row. “Shall we continue down the path a ways? See if they’re searching for us ahead?”
She nodded jerkily and together they proceeded.
A few moments passed and then she gave herself a little shake, realizing she had not asked him in turn. “What of you? Do you see your friends?”
“No, unfortunately.”
They fell into an uneasy silence—at least on her part.
She was so flustered. She fought the urge to lift her hand away from his arm, and instead took a deep breath. She needed to focus on finding Olympia.
“Have you been here before?” Her companion’s deep voice broke through the silence between them, politely inquiring. She swallowed back the thick lump of anxiety in her throat and willed her heart to cease its gallop.
Young men did not speak to her. She did not speak to them. There had been no occasion for it as of yet. Aside from Begonia’s husband and Violet’s betrothed, she had not been in the company of gentlemen for any notable amount of time.
And truth be told, in the case of her brother-in-law and her soon-to-be brother-in-law, she opted not to speak to either one of them.
Begonia’s Milton was a bore who scarcely spoke at all, and when he did it was usually on the matter of the grade of mutton on his plate or his hopes for a son. Her sister had graced him with only daughters thus far. Something for which he faulted her entirely. The wretched man was rather vocal in that grievance.
Violet’s betrothed had never acknowledged Prim’s presence, which was a clear enough message. Redding thought her beneath his notice—perhaps because she was homely, young, female, or all of the above. She could only hazard a guess.
The young man beside her was unquestionably Quality, possibly even peerage, which made him far superior in station to her and anyone in her family or acquaintance.
Redding and Milton would fall over themselves to have even a nod from a man like this, no matter his tender years. If he was, in fact, a peer, it made him coveted company to her social-climbing brothers-in-law—and Mama. And yet here was this man-boy speaking to her as if she were an equal, behaving as though he valued what she had to say. More courtesy than Milton or Redding had ever shown her. Heavens, her own mother scarcely had time to listen to her.
Then again, these were rather extenuating circumstances, and the least he could do was make some polite conversation, considering his hand had gripped dangerously close to her derrière.
He was still waiting for her answer. As though it mattered. As though she mattered. It was such a novel experience, she could not yet fully grasp it.
“Do I seem like a veteran of Vauxhall?” It was actually thrilling if he thought that—if he saw her as that sophisticated and urbane. She preened a little, dipping and angling her chin in what she imagined was a coquettish pose.
“No. You seem young. Too young for this place.”
Her chin shot back up with indignation. She bristled. She did not appreciate the observation. For obvious reasons. Her youth was a sore subject and the weapon Mama used against her.
“I cannot be much younger than you, my lord,” she countered.
He flinched before inclining his head in mild agreement. “True enough. I only just turned ten and nine a fortnight ago.”
“Not so much older than me then.”
“And yet I feel ancient.” He smiled as he said this, but she sensed he was not entirely jesting. There was a current of sincerity running beneath his words.
“At least you are not ten and six and treated more as though you are six.”
“Is that why you’ve ventured out tonight? To feel as though you are not a child? I must say you put yourself at peril for such a trivial goal.”
Trivial?
She stopped to face him, not liking his tone of condescension—as though he believed her a silly creature here for frivolity and nothing deeper. “You speak as though you know me. You do not, my lord.”
His head whipped left and right, looking around them at the many strolling people about their pleasures. “Jacob,” he quickly supplied, a touch of urgency in his voice.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My Christian name is Jacob. Please do not address me so formally. I am no ‘lord’ and I needn’t have people think it.”
He was not? Everything about him proclaimed him Quality.
He continued, “Simply call me Jacob.”
He wished her to be familiar with him? She shook her head. Impossible. They should not even be speaking in this manner at all.
“No. I cannot use your Christian name—”
“I insist. I prefer anonymity whilst here.”
She frowned and glanced around. People milled about. Several sent them curious looks from where they stood. For all she knew, someone had already overheard her address him.
He gestured to her domino. “I would think you could understand the wish for anonymity.”
But call him Jacob? “It’s not proper,” she insisted.
Annoyance flashed across his face and she wondered if that was common for him. Was he that breed of blueblood?
Did any other kind exist?
Weren’t they all haughty? Over-privileged and short-tempered with those they deemed beneath them?
For obvious reasons, Prim had never rubbed elbows with Quality before (or people, in general, for that matter). But she read of their exploits in the scandal rags, and she heard her family speak of all their deeds—especially their misdeeds.
Even Olympia and her mother shared in the gossip. There was one particular lord so enamored of Mrs. Zaher, he sent her flowers after every performance and rarely missed a show. He’d proposed to Mrs. Zaher no fewer than four times. Of course, that was exactly how many times he had been married before, and each one of his past wives had expired under vague circumstances. Even more alarming, it was rumored that every single previous wife had died shortly after he made the acquaintance of his next wife, and he always remarried as soon as propriety would allow.
I’ve no wish to be wife number five. Can you imagine? Mrs. Zaher had shuddered as she shook her head. Who knows how long it would take until I’d meet my demise?
Vice, Prim had decided, unfairly or not, was more rampant among the blue-blooded sector of Society. Especially among the men. Women, even ladies, had to take care of their reputations lest they be cast out. The gentlemen had little accountability and could get away with dastardly deeds.
“You are so concerned with propriety?” He asked as though that came as a surprise.
Her temper pricked at his clear insinuation. Prim let go of his arm, disliking his tone. He was no longer the only one annoyed now. He did not think her concerned with propriety? Well, on this night, she was not. True enough. But while she may have temporarily cast aside the trappings of decorum, she did not appreciate his judgment of her.
He did not know anything about her. Excluding the facts that it was her birthday and she was acquainted with Mrs. Zaher, and that her hair was a rather unfortunate shade of red.
But other than that, he knew absolutely nothing.