“Everyone’s admission is already paid,” Noel said, every inch the magnanimous host. “Please, go in. And above all, enjoy yourselves.”
“My lady,” Mr. Parley said, presenting her with his arm.
It was better to have the brewer escort her than to show a particular preference, so she took his arm with a grateful nod. She couldn’t stop herself from looking over her shoulder toward Noel. Lady Haighe had commandeered him.
Good. That was good. Because the way the lights shone in his eyes, he was temptation incarnate, and once inside the pleasure garden, she would be in his world.
Vauxhall was a place where anything could happen, where the world turned on its head, and farmers’ daughters could flirt with dukes.
She didn’t know if, on the other side of the pleasure garden’s gate, she could trust herself to behave. And she didn’t know if she wanted to.
Chapter 11
Jess could count on one hand the number of times she’d been drunk. Certainly, she’d never partaken of opium.
Walking the grounds of Vauxhall was like imbibing several bottles of spirits and eating opium.
Colored lanterns dazzled from strings and were suspended from tree branches. Acrobats and dancers spun in colorful configurations, a fire-breather shot flames from her mouth, and a magician performed sleight of hand with silk scarves. Strolling musicians seemed to compete with each other as to who could play louder.
Then there were the patrons—men and women of every color, every class, crowding the walkways, jostling and shouting and laughing.
It was fantastic. It was almost too much.
“This way, good children,” Noel called to the Bazaar guests. “To the supper boxes.”
As he led the group, Jess kept her gaze fixed on Noel’s broad back rather than the spectacle around her. His presence anchored her, keeping her from flying off into the cosmos.
More than once, he looked back. At her. Every time he did, her heart beat a little faster.
They moved past a large pavilion housing an orchestra, past tables set up beneath the trees’ canopy, and on toward a long colonnade that housed the supper boxes. The boxes themselves were closed on three sides, and the open front enabled the diners to see and be seen. Unlike the rest of the pleasure garden, these boxes contained what appeared to be the elite. The men and women within them wore finery so elegant they fairly reeked of wealth. They preened before the people walking by, as though they knew they were as much a part of the spectacle as the acrobats.
“No need for shyness,” Noel said, ushering her and the others into a trio of empty boxes. “Sit, eat, drink. Partake of everything Vauxhall has to offer.”
Jess found herself seated at the center of one table, Mr. Walditch on one side of her, Noel on the other. In the jeweled light of the lanterns, his face was preternaturally handsome, but it was his expression of easy confidence that made her palms damp. He inhabited his body and the world with assurance, as though he never questioned himself.
He caught her looking at him. The smile he gave her was slow and hot.
A server came around to fill their glasses. Seeking to cool herself, Jess took a long swallow of her drink. It was sweet and spiced and so delicious she quickly downed more.
“Have a care,” Noel murmured. “The arrack punch here is notorious for making people forget themselves. I’ve seen more than a few arrack-fueled brawls.”
“I’m far tougher than I appear.”
“Then you must be Heracles’s daughter because I’ve never met someone so strong.” He took a handful of grapes from a salver and placed them onto her plate. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Apprehension tightened along her neck, but she feigned nonchalance by popping a grape into her mouth.
She’d been careful to keep all of her comments about McGale & McGale couched in the language of merely an interested investor. She should have known that someone as observant and insightful as Noel had caught on to her.
“Many at the Bazaar seek your counsel,” he said. “With good cause—you’re damned insightful, and when it comes to financial matters, you’re bloody brilliant.”
“I fail to see the problem with that.” She’d been called pretty, and clever, but never brilliant. And that this praise came from him . . . But worry undercut her pleasure. Had he perceived her secret agenda?
“You were the one urging Sir Brantley to attend the Bazaar,” he continued. “It was your idea the whole time. Your being here is not happenstance.”