Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (3 page)

“Mrs. Garson is hosting a ball,” she continued from under a deeply furrowed brow. “Surely, there will be
one
young lady present who is adequately suited to be your marchioness.”

Grey turned to the sideboard and the liquor.

“Highly doubtful,” he said. “There’s not one I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring abroad.” He turned to her with a sober expression. “I have to go, you know. I have estates, businesses.” Grey poured a short snifter of whisky. It was early, but visits from his mother generally called for some sort of fortification.

“What nonsense!”

“Half of them don’t know where Italy is, and the other half would be flabbergasted to hear they don’t speak English there.” He took down the liquid with one gulp then turned to refill it.

Her bottom lip pouted on a frown. “Are your mother’s wishes no longer any concern to you?”

“You are getting ahead of yourself,” he said, unaffected. “I have plenty of time for wedlock.”

“I do not have plenty of time for grandchildren, Grey.” Her voice shook, and Grey fought to ignore it.

“I am afraid I haven’t the temperament for children,” he returned with the same unaffected tone, though the cloud from the alcohol was not quite strong enough yet to block out the guilt.

He took a long swallow from the snifter, feeling it burn its way down his throat.

The matron snorted. “You would make a great father. You are only in want of the right woman to tempt you to it.”

He laughed wickedly. “I am afraid my mistresses would disagree with you.”

“Greydon!” she scolded, glaring daggers at him. “At least pretend you are a gentleman for my sake.”

His forced amusement faded as he set his drink aside and went to her. His muscular form dwarfed her as he gently folded her in his arms. “Forgive me. I shall do my best to find an agreeable female to raise my brats and waste my fortune.”

“Grey!” she admonished with a reluctant smile. “You will be the death of me.”

“I am afraid I might,” he muttered. When she pulled back, he added lightly, “Perhaps I ought to take another glance at those Hayward twins.”

* * *

T
hat evening
, Grey sauntered into the Garson’s ballroom with all the weary reluctance due a seasoned rake. There was no pleasure in the glittering chandeliers, cheerful music, or energy buzzing through the rooms. He saw it differently now than he did years ago when he had first joined in the chaos. At first, there was anticipation. Now, he would rather spend the evening in his study. In fact, this was the first bit of society he had seen in weeks, and it showed promise of being especially tedious: watered down punch, barely passable bourbon, and an abundance of desperate tabbies to push their witless daughters at him.

Marry, his mother said. And spend the rest of his life with a pretty automaton who was as dull as dishwater. Every one of them were born and bred to be exactly like the other, so predictable. Not to mention, any one of them would faint the instant they caught sight of his newly acquired scar, so he couldn’t imagine his wedding night being overly successful.

He stepped out of the ballroom and into an oversized drawing room of pale yellow bathed in light. It was filled with ten or twelve small tables, but only a few were occupied with games of whist and piquet.

He stood casually in the open double doors, scanning the tables until he spotted his friend the Earl of Pembridge.

Pembridge grinned warmly and beckoned him over with a swift flick of his head. Grey smiled back and started deliberately toward his table.

Nick was about Grey’s height with neat, sandy hair and bright blue eyes, and he had been Grey’s closest friend since boyhood. They had gone to Eton together, fought Boney together, and did the Home Office’s dirty work together. They were also libertines.

As both had rejected the thought of being bound by the clutches of a singular, money-hungry charlatan, but refused to become—heaven forbid—celibate, they had become notorious rakes, slaking their lust on the most desirable widows and courtesans in Town. At least, that was how society saw them. Half of the drivel being spouted about them was fabricated by Matthews at the Home Office.

“Good to see you again, Nick.” Grey sat when he reached the table, grabbing a full snifter in front of him. “Am I dislodging some other poor bugger?”

“Not at all.” Nick’s face lit cheerfully as he gestured to the drink. “I poured it for you in the off chance you would stop by.”

“Do you do that often?” Grey questioned soberly. “I shall not lie, Nick. that sounds downright depressing.”

“No, I do not,” Nick assured him, leaning back into his chair. “It was mine, but it’s yours now. One needs twice the volume of this swill to get the desired effect. I haven’t decided if Mr. Garson has no taste or if he just waters down the bourbon because he is cheap.”

Grey sipped the drink then made a sour face as he set it down. “That is absolutely awful.”

It was an understatement. He was certain mud would taste better.

“I warned you,” Nick said casually. “I must admit I didn’t expect to see you this evening, old chap. You so rarely come out these days.” Nick’s brow knit pensively. “In fact, I am certain I have not even seen you since…. Oh, it’s been nearly two years, I would say. Been away to France, have you not?”

“I was.”

“Something come up over there?” Nick asked as he absently took a drink then frowned at the snifter as if just then remembering how terrible it tasted.

“Grenville and I were sent to dismantle a small band of war criminals,” Grey answered quietly. “Grenville is still there, tying up loose ends. I have been back for more than a month now.”

“Why did you return?” Nick asked, taking another drink. “It seems odd that Grenville would stay and you come back to England.”

“My position was compromised,” Grey answered simply.

“I have never known you to be found out,” Nick remarked. “What on earth happened?”

“There was a bit of trouble,” Grey muttered. “I lost my temper.”

Nick frowned. “I see.”

Nick didn’t push the subject. Instead, he moved on to Tattersalls and his new prize Arabians then Gentleman Jackson’s, followed by the improvements made at Whites and a favored gaming hell. When the conversation began to dip into comfortable silence, the inevitable came.

Nick gestured over Grey’s shoulder with a nod. “Behind you, Grey.”

Grey instantly knew what it was or, rather, whom it was. He twisted in his chair to meet the dowager’s disapproving glare from the doorway.

“Well,” he said as he turned back toward Nick and stood, “I have held off enemy siege as long as I could. Now it looks as though Mother has forced me into action.”

“Getting married, are we?” Nick asked. “Is the search on for a pretty filly to pop out little Greys?”

“Not on your life, Nick. I refuse to sentence myself to a life in that particular corner of hell,” he replied plainly. “Just the anticipation of the dull, predictable conversation I am about to suffer is putting ideas into my head.” Grey pointed to the row of windows on the other end of the room. “I could jump out that window there, and no one would bat an eye. They would probably be disappointed if I didn’t.”

The thought was incredibly tempting.

Nick grinned as he stood. “You really ought to embrace your fate, Grey. There’s nothing like female companionship for making a man forget his woes.”

“And acquire copious others.” Grey turned to the doorway in dread.

“Posh! Oh, and Grey,” Nick added, “be a chum and leave a few for me. You know what I like.” He grinned boyishly. “Pretty ones with doe eyes and no brains.” Nick turned toward the doorway and, no doubt, straight toward the females fitting his description. There were plenty.

Leave some for him, indeed. More like, if anyone were left whom Nick had not yet monopolized with his blue eyes and fair coiffure, Grey might actually have to dance with someone. The man was devastating, and he knew it. What was more dangerous, he knew how to use it, and he did so on the most insufferable imbeciles Grey had ever laid eyes upon.

He shook his head, following Nick through the doorway and into the ballroom. This was the point in the evening when he would be subjected to incessant chatter about how desperately needed milliners and modistes were in town, though Bond Street was infested with them, or how it would be such a lovely season for a wedding. It always seemed to be a lovely season for one, regardless of said season.

Thankfully, the room was full of politicians. Grey found himself stopping by small circles of acquaintances for brief conversations about which way he thought the next vote would swing, or what was the more critical issue: militia pay or relief to the poor. Occasionally, there would be a daughter lingering with her father or brother, but those types were usually too shy or too old to attempt to gain his attention.

For another hour, he kept this up, but he couldn’t for much longer. The dowager knew his tactics and would swoop in on him with her own choice at any moment.

He scanned the room, but every bobbing head of curls was mentally crossed out for some reason or another: too simple, too chatty, too blonde, too short, too plump, too heady, dueled her brother or father or uncle, bedded her mother or aunt or sister.

He turned and walked past the chairs lining the walls to peek into the music room. It was done up in pink and gold with floral drapes and had an overly ornate pianoforte and harp on a dais. Rows of chairs were shoved in, facing the giant instrument. On either side of the room were little alcoves. One was stuffed with a small table and some refreshments—brought in from the ballroom, no doubt. The other alcove had two chairs shoved into it, which were somehow meant to be a part of the last row of chairs, though they staggered behind by at least a foot.

Sitting in that strangely arranged, little alcove was a pile of auburn curls next to one very noticeably empty chair. If he had to be a gentleman for a night, he might as well dance with a wallflower. Do the girl a favor. Also, generally, they were too nervous to speak. Do himself a favor.

A sleepy piano and guitar melody filled the room, expertly played by a pair of women who seemed to find something more in the music than simple notes.

Grey came up from behind to stand beside the empty chair, his eyes fixed on the piano.

“That was lovely,” he said, turning to glance down at the girl with auburn curls. “Do you think I have a chance at—”

“A chance?” she asked, twisting where she sat to face him. Clear blue eyes peered up into his.

“Er… to play? If I could get the tablature.” He struggled to focus on his words.

Kathryn sat there, staring up at him expectantly, but she was not the same as she had been when they spoke last month. She was much thinner now, and there was something different about her eyes. It must be from the illness.

He had heard how she had been found that night: battered and bleeding, struck unconscious and cold in the snow. It was a miracle pneumonia had even had a chance to have its round with her.

“You want to play from her tablature?” She glanced at the now abandoned piano. “It takes more than practice to play it as she does, and it’s a difficult piece.” She eyed him skeptically. “Not many gentlemen play. You may be abominable for all I know.”

“I am,” he admitted.

“Then I would say you have no chance at all, even with the tablature.” She turned back in her seat to face the piano again, obviously anticipating the next performance and waiting for him to leave.

He raised a brow. She most definitely had not lost her tongue. He couldn’t imagine what in heaven’s name would come out of that pretty mouth next.

His crooked smile felt strangely genuine as he sat beside her in the empty chair.

Another musician ascended the dais to begin a sleepy tune.

“Is there not a gentleman sitting here? No James Peckler or Jethro Prickler or whatever his name is?” he asked, purposefully mispronouncing the name. Grey never forgot a name. He never forgot anything. He would be a poor excuse for a spy if he did.

And if she were still suffering that dolt he had roused at the theater, Grey personally and thoroughly would explain to him the benefits of living abroad.

“No, no gentleman. In fact, my mother was sitting—”

“Ah,” he interrupted, not giving her the chance to ask him to leave. “And how is your mother?”

“Very well, thank you. She’s enjoying the dancing. Perhaps you would enjoy the evening more if you followed suit,” she suggested, obviously trying to get rid of him. Again. What was with her and this aversion she had to conversation?

“Not when the most interesting woman in attendance is sitting here,” he replied honestly. Interesting was not necessarily a good thing. “I heard you caught ill.”

“Most people do at some point,” she said stiffly. “I am not dancing this evening, and I cannot imagine there are many others who would refuse to stand up with you.” Kathryn’s eyes flashed with a dogged determination he recognized unfortunately. “My mother ought to be returning soon, and you have taken her seat. You understand.”

He was sorely tempted not to, but he was not about to play stupid just to coax a conversation out of a cactus.