The ball that evening proved to be a marvelous distraction. She never knew how she came to be invited to the Throckmortons’ affair; the invitation had simply arrived. Of course it was Stuart’s doing, and Charlotte reflected that he was fortunate in his friends if not in his family. The Duke and Duchess of Ware had invited her to accompany them, so she was well received, but she began to worry as they made their way through the crowded ballroom. She felt out of place again, and was more than a little apprehensive about being in society in the first place. Anyone who had known her family might recognize her. She stood stiffly beside the duchess, all her senses on alert for any ruinous whispers around her.
Fortunately, there seemed to be a competing, more scandalous, sensation. The Duke of Exeter had acquired a wife without so much as a hint of being ready to marry. Notice of the wedding had simply appeared in the
Times
, catching even the duke’s lover off guard. Charlotte watched with private relief as Exeter and his new bride took several prominent turns about the room, attracting many eyes and more comments.
“Quite a to-do with Exeter,” remarked the Duchess of Ware, flicking her fan. “Any number of people are saying a prayer of thanks to him. Murder and mayhem could happen tonight in this very ballroom, and no one would notice.”
Charlotte allowed herself a small, guilty smile. “Indeed, your grace.” A gentleman was approaching, and the duchess smiled at him.
“Here is Lord Robert Fairfield,” she said, looking quite pleased. “Have you come to dance with my friend, young man?”
He bowed, eyes twinkling. “If she will honor me, madam.” He turned to Charlotte. “Might I have this quadrille?”
Charlotte hesitated, and the duchess waved her fan. “You may dance with Lord Robert, my dear. He is quite respectable.” Charlotte didn’t feel she could refuse then, so she nodded and gave Lord Robert her hand.
“Never fear,” he whispered to her as they took their places. “Drake warned me about the duchess.”
“What do you mean?” She glanced back. The duchess wore a smile of smug satisfaction.
“Why, she’s guarding her son, of course. Thinks every woman in England is out to entrap Ware. Drake knew she’d have you dancing all night.”
“Ah.” Charlotte had wondered. “So Stuart arranged this dance as well?”
He grinned. “Drake offered me the opportunity to ask you, since he expected to arrive late. Once he’s arrived, I shan’t dare ask again.”
Charlotte laughed before the dance turned her away from him. When the quadrille ended, the duchess introduced her to another gentleman who also turned out to be a friend of Stuart’s, and she danced with him. Before she knew it, in fact, her dance card was full, and she was almost enjoying herself, touched at the lengths Stuart had gone to for her.
Stuart arrived at the Throckmorton ball very late. Grimy and tired from a day spent walking the docks and crowded alleys of London looking for Italians, he got home to find he had forgotten to bank the fire, and it had gone out. It took a long time to heat water even to lukewarm to wash and shave, and then he had to walk to the ball because he had spent all the money he had gotten from Charlotte in search of information. His stomach rumbled as he climbed the steps of the Throckmorton home, and he said a prayer of thanks that the gossips had found something else to talk about, and he was nominally respectable again.
The ballroom was crowded, and he didn’t see Charlotte or Ware. He wound through the guests, checking the terrace as well as the card room, but with no success. He had recruited all his friends—the respectable ones, anyway—to make sure Charlotte was well attended and protected from gossip. Stuart was aware her association with him would earn her little favor, but Ware had an entirely different consequence.
Finally he saw her, splendid in sapphire silk that molded to her body. She was fondling her fan and smiling up at someone in that coy, close-lipped way that made her seem mysterious and enticing, and so seductive. It almost brought Stuart to his knees, how beautiful she was.
“Stuart Drake, by all the stars, back in London at last!” A female hand curled around his arm as Stuart bit back a curse. Emily, Lady Burton, pressed closer as if to allow someone to pass behind her, but then she remained tight against him. Stuart sighed, and peeled her fingers off his sleeve, raising them for a brief kiss.
“Good evening, Em.”
His former lover smiled. “Quite an evening it is, with all the scandals. First Exeter—Susannah Willoughby is fit to be tied, after telling everyone she would be the next Duchess of Exeter.”
“Perhaps she should have waited for Exeter to make that announcement,” Stuart murmured, still watching Charlotte. The way she was playing with her fan was nothing short of wicked. The woman ought not to be allowed to hold anything that way.
“Exeter would no more have offered her marriage than he would have offered to adopt her. I thought he would be the last bachelor in London.” Her fingers crept back up his sleeve. “Except perhaps for you.”
“As always, you are a font of information, Emily.” Again he removed her hand. At one time he had found her forwardness exciting. How stupid had he been?
“Ah, but you’ve not heard the more interesting news,” she purred. Too late, he identified the gleam in her eyes. Triumph. And desire. Good Lord. He had no desire to resume his affair with her. In fact, he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
“Some other time, perhaps. I’m late meeting someone.”
“But really, let me tell you,” Emily insisted, dragging on his arm as he tried to leave. “You’ll be very interested, I vow. The Italian countess you’ve been squiring about is really Miss Charlotte Tratter, daughter of Sir Henry Tratter. Don’t you recall, the stuffy old man who used to be such a companion of your father’s? Well, perhaps not; it was several years ago, when you had other interests.” She sent him a smoldering glance, which Stuart ignored. Now she had his complete attention, although for the wrong reason. “Anyway, his daughter ran terribly wild, so wild they say her father sent her away to avoid being humiliated.”
“How do you know that?” Charlotte had been sent away in disgrace? Stuart had assumed her free-spirited nature had led her to leave of her own choice. Of course, doing the simple math, he abruptly realized she must have been very young indeed when she embarked for Europe. Had she been sent away, or run away?
“Why, Mr. Hyde-Jones recognized her. Where is he? Oh, there.” She raised her hand and an elegantly dressed gentleman crossed to them. He had the air of a fading angel about him, a once-beautiful man now losing his looks, and his hair. He kissed Emily’s hand with a sanctimonious smile. “Jeremy, do you know Mr. Drake? Stuart darling, Mr. Hyde-Jones knew your countess when she was plain Miss Tratter. Isn’t it a small world?”
“Yes.” Stuart already knew Jeremy Hyde-Jones by sight, although he was surprised to see him here; the man was barely received. A gentleman by birth, Hyde-Jones had married not one but two heiresses, neither of whom had survived more than a few years. Stuart searched his memory and dredged up tidbits of gossip about the two Mrs. Hyde-Joneses. One had died in a suspicious fall down the stairs while heavy with child, and her husband had remarried with disrespectful haste. That wife had broken her neck in a carriage accident just last year. Her husband had been driving, but escaped without serious harm. Ever since, Hyde-Jones had been accepted, but only just; it was a great irony, in Stuart’s mind, that it was due to the enormous fortune inherited from his wives.
But the man had known Charlotte when she was young. Curiosity won over distaste, and he bowed. “Mr. Hyde-Jones.”
“Good evening, Mr. Drake.” The older man’s smile turned down in condescension. “I trust you aren’t surprised to find your Italian is an Englishwoman after all.”
“No,” said Stuart. “I knew it at once. You knew her as a girl?” Perhaps Hyde-Jones had been a friend of her father, or brother. He seemed too old to know Charlotte herself.
He seemed amused. “Yes,” he replied with a glance at Emily, who still clung to Stuart’s arm. “I knew her.”
Emily laughed. “Jeremy, what a cipher you are! What would a man like you want with a girl like that? She must have been a child then!”
“I assure you,” he said with the same curious smile, “she was not a child. Certainly not at the time our acquaintance ended.”
An image of Charlotte at seventeen or eighteen flashed through Stuart’s mind. He looked at Hyde-Jones with suspicion. The man was forty if he were a day. There were few things a man could want from a girl a decade younger than himself. Stuart could only think of two, in fact, and both made his hands curl into fists.
“I am sure you would find her greatly changed,” he said. “It’s been a dozen years since she was in England.”
“Stuart, darling, you mustn’t divulge a lady’s age!” Emily poked him in the arm. “Certainly not ladies of a certain age.”
“Oh, but some ladies improve with age, like fine brandy,” he said automatically, not paying her much attention. Hyde-Jones was watching Charlotte with far too much interest. At Stuart’s comment, he turned back.
“I certainly concur. She’s grown into quite a beauty. I never would have expected it.”
“Ah, yes,” said Stuart carefully. “So often it is the plain, awkward ones who grow into the true beauties.” He didn’t like this man, and he didn’t like the way Hyde-Jones was staring at Charlotte. “Perhaps you did not see her often enough to judge her potential.”
The man laughed silently. “I saw her often enough. I almost married her.”
“Almost?” Stuart barely heard Emily’s increasingly annoyed laugh. She tugged at his arm and he all but shoved her away. “Rotten luck she got away, eh?” Alarms were sounding in his head about this man, who stared at Charlotte like a hungry fox at a hen.
“Well, it wasn’t quite bad luck,” said Hyde-Jones with another sly glance. “Has Count Griffolino come to London as well?”
“He’s dead,” said Stuart through his teeth, wanting to add that a similar fate awaited Hyde-Jones himself if he tried to hurt Charlotte again. In the carriage ride to London, Stuart had asked who broke her heart; Charlotte hadn’t said another word. He had asked to discompose her, and assumed she reacted out of pique, but what if he had hit a nerve? What if Jeremy Hyde-Jones had jilted her, and she had fled to the Continent in despair?
“Ah.” Hyde-Jones’s face lit with satisfaction. “How tragic.”
“Yes, losing a spouse must be. My condolences on your wife’s passing, by the way.” Stuart stripped Emily’s hand from his arm and shouldered past Hyde-Jones, ignoring the latter’s lifted eyebrow. He made straight for Charlotte, who was currently dancing with Lord Robert Fairfield, one of his oldest friends. He stared at them until he caught Fairfield’s eye, and gave him a curt nod. Fairfield returned it, sweeping Charlotte across the floor.
Stuart folded his arms and waited, impatiently. The waltz had just begun, and it would be several minutes before Robert returned her. If not for the execrable Hyde-Jones, Stuart would be holding her in his arms right now; it was another black mark against the man. Whatever he had done to Charlotte, Stuart wanted to be sure she was forewarned of his presence, and of his renewed interest in her. And the next time he crossed paths with the scoundrel, Stuart could simply break his nose.
“Your pardon, Mr. Drake.” A Throckmorton servant bowed, a silver tray extended. “This was just delivered, urgently.”
Stuart muttered his thanks as he ripped open the note, elated at what it contained. Pitney had found the messenger boy, and the kidnapper’s trail. A foreigner, Spanish or Italian, was traveling with a young woman, allegedly his widowed sister, who wore a heavy veil at all times. She was an English girl, though, and they had been sharing a small set of rooms on the fringe of Clerkenwell for the last several days. What next, Pitney wanted to know.
Stuart glanced toward the dance floor. Robert and Charlotte were still dancing. Charlotte would be wild to know this. She would also demand he reply as soon as possible. Stuart hesitated, then strode out of the ballroom. It would only take a moment to send a message, and he could collect Charlotte with the good news that they were closing in on Susan.
After the second waltz, Charlotte was ready for a rest. Her partner, Lord Robert again, led her from the floor and she flipped open her fan to cool her face. “Thank you, Lord Robert,” she said with a smile.
“The pleasure was mine.” He looked around, brow furrowed. “Drake was here just a moment ago. Looked as though he had hot coals in his shoes. I half expected him to steal you away in the middle of the waltz.”
Charlotte laughed, but part of her warmed with delight at the image of Stuart sweeping her away into his arms. Finally, he was here! She couldn’t wait to tell him—and show him—how grateful she was for all he had done this evening to ensure she enjoyed herself. It might seem like a small thing, but Stuart had thought of how she might feel in a ballroom of strangers. Lord Robert turned to her with an apologetic grin.
“He can’t fault me for taking advantage of his absence. Will you honor me with a turn about the room?”