Charlotte Louise Dolan (21 page)

“Not St. John. It’s the duke.”

“Duke? There ain’t no Duke of St. John. You’ve got bats in your belfry.”

“Not St. John. Colthurst. Duke of Colthurst.”

“Algernon? That ain’t Algernon. Too big to be Algernon.”

“Algernon’s dead. ‘Member? Went to his funeral.”

“Tha’s right. Saw him planted in the ground myself. So wha’s he doing here?”

“Not Algy—the duke. The duke’s here.”

“Can’t be. That’s St. John. Know him anywhere. Roomed together at Oxford. Never forget a face.”

* * * *

Simon Bellgrave stared around the ballroom in dismay. There was one eventuality they had not thought of. He counted fifteen footmen standing at attention along the walls of the room, and he had no way of knowing which one of them Mellers had bribed. Blast it all! Now he would have to wait until one of them identified himself.

* * * *

Florie managed to mind her steps and smile at her partner, while at the same time keeping close track of Simon, something she had practiced so often at parties that it had become second nature to her.

This evening, however, Simon was behaving in the strangest manner, not talking to anyone or asking any of the ladies to dance, as was his wont. Instead, he was moving in a slow circle around the room, pausing every few feet to stand with his back to the wall, staring out at the assembled company. Most peculiar.

Could it be? Yes, that had to be it. Every time he stopped, it was directly beside one of the footmen. What on earth?

Like a flash it came to her. He must be planning some kind of assignation. Yes, even as she watched, he surreptitiously passed a note to the man beside him. Really, Simon would make a wretched spy, glancing around so furtively that it could only serve to direct attention his way.

The footman was much more discreet as he left his post and began to move slowly and unobtrusively in the general direction of... Florie looked in that direction, trying to figure out whom the note was meant for. It was not at all difficult to discern the intended recipient. About a third of the way around the room Cousin Elizabeth was sitting and talking with that hideous old bag, Lady Letitia.

This would never do. Under no circumstances could Florie allow that note to reach its destination. She deftly inserted her foot under that of her partner, and her shriek of pain was not at all simulated.

He was instantly all apologies and solicitous attention. With difficulty she managed to persuade him to escort her to an empty chair midway between Simon and Elizabeth, rather than returning her to her mother.

Not only was the chair situated directly along the route the footman would have to take, but it was also isolated from its neighbors by a potted palm on either side. It could not be more perfect for her purposes.

It was just the work of a moment to dispose of her escort by sending him off to fetch her a refreshing drink.

She waited until the footman was a few steps away, then planted herself squarely in his path. “Give me the note,” she hissed, “or I will report you to Lady Wynchcombe for being insolent.”

The man’s mouth dropped open in the most ludicrous fashion, and his expression was not at all the properly impassive one of a good servant.

“I ain’t been insolent to you.” His voice cracked in alarm.

“That doesn’t matter. If I accuse you and you deny it, who do you think Lady Wynchcombe will believe?”

He gulped, the agony on his face making it obvious he was fully aware that if the young lady standing in front of him uttered only the mildest of complaints, he would be out on the streets in an instant.

Then the worried look on his face was replaced by a crafty one. “You’ll have to grease me palm.”

“I’ll have to what?”

“The gentleman paid me silver to deliver this, see, so if’n you wants the note, you’ll have to pay me more not to deliver it.”

“Or I could simply slap your face and scream, and then you would lose not only your position here but also your freedom, since you’d be brought before the magistrate to explain your actions—not that he’d believe a word you said, either.”

The man turned white as a sheet, all thoughts of refusing her obviously banished from his head. Wordlessly he held out his hand and she took the note. Turning her back to the room, she began to unfold it. Out of the corner of her eye she became aware that the footman was starting to sidle away, and without looking up, she commanded, “Stop,” and he froze where he was.

It was lucky she did, because the note, although filled with so many impassioned avowals of love that it was downright nauseating, made no mention of the actual time and place of the assignation.

“Where were you to tell her to go?”

“I was to wait in the hallway and she was to come out in fifteen minutes and I was to show her which room.”

“I see. And does the man who paid you know where he is supposed to go?”

“I was to show him, also. After the lady was already there.”

“Then I suggest you continue with your plans.”

The look of relief on the man’s face was pathetic. He held out his hand for the note, but she just stood there making no move to give it to him. “You will, however, have to make one small change in the plans. I am the young lady you will escort to the room, and if you mention one word of the substitution, I shall claim you lured me there and attempted to force your attentions on me.”

The fear was gone from the man’s eyes, replaced by a look of burning hatred. Not that it mattered in the slightest. She cared nothing about a servant’s opinion.

Checking to be sure Simon was not observing her conversation with the footman, she was relieved to see he was dancing and directing all his attention to his partner.

“Meet me in the hallway in ten minutes,” she ordered, “and if you have any thought that I cannot identify which of the footmen you are, then disabuse yourself of that notion. If you try to avoid any further participation in these schemes, it will go the worse for you.”

* * * *

The room the footman led her to was ideal for an assignation; it might easily have been designed for just such a purpose. It was close to the ballroom, yet the door was all but hidden from sight, decreasing the possibility that someone might stumble on it accidentally and open it out of curiosity.

“One last instruction.”

The footman looked ready to strangle her, but he had apparently learned the futility of arguing.

“As soon as you show the gentleman in here, I want you to fetch Lady Letitia. You do know her by sight, don’t you? And do not dawdle along the way, or I shall be most displeased, and you know how I shall show my displeasure, don’t you? If I have not made that quite clear, I will be happy to explain it to you again.”

Without deigning to answer, the footman turned on his heel and departed, shutting the door gently behind him.

The only thing left to be done was to prevent Simon from recognizing her immediately. Florie moved quickly around the room, snuffing out each and every one of the candles, then she waited in the darkness for her future husband.

Simon smiled politely at his dancing partner and murmured a response whenever it appeared to be required, although if his life depended upon it, he could not have said what the topic of conversation was.

The musicians seemed indefatigable as they played on and on, and he was almost convinced they were part of a conspiracy to keep him from his beloved Elizabeth, when the piece finally came to an end.

With a speed that bordered on the indecent, he returned his partner to her chaperone and began to edge his way toward the door.

Suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder, and his immediate thought was that Lady Letitia had somehow found out his plans.

“Ah, Bellgrave, just the man we were looking for.”

Simon recognized the voice of Lord Fairlie, one of his special cronies—indeed, his dearest friend—and felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. This could not possibly be happening.

“I see you are about to leave, also. You must come with us. Margrove and I were about to try out that new gambling hell on Curzon Street. Heard the play there is deep but everything kept completely aboveboard, and the port is supposed to be quite tolerable.

How could he possible refuse? He never turned down such invitations. Fairlie would be instantly suspicious. But, on the other hand, he could not go off and leave Elizabeth waiting for him. Such things were just not done. Besides, if he did, she would probably never speak to him again, much less be agreeable to running off with him.

“Well, come along, no point hanging around here any longer. Wynchcombes’ parties are always so dashed dull, don’t know why I even bother to come.”

“Can’t go,” Simon blurted out. At his friend’s look of astonishment, he continued, “Promised for this dance.”

“Ah, well, in that case, we can wait a few more minutes. We’re not in that much hurry to lose our money.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“No good. Promised for all the rest of them.”

“Good God, whatever possessed you to do such a cork-brained thing?”

It was then Simon proved his ability as a conspirator. Into his head popped the perfect explanation that was guaranteed to end his friend’s attempts to drag him out into the night.

“Lady Letitia arranged it,” was all he said.

“My word, you never told us she had her eye on you. Best repair to one of your country estates while you still have your freedom. Once she decides to find you a wife, you’re as good as buckled.”

In a burst of daring, Simon replied, “I was planning to leave for my hunting lodge tonight or tomorrow.”

“Lord, yes, the farther the better.” Fairlie was already edging away, as if not wishing to stand too near someone who had suddenly become highly contagious, whereas Margrove had bolted for the door at the first mention of Lady Letitia’s name.

Simon waited only a couple of minutes after their departure to ensure that he did not run into them in the hallway, then went to meet the footman, whom he suddenly realized he had never really looked at closely. And Lord Wynchcombe, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to have an absolute passion for footmen. Simon could count four more stationed in the hallway, as well as one on the landing halfway down the stairway, and there appeared to be even more in the lower entrance way.

Good God, it was a veritable army of footmen. How was he ever to ...

“Follow me,” a voice murmured behind him, and he turned to see a footman walking briskly away from him.

Bellgrave hurried to catch up, and after rounding a couple of bends in the hallway, the man opened an inconspicuous door Simon would have walked right by without noticing.

“In here,” the man said in a more normal voice.

Quickly Simon stepped inside, and the door closed silently behind him, leaving him in total darkness. What on earth was the footman about, not to have lit at least one candle?

Then he heard a giggle a few feet off to his right, and he realized what a delightful game this could be.

“I’m going to catch you, Elizabeth.” Holding his arms out in front of him, he moved toward the sound of the giggle.

There was a rustle of clothing and he lunged toward the sound and grabbed, but he ended up with only an armful of air.

There was another giggle, slightly closer and to his left. This time Simon was careful to move more quietly himself, and when “Elizabeth” broke to the right, he caught part of her dress.

She tried to twist away, but he managed to get one arm locked around her delightfully trim waist. In the process they bumped into a piece of furniture and he lost his balance, but by sheer good luck they landed on some sort of settee in a delightful tangle of arms and legs and bosom. His hand slid up from her waist and cupped her breast, and it was every bit as ripe as he had known it would be.

Instantly, all the resistance went out of Elizabeth, her arms entwined themselves around his neck, and she was all sweet compliance.

The kiss was everything he had expected and more . . .

“What’s the meaning of this?” A harsh voice spoke behind him, and to his intense dismay, Simon became aware that there was now light coming from the doorway.

* * * *

Darius strode briskly up the stairs of Lord Wynchcombe’s town house, wishing there were some way he could avoid actually entering the ballroom.

His brief encounter with Neuce had made him realize that
he could not simply walk into the midst of the party, collect his wife, and walk out.

There was bound to be a fuss made over him. The ribbing his fellow officers had given him had been but a parody of what was in store for him once the other guests realized the new Duke of Colthurst had arrived back in London.

Damnation, but the mood he was in right now he didn’t need anybody fawning over him or toadying him, and the first person who congratulated him on his good fortune was going to find the words—and his teeth—shoved down the back of his throat. There was no good fortune involved when it was bought at the cost of his cousin’s life.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, Darius snagged a footman who was about to enter the ballroom. “I want you to find someone for me in there. The Duchess of Colthurst. Tallish woman, blond hair. Fetch her out here, if you please. I wish to speak to her.”

The man just stared at him with the strangest expression on his face. How else could Darius describe Elizabeth?

Suddenly the footman came to life. “Follow me,” he said with a broad smile that had nothing humorous about it.

Instead of entering the room where the dance was held, he turned and strode briskly down the hallway, and Darius knew that his suspicions were correct and that he had done the right thing by tracking down his wife.

* * * *

Simon jerked his head up to see Lady Letitia standing in the doorway, a branch of candles in her hand, looking like an avenging angel. Before he could utter a word in his defense, Elizabeth appeared right behind Lady Letitia.

Elizabeth? That couldn’t be! He looked down at the woman he was still holding in his arms. Even in the dim light he could recognize the cousin—what was her name? Ah, yes, Florie. She met his eyes boldly, obviously not the least bit repentant at the trick she had played on him.