Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (32 page)

“A hint of the weapons available.”

“Weapons? I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“Conflict lurks in astonishing places.” Bey surveyed Brand’s perfectly adequate blue velvet suit. “Is that the best you can do to uphold the family’s glory?”

“I generally try to fit in, not blind.”

“And you look at me and think of the new plows you could buy with the cost of my gold thread alone.”

Despite his mood. Brand had to laugh. “Sometimes.”

“Investments, my dear. Investments.” He strolled over and took Brand’s chin. “Not a hint of powder on the skin? Not a patch? Faith, child, you look like a country bumpkin.”

Though Bey wore no patches, he was prepared as if for court—hair and skin powdered. Heaven forbid that a nobleman look as if he ever went out-of-doors.

“I’ve endured hair powdering,” Brand said. “That will have to suffice.” He rose. “Is it time to go down?”

“Time for a discussion.” With a gesture, Rothgar dismissed Kenyon.

Brand warily settled back on the bench before the dressing table. With knowledge of the dower house churning inside him, the last thing he wanted was an inquisition.

“Could Lady Arradale be your mistress?” Bey asked.

Brand’s heart pounded a warning. “In the future? I suppose she
could
.”

Bey looked at him. “Could she have been the lady who brought you to grief?”

Having stolen a moment to think, Brand decided to give a cautious answer. “It’s possible. She’s the right height and build. But highly unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Voice?”

“Similar. But so are many ladies’ voices.” He was going to have to lie. “We didn’t talk much.”

Bey was watching him far too closely. “So I am to take it that you feel no sense of familiarity, no recognition, when you are with the countess.”

“None.” He could say that with confidence, and only realized a moment later that it had been unwise to change tone. Plague take it. He was in no condition for a duel of wits with his brother. “Why would you even think it?” he asked. “Would such a haughty lady risk her reputation in a clandestine affair?”

“You find her haughty?”

“In your eyes, she’s doubtless a quivering mass of insecurity.”

Bey’s lips twitched. “Hardly that. She has, however, chosen a difficult path. Since she wishes to rule her earldom, she has a natural disinclination
to marry. Unlike an earl, however, obvious sexual conveniences are denied her. To take lovers and conceal her identity might appeal.”

“Drugging them to be sure of it?” One of Brand’s greatest torments was that his lady might not have rescued him, but arranged his drugging in the first place. Before the dower house he’d not believed it, but now … ?

“She has the will for it,” Bey said. “And she wears many rings.”

Ah. So Bey had noticed that, too. Of course. Suddenly protective, Brand said, “So do many ladies.”

“But few can afford such excess of brilliance.”

“I’ve noticed that most of Lady Arradale’s are not of great value.”

“Chosen for their glitter. A strange quirk. However, in Thirsk, Lady Richardson wore one magnificent ruby. Did your lady drink any of the potion?”

Brand considered for a heartbeat and then told the truth. “Yes.”

“Lady Richardson was unwell. It could have been the same cause.”

“We are agreed that Lady Richardson could have been my persecutor, but I never set eyes on her. You did. Could she have been Lady Arradale?”

“She was certainly much younger than she appeared. So yes, she could have been. I doubt it, however.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think she could steal your heart.”

“My heart is unaffected,” Brand snapped.

“As you will.”

“So, Lady Richardson is not Lady Arradale. We are no further forward.” Aware of a ridiculous relief, Brand stood, pulling his waistcoat into line. Besotted fool though he was, angry though he was, he didn’t want his lady at Bey’s untender mercies. “Why are you tormenting this?” he demanded. “I asked you to put it aside. It was unpleasant, and I wish the harpy in hell, but I want nothing more to do with her. I’ve decided to leave here tomorrow. This sort of gathering stifles me, and there’s plenty of work to do.”

Bey rose, too, unperturbed. “I thought you planned a visit to Sir Digby’s estate.”

“I might still do that.” Brand adjusted his cravat, aware that he was fiddling, feeling like a fish trying to wriggle off a hook. “Judging from the man, it might be an unpretentious kind of place.”

“Are you calling Arradale pretentious? What must you think of Rothgar Abbey?”

Brand gave his brother a rude gesture. After a moment, they shared a smile. Bout over.

“Leave if you will,” Bey said. “But it will suit me to have you visit Wenscote, it being in danger of Cotterization. Report anything unusual you find there.” He led the way to the door.

To uphold the family dignity, Brand slipped on one sapphire ring in addition to his signet. “And you’ll drop your speculations about my affairs?”

“Not if they amuse me. And I must confess, the countess amuses me.”

“As a trout amuses the angler.”

Bey smiled as he opened the door. “Perhaps. But since you wish it, I will keep anything I discover to myself.”

Two other guests were passing in the corridor, so Brand stifled his protest. Bey was right. He didn’t want to know.

If Lady Arradale was his lady, however, did he want Bey on her trail? But when she came forward to greet them, almost rivaling Bey in magnificence, nothing stirred. Not memory, desire, or hate.

It could not be she. His lady was still safe.

“My lord!” she declared giving Bey’s magnificence a rather amused survey. “You light up this benighted part of Yorkshire.”

Bey gave her a full court bow. “My Lady Arradale, no place could be benighted when illuminated by your brilliance.”

Certainly her ruby-red figured silk, ruched, and ribboned was grand enough for court. They made a startling study in red, black, and gold.

She flipped open her gilded fan. “Then perhaps together we are in danger of dazzling the company into blindness, my lord.”

“Excellent. As Oedipus observed, ‘Blind, they will enjoy the music even more.’ Will we dance the first minuet, my lady? Such a wonderful opportunity for dalliance.”

She eyed him over her fan. “What point to a ball, my lord, if one does not flirt a little?”

With one finger, Bey pushed the shielding fan down. “Perhaps I should warn you, Lady Arradale, that I never do things ‘a little.’“

The lady’s eyes widened. Perhaps she realized at last that though she was the one dressed in red, she was playing with fire. Brand might feel sorry for her if he didn’t think her a jade, if he didn’t know she had a part in his undoing. On her right hand, amidst a constellation of glitter, shone the deep luster of a large, fine ruby.

Brand left for safer quarters, a little sorry for the countess, despite everything. His brother was suspicious, and was going to test those suspicions in a crucible of seductive play. She doubtless deserved every minute of it.

Rosamunde slipped into Arradale House, guiltily aware of her folly. She’d tried to tell herself she was coming here to check on Digby, but it would be an outright lie. She was here, against all sense, for a last glimpse of Brand.

Easily avoiding the servants, who were all busy with the ball, she found her way to the small neglected gallery that faced the larger one holding the orchestra. It had been hers and Diana’s favorite childhood spot for spying on the adult gatherings.

Being larger now, and encumbered by the wide skirts of her habit, it took some effort to squeeze herself into the dusty space concealed by a curtain. Once settled, she put her eye to one of two carefully cut holes and the glittering assembly burst into view—brightly colored silks, gold, and jewels, shimmering under an extravagance of candle chandeliers.

For a moment, she wished she were down there in the magic. But then, perhaps not. She was not part of that world, and up here, she felt like one of the fleshy gods and goddesses watching from the ballroom’s painted ceiling. Watching human folly. She saw Lord Fencott pinch Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham not object. Saw the way Lady Coverdale was glaring at her old enemy Mrs. Pyke-Herries.

Where was Brand? Would she witness him flirting with some beauty? Distressingly, in the mass of pale-powdered heads, she couldn’t pick him out. Surely she should know him on the instant!

Then her eye caught a tall man entering, startling in dark, magnificent silk, with gold and embroidery like fire sparks in the night. The marquess. And there, at his side, Brand.

She smiled with joy and relief. She would have known him, and she loved the ordinariness of him still. His clothing was suitably fine, but not extravagant, and he wore it casually, without ostentation. He was already smiling at an acquaintance, and moving to talk with some of the men.

Rosamunde glanced back at the marquess. He was talking to Diana, and from her godlike view, they made a startling pair, he in black scattered with gold and rubies, she in ruby red, frothed with gold and black. Rosamunde knew that tilt of her cousin’s chin, as well, and the way she was wielding her black-and-gold fan. Crossed swords, though in the most charming, social manner.

Oh, Dinah. Don’t. Don’t challenge the marquess. Then she had a suspicion. Was Diana drawing enemy fire? After all, the dower house was a connection to Arradale, not clearly to Rosamunde. Could she allow this? She had to, for Digby and Wenscote. After all, the Mallorens couldn’t prove anything, and would never seek to destroy the Countess of Arradale.

She let her attention shift back to Brand, following him with her eyes as he moved around the room, clearly already liked and welcomed. Of course, he was. He was thoroughly likable, and showed courteous interest in all. He even seemed to be able to coax a few words from pretty, shy Miss Mifflyn.

The orchestra struck the note for the opening minuet and the company shifted, moving toward the walls and leaving the center area free for the dance. As the lady of highest rank, Diana would begin the ball with the partner of her choice. It was inevitable, Rosamunde supposed, that she choose the marquess, if only from rank.

Of course, completely trained for their roles, they both danced perfectly, but from her elevated view, it seemed as dangerous as a sword fight. The locked gazes, the stately steps and constant contact of the hands, seemed like a challenge in the making. It was a relief when Lady Fencott stepped in, and then the other ladies in order of rank, each with her partner.

It was a shock, however, to see Brand partnering Miss Mifflyn. Rosamunde immediately controlled her mind. Was he to attend a ball and not dance?

She knew it was worse than that, however. She didn’t want him to dance with young women. She hated the way he was making Celia Mifflyn smile and even talk. She was known to be afflicted by almost paralyzing shyness with strangers. Though Rosamunde was back with her husband and building a life that did not include Brand, she did not want him to so much as smile at another woman.

Enough of that. She fixed her eyes on him and wished that he enjoy other women. More than that. She prayed that he soon would find the perfect life companion and settle to happy marriage. Perhaps even with Celia Mifflyn. She was a good-hearted young woman, honorable, kind, and not stupid. Just shy, and if anyone could coax a shy bud into flower, it was Brand Malloren.

Inescapably, her thoughts leaped back to their day and their night. She had been shy, and she’d blossomed with him. Celia would have all that and more. She would laugh with him in the day, and flower in the secret times of the night.

Rosamunde jerked back so the magical world became just a glitter of light in a musty curtain. So be it. The most loving thing she could do for Brand Malloren now was to set him free.

After an hour, Brand would gladly have escaped from the ball, but he knew his duty. The attendance of a marquess raised this event to one in a lifetime, and as the said marquess’s brother, he carried a little of the glory.
Dances with him would be treasured memories, and so he dutifully danced every one, each with a different lady. Whenever possible, he danced with the shy and the wallflowers.

He saw Bey, through necessity, working his way down the ladies by rank, charming each one, but with the edged charm of the slightly perilous. How many Yorkshire hearts would flutter in memory of the way he kissed their hand, giving solid, faithful wives material for wicked longings.

He suppressed a grin. It was a performance, but one played so often over years that it must be second nature by now. He was sure his brother was well aware of his effect and in control of it. In his own dangerous way, Bey was quite kind.

It was probably as well that duties meant that he couldn’t apply his perilous charms to the countess, herself moving courteously through the company. Whatever had happened in the Arradale dower house, it was past, dead. There should be no more suffering over it.

That was reason speaking. He looked again at the smiling countess. She knew.
She knew
. The temptation to force the knowledge out of her burned in his gut like acid. She knew. Her very silence about his visit to the dower house was incriminating.

And, against sense, he needed to know. As he’d done his duty this night, he’d searched the room for his mysterious lady. She wasn’t here. Not, therefore, part of the local gentry. Who?

Bey came up beside him. “You frown?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in pursuing it?”

There was no point in denying it. “Very well, it irritates like a flea bite. I would like to know, just to ease the itch.”

“You are sure it is not Lady Arradale?”

“Certain.”

“You’d know her even blind?”

Brand stared at his brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But Brand remembered saying he’d know her in the dark, and by her kiss….

“Samson, blinded by love,” said Bey, “ignoring his beloved’s obvious deceits. I recommend that you reread your Bible.”

“I’ll just avoid razors.”

“And sleeping drafts.” With that neat hit, Bey moved away to speak to the dowager countess, who smiled warmly upon him.