Miss Charity's Case (27 page)

He laughed and took her hand. Giving her time only to collect her gloves, he urged her with him along the upper corridor. “I can see why Blackburn picked you, Charity. You are indeed a beauty.”

“I remain ‘Miss Stuart' to you, my lord.”

“Why should we remain so formal when your sister has agreed to be my wife?” He picked up a strand of her hair and twisted it about his finger.

Charity recoiled as if he had struck her. The idea of her sister married to this man nauseated her.

“No congratulations?” he taunted.

“Did you consider I might wish to share them first with my sister?”

He chuckled again. “You shall have to wait until the morning, Charity. Joyce finds herself indisposed tonight. Who knows? Mayhap because of a delicate condition.”

“If my sister is ill,” she said, although she prayed he was lying about her sister, “I should be by her side.”

Tugging her down the stairs so quickly that she fought not to fall, he said, “Leatrice shall tend to her.”

“Joyce despises Leatrice. I should—”

“Obey me.” Lord Heath grabbed her mantle from Prentiss and flung it over her shoulders.

When he stared at her as boldly as a dockside tar, she pulled the green silk cloak closed. He reached around to hook the velvet frogs at her throat, his fingers caressing the column of her neck.

“My lord,” she whispered, fighting the sickness in her center, “you overstep yourself again.”

Lord Heath pinned her hand to his arm as he hurried her out the door into the thickening fog. “You have been led astray by Blackburn. It is time you learned your place.”

She tried to free her fingers, but he was too strong. “My place is not taking orders from you, Lord Heath.”

“That you may discover is a mistaken assumption.”

A tiger opened the door to the large carriage. When Lord Heath handed her in, he jumped in behind her and pulled the door closed. He swore as he slapped the side of the carriage which sped at a dangerous pace from the square.

“Are you mad?” Charity cried. “We have forgotten Lady Eloise.”

“She was late,” he said past gritted teeth. “I cannot abide tardiness.”

Charity kept her back to the wall of the coach, trying to keep as much seat between them as possible. When Lord Heath peered into the fog, she looked out the other window. She saw nothing but dim lights from houses and other carriages which appeared no more real than fire flies dancing on a summer night.

Lord Heath relaxed as they continued at the neck-or-nothing pace. When the carriage slowed and stopped before a house that was bright with dozens of lanterns, Charity said nothing. Lord Heath helped her down and offered his arm. He handed her a lace trimmed domino.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Surely you recognize a mask after wearing one last night?”

“Is this another masked ball?”

“It makes the evening more entertaining, don't you think?” He grabbed it from her and settled it on her face. “Perfect, Charity. Let us go. I do not wish to miss a moment of this evening's entertainment.”

“I would as lief return to Grosvenor Square. It is not right I should be here alone with you.”

“Your future brother-in-law?”

Charity shook her head. “I wish to hear of that from my sister, not from you.”

“You think I am lying?”

“Yes.”

He laughed and pressed her hand on his dark green velvet sleeve. When she tried to pull away, he tugged her toward the door.

Charity looked about for help. Any familiar face would do. At this moment, she would be grateful even for Booth Hoyle or her great-aunt. She saw no one she knew. Something about this place was odd, although she could not discern what. Certainly the carriages crowding in front were of the first order and the men dressed as elegantly as her escort. Every woman was swathed in white, which became gossamer in the light of the candles.

Mayhap during the ball, she would be able to find a way to elude Lord Heath. If she persuaded another red-haired woman—and she saw one or two—to trade masks, she might succeed.

Lord Heath led Charity into a huge room where the party was being held. The walls was swathed in garish silks and lit by chandeliers with hundreds of drops and candles. Everything shone as brightly as a pond at midday.

“Here you are at last!” crowed a man who pushed past several other people to reach them. His balding head caught the light. “What beauty do you bring with you tonight? That one I hear you have hidden away in your place in—”

“Miss Stuart and I are newly arrived,” Lord Heath said with a smile that stretched tautly over his teeth. “If you will excuse us …”

Charity looked back at the man who stared after them with amusement. “My lord, I find it unsettling to hear of your inability to be faithful to my sister even while you are dangling after her.”

“Be silent.” He took a goblet of champagne and shoved it into her hands so fiercely it splashed on her gloves. “You have no idea what you are talking about, and I would appreciate you not embarrassing me as you have your family.”

“You need not worry about such matters, if you would call me a chair so I might return home.”

Lord Heath tapped her glass with his and chuckled. “To the arms of your murderous lover? That would be most unwise. You may rest assured I shall keep you under close scrutiny until Blackburn is arrested tomorrow.”

“Arrested tomorrow?” she choked.

“Why worry about that tonight, Charity? This evening is for the entertainment of everyone here. I want you to enjoy all of it.”

Before an hour was out, Charity realized Lord Heath intended to keep his promise. When he suggested she dance with one of the men who came to speak to him, she was astounded. Her first hope of fleeing vanished when her partner returned her to Lord Heath at the end of the dance.

When the next man asked her to dance, she tried to excuse herself to rest. He brought her back to Lord Heath. The third man simply laughed when she had suggested she must get something to drink. Then he steered her back to Lord Heath. Nothing freed her from the partners who stepped on her toes and ogled her.

As the orchestra began yet another waltz, Charity was led to the floor by a man who whirled her at a frantic pace that bore no relationship to the tempo. Many couples crammed the floor. The cacophony of conversation and high-pitched laughter nearly drowned out the music.

“What do they call you, pretty lady?” he gushed. “Firebird? You have hair like fire, and you move with the grace of a bird.”

Charity eased back a step. The odor of his breath threatened to sicken her, but she turned her face to the side as the dance continued. She had no intention of telling him her name.

A finger tapping the man's shoulder halted them. With a frown, he stepped aside, and she was swept into arms that were instantly familiar. Behind his domino, Oliver's blue eyes sparked with the fury she could sense in his fingers on her waist.

As he spiraled her through the dance, he whispered, “How many times do I need tell you not to run off without sending for me? Thyra is nearly prostrate with fear.” His gaze raked her, and he smiled coldly. “She was right to be worried. You look like a treat to be devoured by these lecherous dogs.”

She ran her fingers along the breadth of his shoulders beneath his navy velvet coat. Just touching him strengthened her. “I found Joyce. She is at Lady Eloise's house.”

“Then why are you
here?
”

“The others were supposed to come, too, but …”

Oliver drew her toward the edge of the dance floor, whirling her as if they were continuing to dance. “So only your reputation was to be destroyed?”

“At this dance?” Her eyes widened when he twirled her off the floor and pulled her through the crowd.

“Once I realized the identity of your escort, I knew he would be low enough to bring you here to destroy you, if for no reason other than you are my betrothed.”

“I still do not understand.”

He smiled as he pulled off his domino, but his eyes remained the color of a winter sky. “Have you no idea of the profession of the other women at this
soirée?
”

Looking past his shoulder, she tightened her grip on his fingers. She understood, too late, why the laughter was too shrill and too practiced. Why had Lord Heath brought her to a cyprian's ball? To ruin her and hurt the rest of her family. If he intended to marry Joyce, and it appeared her sister must believe he would if she had anticipated her vows, none of this made sense.

Oliver drew her into the cloakroom. He closed the door and pushed a heavy bench in front of it. Facing her, he said, “First, tell me. Are you here voluntarily?”

“No.” She hesitated, then whispered. “Did you cheat Myles at cards the night of our betrothal party?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“They …” She hated even speaking the words she prayed were lies. “They told me you and Thyra planned to cheat Myles out of his fortune.”

“They? That sounds like another of your great-aunt's tales.” He grasped her shoulders. “Rimsbury was jesting when he told you about his losses. I doubt if I were more than a century ahead when we stopped playing. I have seen him lose many times more at our club.” He grinned. “If Thyra plans to spend Rimsbury's fortune for him, that is the duke's problem.”

She did not smile.

“What else did
they
say?” he asked tautly.

“They told me you killed Papa.”

“Did you believe them?”

Charity had been so sure that he would deny the charge that she stared at him. Trying to find her voice, she swallowed roughly. “No, I did not believe them.”

His broad hands curved around her face. “That gladdens my heart, Charity. I vow on this love we share I did not kill your father. It had been months since I last saw him.”

“So you knew Papa?”

“Yes.” He teased her lips with a soft kiss before whispering, “We must find a way for you to flee before Field denounces you.”

“Field? The Lord of the Cyprians?”

“Mayhap you know him better as Lord Heath.”

Her eyes widened. She had been a muff. Her recollection of Field was not from seeing him in Hyde Park—she never had been close enough to view his face—but from The King's Heart Inn. Heath—Field—the names were so close. Her desperation to discover Joyce's location had been her undoing.

“This is yours, is it not?” Oliver asked.

She looked at the emerald cape. “Yes.”

“Good.” He slipped it over her shoulders, his fingers lingering on her bare skin. “Pull it up to conceal your face. Let us be done with Field's brothel.”

“Brothel?” she choked, shocked anew by Field's depravity.

Oliver laughed lowly. “No doubt it has an exit other than the front door. We cannot be the first ones who have wished to depart unseen.”

“Thank you for coming to save me,” she whispered as her hand brushed the hard line of his jaw.

He tilted his head to kiss her icy palm. “Love makes a man do mad things. Let us get out to the carriage. Then I shall enjoy kissing more than these fingers.”

Oliver shoved the bench out of the way and reached for the door. As it swung open, he swore vividly. Charity gasped as she stared at Lord Heath—Kerry Field.

“Lord Blackburn,” Field murmured. “What a charming surprise, although I must own I had hoped you would hurry after your wayward
fiancée.”

“Step aside!” ordered Oliver.

“Not until we discuss some business.” He smiled as his gaze slid along Charity, who moved closer to Oliver. “It shall be a pity if it is made known that your lovely
fiancée
came here tonight. Think of how she shall be ostracized. Not a door in England will open to her.”

Oliver put his arm around her shoulders. “Your threats are fiddle-faddle, Field. When she is my wife—”

“Will she wed without her sister to attend the wedding?”

“Joyce?” gasped Charity. “She will listen when we reveal you for the cur you are. She wanted to speak with me before. Why? Because she knows the truth?” She grasped Oliver's arm. “Joyce swooned after I arrived, so she could not warn me.”

Oliver's hands fisted at his sides. “How did you drug her, Field?”

“Drug?” she cried as Field smiled. “Oliver, we must go back to my great-aunt's house posthaste.”

“Are you sure she is still there?” When Charity hesitated, the sickness returning to her center, Field's smile widened. “Have no fear, Charity. Blackburn is going to arrange to have your sister returned to you, aren't you?”

Quietly Oliver said, “The ladies should not be involved in this. Release Miss Stuart to us, unharmed, and I shall be willing to discuss what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

Charity wished one of them would explain. More than once, Oliver had asserted he had no business dealings with this man. Why would Field want to change that? Why would he go to such extremes to ensure Oliver would agree?

“What you want is impossible,” Oliver answered in the same taut voice.

“Then you give me no choice but to tell Miss Stuart that soon her sister will be one of the women who work for me.”

“No!” she whispered. “Give Joyce back to us. Whatever you want, I shall see you get it.”

Field's cold gaze settled on her as if some horrible creature was inching across her. “I regret you can do nothing to get me what I want. Only Blackburn can.”

Oliver laughed. “There is no need for melodrama. What you want is impossible, Field. I do not have it.”

“Then I suggest that you find it, or …”

Charity pulled her cape closed. “Oliver, let us leave this horrible place. We must be certain Joyce has suffered no lasting harm from this evil man.”

She took a single step toward the door.