On A Wicked Dawn (54 page)

The children streamed on, down the short path leading back to the lawns. With pretty thanks and bobbed curtsies, the two girls who had clung to Amelia's and Portia's hands made their adieus and scampered after their elders.

Sugden nodded to Amelia and Portia as he swung the doors shut. “I'll just be checking 'round about. Make sure all's tight.”

Amelia met his glance, nodded. “We're going straight back.”

She turned, noting Portia's quick frown. Linking her arm in Portia's, she steered them both down the path in the children's wake. She was about to make some inconsequential remark to distract Portia from Sugden's sudden attention to security when Portia stiffened.

Looking up, Amelia saw a gentleman standing by the side of the path just ahead. They were nearly upon him yet until then, she hadn't noticed him, large though he was; he'd been standing so still in the shadows of a large bush, he'd been all but invisible.

Portia slowed, uncertain.

Amelia called up her hostessly armor, put on her lady-of-the-manor smile, and halted. “Good evening. I'm Lady Calverton. Can I help you?”

A flash of teeth was followed by a neat bow. “No, no—I merely thought I heard dogs and wondered . . .”

A London accent, cultured enough, yet . . . “My husband's kennels are extensive.”

“So I see.” Another flash of teeth; the gentleman bowed. “My compliments on the evening, Lady Calverton. If you'll excuse me?”

He barely waited for any nod before strolling off, back onto the lawns, into the crowd. Amelia watched him go. “Who is he—do you know?”

She and Portia walked on more slowly in the same direction.

Portia shook her head. “He's not from about here.”

Amelia couldn't recall being introduced to him. The man was as tall as Luc, but much more heavily built; not the sort of figure one forgot. From what she'd seen in the shadows and fading light, he'd been reasonably well dressed, but his coat hadn't come from a tailor patronized by the
ton
, nor had his boots—she was quite sure of that.

Portia shrugged. “I daresay he's come with the Farrells, or the Tibertsons. They have relatives from all over staying every summer.”

“Doubtless that's it.”

She and Portia merged with the crowd, increasingly festive. Amelia glanced at the sky, but it was still too early for the fireworks; at this time of year, the twilights stretched for hours.

They drifted to the area where dancers twirled to the music of three fiddlers. Others ringed the dancers, clapping and
smiling, laughing and joking. Despite being created to serve an entirely different purpose, the evening looked set to be a resounding success on the social front—everyone was having a thoroughly good time.

The dance ended; exhausted, dancers sagged. The fiddlers lowered their bows, but only to agree on their next piece. Then they set to again. Laughing, some dancers staggered off while others took their place, twirling and whirling through a sprightly gig.

Cool fingers slid around Amelia's hand.

She looked up to find Luc beside her.

He met her gaze. “Come—let's join in.”

She hesitated; on her other side, Portia drew her hand from her arm and gave her a nudge. “Yes. Do. You're supposed to lead the way.”

Glancing at her, Amelia caught the glare Portia directed at Luc. She swung to him, but he merely raised a brow, drew her to him, and swept her into the dance.

“What was that about?”

“That was Portia being her usual opinionated self.” He added, “You'll get used to it.”

The resignation in his voice made her laugh. He raised his brows, whirled her through the steps; she'd danced such country measures often, but never before with him.

When the fiddlers finally consented to release them from their spell, she was breathless. And not all of her affliction was due to the dance. Luc steadied her, held her—far too close but then who was watching?—while she supposedly regained her breath and whirling wits. She read the truth of his motives in his eyes, pretended a haughty frown. “It's not considered wise to render your hostess witless and incapable.”

His long lips quirked as he released her; his expression suggested he didn't agree. He glanced at the crowd, at the sky. “Not long now.”

She drew in a breath, refocused her mind on their plan. They strolled the crowd; the instant the sky was a deep enough blue, they climbed to the terrace. Luc gave Cottsloe
the order to proceed with the fireworks; Cottsloe signaled the gardeners, who hurried to set up the displays.

The crowd didn't need any orders; everyone recognized the preparations, glanced around, then moved toward the terrace and the steps. She and Luc shared a glance, then parted. Amelia went to find Helena. Five minutes later, when she guided her aunt to the balustrade to one side of the steps from where she would get the best view—and the crowd would have the best view of her—they were nearly ready to start.

She and Helena took up their position; an instant later, with a hum of anticipation rising from the crowd, Luc strolled nonchalantly out from the ballroom to join them. He nodded to Helena, his gaze coming to rest on her necklace.

He frowned, hesitated, then said, “I'd be much obliged, ma'am, if you would give your necklace to me at the end of the night. I'll sleep better knowing it's under lock and key.”

Helena waved dismissively, haughtily patronizing. “You need not concern yourself, Calverton. I have had this piece for an age—no harm has ever befallen it.”

Luc's lips thinned. “Nevertheless—“

Helena spoke over his clipped protest, raising her voice to declare, “Indeed,
I
will not sleep well if it is not with me, in my room.” With another dismissive wave, she turned to the gardens. “Do not concern yourself.”

Luc had to accept her refusal; that he didn't do so happily was transparent. Amelia saw, from all around, glances thrown at Helena—at the necklace; countless heads came together in whispered confabulation. The rumors of the thief already circulating would ensure Luc's attempt to protect the fabulous necklace gained due notice.

A flash of fire at the bottom of the lawn drew all eyes, then the first rocket streaked upward. Amelia watched it, then glanced sideways at Helena's face, briefly lit. Nothing other than haughty disdain showed on her aunt's features, but then Amelia felt Helena's hand reach for hers, felt her squeeze briefly, triumphantly.

Smiling, Amelia returned her gaze to the fireworks, and, just for those moments, let herself relax.

None among the crowd on the terrace, all eyes trained on the fireworks, saw the gentleman Amelia and Portia had encountered close his fingers about a young lady's elbow. No one saw her turn, or the shock that filled her face. The man nodded silently at the other young lady who stood beside the first, oblivious, entranced by the spectacular display.

The man tugged; the young lady turned back to her companion, gently unwound their arms—caught by the beauty of a streaking rocket, the other barely noticed. The lady stood for a moment, then, with obvious reluctance, obeyed the man's unvoiced command and edged back. The crowd adjusted without truly looking; the man drew her to the rear, to where the wall of the house cast deep shadows.

The young lady glanced furtively left and right. “We can't talk here!” Her voice was a breathy squeak, tight with panic.

Kirby glanced at her face, his own hard, devoid of feeling, then he bent so she could hear his reply. “Perhaps not.” His eyes caught hers as they flicked to his face, trapped by the menace in his tone. He let her hang for a moment on the sharp hook of fear, then murmured, “The instant the fireworks finish, we're going to walk, quickly and quietly, to the rose garden. To preserve your reputation, I'll let you lead; I'll be directly behind you. Don't think to attract any attention. Pray no one stops you.”

He paused, searching her face, her eyes; what he saw satisfied. “No one will disturb us in the rose garden. There, we can talk.”

He straightened; the lady shivered convulsively, but she remained, still as the grave, beside him.

Until the last rocket burst and the crowd softly sighed.

She slipped away through the crowd, quickly but unobtrusively using the moment of milling, of everyone deciding what to do next, to slide from the terrace, through the crowds gathered below it, and into the shadows shrouding the walk leading along the east wing to the walled rose garden.

Her face was chalk white when she reached the archway in the stone wall. One brief glance confirmed her tormentor was a man of his word; he was all but at her shoulder. Gulping in a breath, she hurried under the arch, keen to get away from all eyes.

All who might see and guess her terrible secret.

She stopped as Kirby joined her, swung to face him. “I told you—I can't steal anything more. I just
can't
!” Her voice rose hysterically.

“Quiet, you little fool!” Kirby took her elbow in a merciless grip and propelled her down the central path, away from the entrance.

He stopped at the end of the garden. The roses were in full spate; they were surrounded by huge bushes, arching canes supporting fist-sized blooms bobbing in the light breeze.

They were alone; no one would see or happen upon them.

The young lady swallowed; dizzy, she felt ill, faint, panic choking her breathing, fear chilling her.

Releasing her, Kirby stared down at her, eyes narrowed.

She wrung her hands. “I told you.” Her voice broke on a sob. “I can't take anything more. You said one more thing, and I gave you the thimble. There's nothing more—“

“Stop sniveling.” Kirby cut across her words, cut her like a whip. “There's patently more, but if you want free of me, I'll offer you a deal.”

The young lady quivered, then drew in a small breath. Steeled herself. “What deal?”

“That necklace—the one the old Dowager's wearing.” Kirby ignored the slumping of the lady's shoulders, the hopeless denial in her eyes. “I need a lot more, but I'll settle for that.” He studied her, unmoved by the tears that welled in her eyes, ignored the shaking of her head. “I could milk you for years, but I'm willing to cut our association short if you get me that bauble. You heard the old dear—it'll be lying in her room tonight just waiting for you to pick it up.”

“I won't.” The lady straightened, tried to raise her head. “You lied before—you won't keep your word. You've kept
drawing me along, first telling me it was all for Edward, later saying you'd go if I just got one thing more . . . and here you are, still, asking for that necklace. I won't steal it— I don't believe you!”

That last was uttered on a spurt of defiance. Kirby smiled. “The worm turns at last. I won't pretend you're wrong, given the situation, to distrust my assurances. However, you're overlooking one thing.”

The lady tried to keep her lips shut, tried to deny the need to know. “What thing?”

“If you steal that necklace under my orders, because I've blackmailed you into it, and you give it to me, then I
have
to go away. Because if anything went wrong and you pointed the finger at me, then
I'd
be the one in trouble, not you. No one would worry about you in the least.
I
would be the obvious villain. You would be viewed as nothing more than the silly chit you are.” He let his words sink in, then added, “Getting that necklace for me is the surest way to protect yourself from me for all time.”

He let silence stretch while she fought an inner battle against a conscience that had risen far too late to save her. The story he'd so glibly spun had holes he could drive a coach and four through, but he doubted she'd see them, or the danger one hole in particular posed to her.

She hadn't been the sharpest apple in the basket to begin with; with fear and panic clouding her mind, she wouldn't be able to see her way clear. See her way to safety.

Eventually, as he'd expected, she clasped her hands even tighter, and looked up at him. “If I get you the necklace, you swear you'll go away? That once I hand it to you, I'll never see you again?”

He smiled, held up his right hand. “As God is my witness, once you bring me that necklace, you'll never set eyes on me again.”

The fireworks were a wondrous success, a perfect moment bringing the first half of the entertainment to an end. When the last flare died into the now­midnight black sky, the entire
gathering sighed. Then, slowly, collected itself.

As their neighbors filed back into the ballroom for the formal part of the evening, Luc and Amelia stood on the terrace steps and farewelled their happy and tired tenants, the villagers and other local attendees.

After expressing their delighted thanks for the evening, groups wended their way through the gardens, around the wings to the drive where some had left their gigs and farm carts; others headed on foot past the stables and the home farm, still others onto the path leading past the folly on the rise, carrying sleepy children home.

When the last had departed, with a contented sigh of her own, Amelia turned and let Luc lead her inside.

The rest of the evening went precisely as planned. The string quartet that earlier had entertained the older ladies not given to strolling the lawns now provided the company with waltzes and cotillions. Their neighbors laughed and danced, and the hours inexorably rolled by.

This, however, was the country. By eleven, all the guests had gathered their parties and departed; many had some way to drive to reach their beds. The family retired upstairs, as they normally would. Everyone smiled and wished all others a good night—everyone watched Luc's four sisters and Miss Pink disperse to their rooms before dropping their own masks.

But that was all they dropped. They couldn't be sure the villain wouldn't hide in the house; no matter that the ladies' skins crawled at the thought, they did not, by word or deed, allow any inkling of their plans to show.