The Butler Did It (18 page)

These men had been fortune hunters. She knew that, because within breaths of gushing at how above all things wonderful were her lively gray eyes, her flawless complexion, the exquisite tilt of her head…they all had found a way to bring the conversation around to the size of her dowry.

That's when Emma had pleaded fatigue to her last partner, sent him off to fetch her some lemonade, and then escaped to the balcony the moment the man's back was turned.

How could she not have realized sooner? If the wealthy Marquis of Westham had taken it into his head to be her guardian for the Season, then naturally he would have gifted her with a dowry. A considerable dowry, as he had his own reputation to uphold.

No wonder he was so unhappy with her. Not only had he discounted her rental fees as an insulting pittance, he now had to house them all, feed them all and, horror of horrors, actually
pay
to get himself shed of her.

Why hadn't she realized all of this sooner? She'd certainly had enough hints, from her grandmother, from the marquis himself.

The moneygrubbing, however, I would leave stand.

“Oh, how did this happen?” she asked herself, hugging her arms around her waist. “And what do I do now?”

“If I might be so bold,” came a male voice from the shadows, “we could begin with finding another hidey-hole, one not quite so public.”

Emma swallowed down hard and peered into the darkness. “Who's there?”

A well-dressed gentlemen stepped out of the shadows, then performed a most elegant leg before rising once more to say, “Jarrett Rolin at your service, Miss Clifford. Oh, yes, I have discovered your name. How,
you might ask? It was simple. I simply inquired of the first peach-fuzzed idiot I encountered that he give me the name of the most beautiful woman in the ballroom. Your name instantly sprang from his lips.”

Emma inspected the man as he spoke, beginning with his voice, which was rather deep, and faintly sinister. Oh, not really sinister. Mysterious. Yes, that would be a better word.

And he was handsome, if her second glance also told her he was older than she had first supposed. Forty, at the least, which she would have considered ancient, especially with the snow-white wings at his temples that contrasted so with his very black hair, except that he didn't seem ancient in the least.

His eyes were green, a most bewitching color, and they seemed to twinkle in the moonlight.

“Mr. Rolin,” Emma said, racing into speech and into a curtsy, both of which she suddenly realized she had sadly neglected as she felt herself dazzled by this exotic, mysterious creature. “I'm afraid I cannot take you up on your kind offer to find another hidey-hole, or else my mother will commence making the rounds of the ballroom, calling out my name in her agitation. That could prove embarrassing.”

Mr. Rolin smiled, exposing two rows of very white, straight teeth. “Yes, mothers can always be depended upon to be embarrassing. Mine, rest her soul, once called me
Precious
in front of three of my school chums I'd
brought home with me from Eton.” He sighed theatrically. “I had to thoroughly trounce all three of them before they'd desist in addressing me as
Precious
at every opportunity.”

Emma giggled, because the story was funny, and because she could not imagine anyone as imposing as Mr. Rolin being called
Precious.
“My mother used to call me Emmie-baby, which wasn't too terrible, and my grandmother still refers to me as that
pernicious brat
when the spirit moves her. Families, even loving ones, can be a trial.”

“As can be evenings at Almack's, Miss Clifford, or have I misunderstood your reason for being out here on your own? Which you shouldn't be, by the way. And I shouldn't be speaking with you, as we have not yet been formally introduced.”

“Oh,” Emma said, realizing Mr. Rolin was correct. “Forgive me. I'm more used to country dances, where everyone knows everyone else, and manners are much more free. I suppose Lady Jersey, if she were to see us together, would be justified in withdrawing my voucher. And I also wonder,” she said, smiling, “why that doesn't upset me as it should.”

“Perhaps because you are so clearly a cut above the majority of the insipid ladies inside, and find the blatant matchmaking abhorrent to your finer sensibilities?”

“Oh, my, that sounds so very flattering to me, Mr. Rolin,” Emma said honestly. “But, unfortunately, that
is
why I am here this evening, and why I have traveled to London. Surely it does not come as a shock that a miss of marriageable age has come to town in hopes of finding herself a husband?”

“Ah, candor. How refreshing, Miss Clifford. Although it is not every man that appreciates such honesty. Please, may I escort you back inside before your dear mama mounts a search? But only if you promise to drive out with me tomorrow at five.”

Emma took his offered arm. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Rolin. Um…do you know if anyone in your family is acquainted with my grandmother? Fanny Clifford?”

Mr. Rolin shook his head. “No, I can't say that the name is familiar, and my parents are dead these many years, so I cannot, I'm afraid, apply to them. Does it matter? Will I be turned away if your grandmother does not know me?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Rolin,” Emma told him, smiling up into his face. “I would say that not knowing my grandmother makes you eminently welcome to call. Oh, do you know where we are staying?”

“Dear me. I fear I forgot to ask a most important question,” he said, walking with her down the line of chairs, to where Daphne sat, looking flustered as she cast her gaze around the ballroom, obviously on the lookout for her chick. “Where would that be?”

“The Marquis of Westham's mansion in Grosvenor Square, Mr. Rolin. Do you know it?”

“I know his lordship,” Mr. Rolin said, inclining his head to the left. “As a matter of fact, I do believe he's that gentleman approaching now, with the rather fierce scowl on his face.”

He withdrew his arm from Emma and bowed toward the marquis. “Westham, your servant, and all that rot.”

“Rolin,” Morgan bit out shortly. “I did not realize you and my ward had been introduced. I was just looking for her. Thank you for returning her to her mother.”

“How remiss of you, Westham, to lose your hold on the reins. But it was my pleasure, as always, to take them up in your stead. It has been a long time, hasn't it?”

“Not long enough,” Morgan bit out, and Emma had to control a gasp at his words, at his tone. “Now, if you'll excuse us, I wish to have a word with my ward.”

Mr. Rolin bowed low over Emma's hand as he gifted her with another look at his, at the moment, amused-looking green eyes. “Until tomorrow, Miss Clifford. I shall count the hours.” And then he turned to the marquis and bowed yet again. “Always a delight, Westham,” he said, then melted away into the crowd.

The tension that had filled the air when Westham approached did not go with him.

“Excuse me, please,” Emma said just as she was certain Morgan was going to speak to her, undoubtedly to say something cutting, “but I see Mr. Leverton approaching. I had promised him this next set, I believe.” She opened the card tied to her wrist. “Yes. Yes, indeed,
my lord. Mr. Leverton. You do approve of Mr. Leverton? His great-uncle was great friends with my grandmother.”

Morgan sneered, and it didn't improve the scowl that was already marring his handsome face. “A blackmailed swain. And that doesn't bother you, Miss Clifford?”

“On the contrary, my lord. You know that old saying, the more the merrier. It would appear that my grandmother has been very merry in her time, and I am reaping the benefits.”

She stepped forward, waving to Mr. Leverton, a rather rotund redhead who would probably do himself a great service to give in and have himself fitted for spectacles. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Leverton. Over here.”

“We'll talk later,” Morgan whispered to her. “And there will be no drive tomorrow with Jarrett Rolin.”

“We won't, my lord, and there most definitely will,” Emma said, then all but ran to intercept Mr. Leverton, who was about to trip over a potted palm.

 

“I
WILL SAY AGAIN
, Fanny, I see no reason for the two of us to drive out together tomorrow,” Sir Edgar said as he and his newly acquired Adventuress sat at their ease in the drawing room, having graduated from his lordship's wine to warmed snifters of his lordship's brandy.

“And I will say again, Edgar, that we have to establish which of my acquaintances would appear to be the easiest pigeons to pluck. You have already secured Mr. Hatcher, and I commend you for that, but you are think
ing entirely too conservatively. One pigeon, when there is an entire flock of idiots out there?”

“It never pays to be too greedy, Fanny,” Edgar said, remembering how quickly he had expanded his thoughts to greater profits when gulling John Hatcher had proved so simple. “And, if you know these gentlemen so well, I cannot see why you would wish my opinion.”

“I don't require it, not really,” Fanny said honestly as she stuck out her legs and rested her small feet on the low table between the couches. “But, as I do know these gentlemen, they'll want to see proof, for one thing, and they won't believe that I have discovered the alchemists' formula for turning base metals into gold. Would you?”

Sir Edgar looked at her, sitting low on her spine and very much at her ease, her bony ankles exposed, and crossed one over the other, her snifter of brandy balancing on her concave belly. “I suppose not.”

“Good man, Edgar. I knew you'd see the sense of my argument. Now, show me again.”

He rolled his eyes. “You've already seen it three times, Fanny. It hasn't changed.” But he reached into his pocket and extracted the small bag, then tossed it to her.

“Curious how heavy it is,” Fanny said, holding on to her snifter with one hand, and dumping the misshapen golden lump into her lap. “I know you swore it's real gold, but I have to tell you, Edgar, if it weren't, it would still convince me. Must be worth a good five hundred pounds or more. Where did you get it?”

“Let me just say that several of the ladies I befriended over the years were generous with presents. I melted a few of them down. In either form, watch fob, ring or lump of gold, I have not lost a bent penny.”

“Oh, you bugger, you,” Fanny said, then laughed, a faintly evil sounding cackle. “Edgar, my man, we're going to have us some fun.”

“Fun I've had aplenty, Fanny,” he told her solemnly. “It's money I'm looking for now.”

Fanny hefted the heavy nugget. “We're all looking for something, Edgar. We're all looking for something.”

 

P
ERRY
S
HEPHERD
, Earl of Brentwood, had made his entrance only moments before eleven, a time after which no one was admitted to Almack's.

He'd been to his club, several of his clubs, with no success. He couldn't quite believe his luck when he'd chanced to look out his carriage window and espied the Westham crest on a coach parked around the corner from King Street, and he certainly had trouble believing that he'd find Morgan propping up a pillar at Almack's. But he was on the hunt, and could not overlook any possibility.

The Patronesses hopefully sent him a voucher every year, and every year he tossed it into the fire, but he'd had no worries that he would be turned away because he hadn't carried one of the silly things with him when he'd mounted the steps to the hallowed portal. He was, after all, eminently qualified Marriageable Material.

Thank goodness he had worn breeches, because of an earlier commitment he'd deserted as soon as possible without insulting his hostess, for no gentlemen, no matter how eligible, entered Almack's in pantaloons. Perhaps the very thought gave the Patronesses the vapors, or perhaps they merely liked putting out hoops, and then watching the gentlemen of the
ton
leap through them.

Paying little attention to the stir his arrival had made among the mamas set to pop off their daughters to the best title, estates, and fortune they could find, Perry halted three steps inside the ballroom, put his quizzing glass to his eye—just because he liked to do that—and allowed his always-alert yet languid-appearing gaze to skim over the assembled guests.

What a crushing bore. Indeed, more and more, life was a crushing bore. No wars left to fight. No worlds left to conquer. A clutch of acquaintances, but no real friends, not since Morgan Drummond had fled to the country and taken to his bed, or whatever it was tortured idiots did these days.

“Aha!” Perry exclaimed as he spied out his old friend standing halfway down the dance floor, leaning against a pillar and scowling at anyone who dared to look at him. Perry thought, if he looked hard enough, he might actually be able to discern the dark cloud hanging over the man's head.

Allowing his quizzing glass to drop to his waist, supported as it was by a thin black riband, the Earl of Brent
wood leisurely sauntered down the floor and presented himself to Morgan, bowing low, then saying, “I see you've elevated that horrid scowl of yours to even greater heights than when last we met, good friend. What's sticking in your craw tonight, may I ask?”

Morgan didn't react at once, because he had long since trained himself not to react to most things—another reason he was so very put out by Miss Emma Clifford.

Instead, he slowly raked his eyes up and down and up again, taking in Perry Shepherd's appearance. Same thick, faintly unruly blond hair, same amused green eyes, same square, chiseled jaw that kept him from being too pretty. Same tall, graceful frame, with his broad shoulders and long straight legs. Same flair for flattering his tailor.

Five-inch-long, crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek, just above that chiseled chin.