“Are you concerned about him?” his sister asked, her irritation fading and her face brightening.
But all Sylvia would concede was, “I do not wish him to be killed.”
“Nor I. Come upstairs and let us see what can be done about your hair.”
“My hair? What does that matter when one man has been wounded and another is about to be killed?”
“Because, as we can do nothing about either of those matters, we may as well do our best to present a proper appearance.”
The Countess had by this time more or less dragged her protégée out of the room and into a small saloon where the ladies’ wraps had been deposited. She rang the bell and requested a maid be sent to tidy Miss Holmdale’s hair.
“How fortunate that your dress has an overskirt,” her ladyship remarked when Sylvia’s hair had been mended. “For, if it had not, I do not see how we should manage to conceal the blood. Please remove the gauze,” she said to the maid.
“I think we could get away with removing a panel from both sides, my lady,” the maid suggested, looking critically at the dress. “The blood is only on one side but, by removing the other as well, we may be able to make it look as though the gown was designed that way.”
“Yes, indeed. What an excellent idea!” the Countess agreed and Sylvia, who had paled at the sight of poor Lord Marklye’s blood adhering to her dress, stood still while the maid carefully cut out the piece of bloodstained gauze followed by a matching portion on the other side.
Chapter 27
When they returned to the ballroom, it was to discover that the party was proceeding quite as though it had not been interrupted by two shots and the exodus of almost the entire male portion of the guests into the garden. The musicians were playing, the men had returned and dancing had resumed.
Lady Barnaby hurried up to say, “The doctor has already looked at Lord Marklye and assured me that he is in no danger. He was hit on the outside of his upper arm and, although he has lost a deal of blood, he will soon be perfectly well. It has been bound up and Barnaby’s valet has put him to bed. There is nothing to be anxious about.”
“May I see him?” Sylvia asked.
“I think not now,” Lady Barnaby answered. “I understand that he has been given a strong dose of laudanum and is already asleep. He will, of course, stay here for the next few days while he recovers.”
“Thank God! I am so very sorry, my lady, that your party should have been spoiled by such a terrible occurrence.”
“I cannot think it your fault, Miss Holmdale, unless you arranged for a gunman to lurk in our garden. Are you sure you are quite strong enough to return to the ball yourself?”
“Oh yes, I am quite well. But, if you would prefer me to disappear quietly, I am perfectly ready to go home at once.”
“Oh, I don’t think you need do that. There is a whole queue of gentlemen wishing to dance with you, who would be dreadfully disappointed if you were to leave. See, here is your brother, Marianna. He has been waiting for your return, Miss Holmdale, with scarcely concealed impatience.”
Indeed, his grace now appeared beside them, bowing politely. He did not look impatient but had nevertheless managed to be at the head of the queue vying for Sylvia’s hand in a dance. Not a hair was out of place and, but for an infinitesimal spot of mud upon his dancing shoes, no one would have supposed that he had not been in the ballroom all evening.
“Cousin Sylvia, will you do me the honour?” His voice was smooth, his expression bland.
She inclined her head and gave him her hand. “Why yes, Cousin, I should be delighted,” she said ironically, allowing him to lead her out into what proved to be a waltz, a dance she had never performed before. In her girlhood, it had been frowned upon.
“I do not know the steps,” she faltered as his arm encircled her waist.
“It is of no matter; since we are joined, you have only to follow mine. I will give your foot a little push – so – and you must step back, then you move to the side with the other, catch up with the first, and step back once more, this time with the second foot. You see, it is not very difficult. That is right. But we must perform it a little faster and keep spinning at the same time.”
The music swirled deliciously, rising and falling in a soothing manner but the dance, as performed by the Duke, was anything but calming. Holding her in the approved manner almost as though they were a mechanical toy, he proceeded to turn like a spinning top, his feet performing the steps with such speed and accuracy that her own, clumsier and slower, were constantly having to be nudged into the right place, although never once did he step upon them.
“I understand that your admirer is not badly hurt,” he went on, his ability to speak seeming to be in no way impeded by his movements. “You must be relieved.”
“Vastly, but I do not think I can talk while you hurl me around in this fashion; I am becoming quite dizzy; and I cannot concentrate on what I am doing with my feet.”
“It really does not matter. No one is looking at our feet. They are all fascinated by how close we are to each other and, if they are interested in us at all – which I doubt - will be scanning our faces to see if they can divine what we may be saying. I could pick you up altogether and pretend you are a doll. Would that be easier?”
“For me, yes. But I am sure someone would notice and think it odd. Do you not think that would be food for the gossips?”
“It would make them all exceedingly happy. I am surprised you are so ignorant of the steps. Was it not part of your duties to teach Miss Sullington how to waltz?”
“No; I am sure Lady Sullington would not permit her daughter to perform such a dance although I know that it has become quite respectable recently. In any event, a proper dancing master was engaged; I was not trusted with such an important task. Have you not led her out yet this evening?”
“Yes, I have, but not for the waltz – and I shall not do so. It might give your erstwhile employer all sorts of notions which I should only disappoint in the end. I have decided not to offer for her after all. I am not so épris that I am prepared to run the risks inherent in taking on such a mother-in-law.”
“Melissa will be relieved. Oh, I do not mean to annoy you,” she added hastily, seeing his expression harden, “but you must know that she believes herself in love with a boy of her own age.”
“Mr Harbury? I doubt if she will be permitted to marry him but he will stand a much better chance if it is clear that I am out of the running.”
“Do you think he would make her a good husband?”
“I have no idea. But, if they have given their hearts to each other, it would be cruel, would it not, to part them? They might never recover.”
“That is what I am afraid of and I would not wish such heartbreak on either of them.”
“No? What do you know of heartbreak?” It seemed to her that he was whirling her around faster and faster; they never seemed to go forward or – in her case – back for even a step. The room was a blur and she clung to him for dear life, her feet barely touching the floor; his arm around her waist was like steel. She was afraid that, if he let her go, she would fall in a heap upon the ground.
“It is unending,” she almost sobbed.
“The dance? You are doing very well and it cannot go on for much longer.”
“No, I meant the heartbreak – and that can go on for ever. But the dance – I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels.”
“Neither. You are intermittently on your toes, but a good deal of the time in the air. You are very light and it is quite dizzying to dance with you. I feel like a whirling dervish – we will fly off into the ether in a moment and never come back. How can you talk of heartbreak? It was you who called ‘hold’ on what I had hoped would be everlasting happiness.”
“I was a fool,” she admitted, almost crying because she felt so ill that she was afraid she would be sick. He had, perhaps himself affected by the giddiness of the dance, admitted so much more than she had e
xpected that her senses reeled but, so unwell was she, that she could barely speak let alone deal adequately with a situation of which she had dreamed but which she knew would require her to be in full possession of her wits. She could do nothing but hang in his arms; only his rigid grip held her upright.
“Yes,” he said, with a return to sarcasm so that she thought she must have imagined the softened note earlier, “you could have been a Duchess.”
“Not being a Duchess is hardly the stuff of heartbreak,” she countered, reviving slightly under the goad, “foolish perhaps but not the same thing at all.”
“Well, of course, you did not know then that I would become a Duke,” he agreed.
“I would not have cared – and I do not care now, except that you have become odious and arrogant.”
“It is part of my inheritance,” he said. “It seems to impress most people.”
“Well, it does not impress me – and it does not endear you to other people either, such as Miss Sullington. She would rather marry Mr Harbury than you, for all your dukedom!”
“But then she has been brought up by you. You seem to have had an extraordinarily strong influence upon her. If she were anything like her mama, one would have expected her to have been eager to accept me no matter how odious I am.”
“You sound as though you are proud of being disagreeable.”
“Well, I might as well be; no one is in the least interested in my nature; the dukedom carries all before it.”
The music stopped and, with a last whirl, they came to a halt. He dropped his arm and she swayed, her head spinning, and would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms again. Depositing her unceremoniously upon an elegant but uncomfortable chair at the side of the room, he prepared to walk away.
She felt as she had when she had fallen at his feet in Bond Street. This time, observing her flailing helplessly and about to slide to the floor, he seemed to recall that she was supposed to be a beloved cousin and, exclaiming with what she judged to be wholly false concern, “My dear Cousin, you are not well! I will take you somewhere a little cooler and more comfortable to recover,” he picked her up again and carried her out of the room.
He took her to a small saloon and laid her upon a sofa. “You are very pale,” he observed in anything but a concerned voice.
“I think I am going to be sick,” she muttered, struggling to sit up.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “Is there no end to your embarrassing conduct?”
“No!” she cried violently. “Is there no end to your cruelty? If you find it distasteful, all I can say is that it serves you right for it is entirely your fault!”
He stepped back and she, a hand clapped to her mouth, rose abruptly to her feet. He, with great presence of mind, managed to snatch up a pot standing beside the fireplace, and thrust it at her.
“It is all right,” he said in a different voice, pushing her back on to the sofa quite gently, “sit down, compose yourself, you will feel better in a moment. Here is a receptacle if you really cannot refrain from casting up your accounts.”
She snatched the pot from him and, finding it heavier than she had expected, fell back on to the sofa, the vessel clutched to her bosom and her head bent over it. When she leaned back against the sofa cushions, her face pale and bedewed with perspiration, he took it from her and replaced it by the fireplace. She remained motionless, her eyes closed. She could not recall ever having felt so ill.
“I daresay you feel better now,” he observed, “although you look as though you are about to die. Here, take my handkerchief!”
“I do not feel sick any more but now I am cold – and ashamed. It is quite dreadful to be sick in the presence of another – particularly you.”
“Why particularly me? It is almost impossible for me to think worse of you than I already do. I thought for a moment that you intended to be sick on me: that would carry a message even I could not pretend to fail to understand.”
“I did, for a moment. I am sorry: that would have been despicable.”
“Well, I got the better of you in that at least – and I daresay I would have deserved it. Think nothing of it – it is past.” He looked round the room and said, “There does not appear to be anything in the way of a rug; I suppose I could wrench one of those curtains from its hooks, but it would perhaps be a little excessive, and very bad manners, not only to use one of our host’s pots in the manner in which you have, but also to destroy the appearance of such a charming room. Would you like my coat?” He began, as he spoke, to struggle out of it.
“No, I should like to go home. Will you take me?”
“Of course, but I think you will feel better soon and then you should go back and dance some more, although I would advise avoiding another waltz.” He succeeded in removing his coat and, pushing her down into a recumbent position on the sofa, wrapped it around her, drawing it up close over her bosom and shoulders so that the collar tickled her chin.
“I will send for some brandy,” he added, pulling the bell.
Chapter 28
When a servant appeared, his grace indicated the pot, suggesting with arrogant indifference that it should be removed, at least temporarily. “And please send someone with some brandy and perhaps a few dry biscuits for my cousin. Also, a blanket would not go amiss.”
“Yes, your grace.” The pot was removed and the Duke returned to her side.
“Was it just the twirling that made you unwell or was it on account of the shock of being shot at?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I think it was just the twirling; what a horrid dance, no wonder it was banned for so long. I should not think anyone would wish their guests to cast up their accounts in such a disgusting manner.”
He laughed. “I have never heard of anyone else reacting as you did. I should think it was the shock rather than the dance. Have you any idea who it might have been? I could find no one out there but there was such a commotion that I daresay whoever it was had managed to get clean away.”
“I suppose that the answer depends on the identity of the target,” she said, her teeth chattering so much that her words were punctuated with little taps.
“Yes. Do you know anyone who would wish to put a period to your existence?”
She was saved from answering immediately by the arrival of a couple of servants, one bearing the brandy and the other carrying a blanket and the pot.
The Duke took the blanket and tucked it around her. When the servants had left, he poured out two glasses of brandy and gave one to Sylvia. She took it but did not raise it to her lips. Her hand shook so that the liquid slopped around in the glass.
“I did not give it to you in order that you could spill it upon the carpet,” he pointed out. “Drink some. It will restore your spirits.”
She said nothing and struggled to sit up. He went to her, took the glass and placed it upon the table before putting his hands under her arms and pulling her into an upright position. “Now, do as you are bid and refrain from arguing,” he said, handing her the glass once more.
“I was not arguing,” she muttered faintly.
“No, you did not say anything,” he conceded, “but I could see the words forming in your brain.”
“Goodness, I hope not!” she exclaimed, rallying and taking a small sip of brandy.
He smiled and her lips trembled into an answering curve. “Would you like your coat back?” she asked, finding it unsteadying to see him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The thin muslin of the shirt and the close-fitting lines of the waistcoat revealed too much of the shape of his arms and torso for her not to be a great deal more conscious of his body than she wished to be, particularly when he turned away to pour himself a drink, revealing the curiously unfinished – and therefore vulnerable - appearance of the back of the waistcoat.
“No, keep it until you are quite warm again,” he said, turning back, his eyes dwelling with an expression she could not read on the way her chin rested on the collar of his coat.
/> He drew up a chair so that he was sitting facing her and said, “Whom did you think was the target?”
“I … It depends upon who was doing the shooting – or perhaps upon who ordered it.”
“Just so. But, when I asked you if you had any ideas about that, you directed my attention to the identity of the target. You cannot have it both ways. If we can identify the target we can, by a process of elimination, perhaps arrive at the identity of the gunman – or his principal.”
“I thought I was the target but Lord Marklye thought he was.”
“I see. And did you, in those moments of panic immediately after the shot, come to any conclusion in your deliberations?”
“No, not altogether.”
“Can you be a little more precise? Did he have any reason to suppose that anyone would wish him dead?”
She shook her head and took another sip of brandy.
“If he thought he was the target, he must have had some idea of why someone – and therefore who that someone might be – might want him dead.”
He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon her face, which was a bare six inches from his knees. “Who did he think wanted to put a period to his existence?” he repeated when she did not answer.
“He – he was not thinking coherently …”
“No. But he voiced a suspicion, did he not? Who did he think wished him dead? You must answer.”
“Why? Why must I answer? I would like to go home.”
“No doubt. Very well, we will come at it from the other direction: why did you think you were the target and who did you think wished to shoot you?”
“You!” she exclaimed. “I thought you wanted me dead!”
“Ah! And he thought I wanted him dead! Am I the only suspect?”
“Was it you?” she asked weakly, giving up and sinking back upon the sofa. She wiped her face with his handkerchief, which she still held balled up in her fist, apparently seeing nothing odd in using for such a purpose an object belonging to a man whom she had just accused of attempted murder.
Sylvia Or The Moral High Ground Page 24
