The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Grinning to himself, Griswade thrust his hands in his pockets and walked off into the night.

  CHAPTER 17

  Drake arrived in Lady Herrick’s ballroom as late as he possibly could. After greeting his hostess and coping with the blatant evidence that, along with her cronies, Lady Herrick had been indulging in rampant speculation as to what lay behind his recent uncharacteristic appearances at their events, he was forced to accept that all the gossipmongers had already firmly linked his name with Louisa’s.

  He didn’t know what Louisa had told her ladyship regarding his need to speak in strict privacy with the Hawesleys and their family; while Lady Herrick lowered her voice and assured him of her absolute discretion, he was left with the impression that Louisa’s appeal on his behalf had only heightened her ladyship’s belief in the nature of the connection between him and Louisa.

  As he cut through the crowd, searching for her dark head, he fought to tamp down his irritation over such over-avid interest in his personal life. Avoiding such intense speculation was one reason he eschewed the ballrooms. That and the fact that the usual social round bored him witless. As he smiled easily, nodded, and adroitly sidestepped all attempts to detain him, he comforted himself that the gossipmongers’ assumption would at least provide cover for his true purpose in being there.

  While dreaming of matrimonial mayhem, the ton’s ladies were unlikely to imagine treachery and murder.

  He finally spotted his quarry whirling down the floor in the arms of one of his peers. She appeared radiant, glimmering and shimmering in a full-skirted gown of peridot green, the same hue as her eyes. Her attention was focused on her partner to the exclusion of the rest of the world.

  He truly was rusty socially speaking; he misjudged the spot where she would fetch up at the end of the dance, and by the time he tacked through the throng—a horrendous crush even by ton standards—she was deep in conversation with a circle of admirers, sprinkled with two other young ladies for leavening.

  By dint of approaching the group at the right angle, the gentleman beside Louisa startled and stepped back in surprise—allowing Drake to claim the vacated spot by her side.

  She glanced at him; her expression declared that she was delighted to see him, while her eyes—those vivacious, perspicacious, beguiling eyes—signaled wholly feminine amusement.

  Recognizing that fact did his temper no good, but he was up to the challenge of exchanging greetings with her as well as the other members of the group, then pretending to a wholly spurious interest in the conversations being bandied back and forth.

  He soon discerned that Lord Gareth Rampling, the Earl of Gisborne’s heir, and Lord Philip Devenish, the Duke of Ashford’s younger son, both gentlemen Drake would have labeled benign acquaintances, were regarding his arrival with less felicity than Drake would have expected… He nearly blinked.

  Surely not. He glanced at Louisa and caught her smiling with her usual mesmerizing abandon at Philip.

  Drake had always known she was dangerous, but it had never occurred to him to dwell on just how vulnerable to her effortless dazzle so many of his peers were likely to be.

  Under her subtle but definite encouragement, the poor sods—not just Gareth and Philip but the three others in the group as well—clambered through innumerable hoops in an ever-escalating competition for her smiles. They had to have heard the rumors, yet…

  It took him several minutes to accept that his benign acquaintances were doing their damnedest to cut him out.

  Inwardly tight-lipped, he watched and observed; be damned if he would allow himself to get drawn into that game. He set his jaw and bided his time. The instant he detected the first squeak of bow on string, he reached out, closed his hand around one of Louisa’s—at that moment transcribing an arc in midair—and in a tone that allowed for no disagreement from her or anyone else, stated, “My dance, I believe.”

  Louisa swallowed a laugh. His grip on her hand was just a little too definite to hide his aggravation; she had to wonder if he had any real idea of how that emotion, projected in such steely fashion, was being interpreted by the interested spectators surrounding them. Opening her eyes wide, she turned them on him. “Is it, my lord?” She paused for a heartbeat, then inquired, “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.” His eyes, golden and gleaming, snapped along with his tone. Reasonably gently, passably smoothly, he drew on her hand, and when she permitted it, wound her arm in his. Only then did he lift his gaze to the faintly shocked and curious ring of onlookers. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  With a distant dip of his head, he drew her away, into the crowd, and thence onto the dance floor.

  With elegant ease, they stepped into a waltz, matching and mirroring each other literally without thought.

  For several revolutions, she let her senses hold sway, let them greedily absorb the effect he had on them, on all of her. The leap of her pulse when his hand settled at her waist, the sheer thrill that the harnessed power with which he moved sent racing through her, the way her nerves tightened in anticipation of what might come. A scintillating awareness and a sharpened alertness, physical and mental, gripped her—an expectation of engagement and challenge on multiple planes. This, unquestionably, was what she wanted and needed in a husband—a mutual attraction that operated on significantly more levels than one.

  He didn’t meet her eyes as he whirled her down the ballroom; his expression remained socially bland, but there was a touch of deepening grimness about his lips. “You do know that Philip Devenish will never be able to support you in the manner to which you’re accustomed?”

  She opened her eyes wide. “Really?” It was a battle to keep her mask in place, to maintain the air of faintly distant hauteur that she knew would most provoke him rather than laugh delightedly. “I had no idea he was seriously considering supporting me.”

  His lips thinned; surely he had to know that, from his point of view, such comments were never wise—not on any level. “And Gareth—you would have him under your thumb within a week, and after that, he’d bore you to the point where you’d contemplate murder as an acceptable option.”

  She considered her best response. Eventually, after they’d negotiated the turn at the end of the floor, she stated, “As I’ve never considered dear Gareth—under that blustery exterior, a sweet man, I admit—as a gentleman with whom I might share a connection closer than that of dance partner, he’ll remain safe, at least from me.” Boldly, openly, she studied Drake’s face. “Tell me,” she murmured, deliberately letting huskiness flow through her tones, “were your comments intended to protect me from them or them from me?”

  His jaw tightened; his features hardened. He continued to avoid her eyes.

  “Hmm,” she continued in the same provocative tone. “Regardless, I believe you can rest easy.”

  At that, he lowered his gaze and finally met her eyes.

  Quick as a flash, she smiled intently and said, “That’s something you would know if you attended an occasional social event. None of those gentlemen is the man I dream about.”

  What with the exigencies of the mission and all that had happened over the past days, Drake had managed to push her earlier declaration—that of her intention of joining him in his bed—to the back of his mind. More, he’d dismissed it, telling himself—however self-delusionally—that she hadn’t really meant it, that she’d only said it to shake him, to see if she could.

  That those subsequent kisses had merely been an escalation of the curious battle of wits and wills that had, it seemed, always raged between them.

  Now…with his gaze locked with hers, with her having lowered her innermost shields thus allowing him to see into her soul, or so it felt, to see and appreciate and know the strength, the very feminine strength, that blazed within her, he realized just how misguided he’d been. Realized, fully and consciously, that she’d meant every word.

  And she was Lady Wild—she who took stubbornness to unprecedented heights.

  Their fe
et moved of their own accord. They whirled gracefully, effortlessly elegantly down the room as their minds engaged, will against will, while wordlessly she insisted that this—all he could see and sense here, now—was the truth, and he continued to try to deny…

  It was he who had to quell a sudden shudder of reaction and look away, shaken by an unexpected wave of yearning that rose through him, broke over him, and all but swept him from his mental moorings.

  He stared blindly across the glittering ballroom. He couldn’t deal with this—with her—now. He had a mission to run, a fraught and potentially critical interview to conduct in just a few minutes; he had to regain control.

  He dragged in a deep breath, relieved when he felt his head steady. After a second, he fleetingly glanced at her face.

  She met his gaze with a faintly teasing, quizzical look.

  He raised his gaze and focused on those standing about the dance floor. “From what Lady Herrick whispered when I arrived, I take it all is in train for me to break the news to the Chilburns.”

  After a second, Louisa obliged and fell in with his direction. “Her ladyship has put her drawing room at our disposal. Supper will be served promptly at eleven o’clock—just prior to that, the butler and footmen will collect the Chilburns and conduct them to the drawing room. And we’re in luck—all Lawton’s immediate family is here. The viscount and viscountess, his three older brothers with their wives, plus his three sisters and their husbands.”

  “Pray that one of them, at least, has some inkling of whom Lawton was consorting with.”

  With a musical flourish, the measure drew to a close. They slowed, then halted and stepped apart; he bowed, and she curtsied. Drake had glimpsed Sebastian and Antonia by the side of the ballroom; determined to avoid any return to more personal interaction, he drew Louisa’s hand through his arm and nodded toward her brother. “We should alert the others. They’re over there.”

  She went with him willingly. By the time they reached Sebastian and Antonia, Michael and Cleo had joined them.

  Louisa immediately informed the four of the arrangements for the upcoming meeting with the Chilburns. The three couples formed their own circle; Drake noticed that the intensity of their exchanges, their alert but serious expressions, effectively kept the interested observers, many of whom were circling, at bay.

  When Louisa finished listing the family members present, Drake and Sebastian drew out their watches.

  “It’s nearly time.” Sebastian shut his watch and slid it back into his pocket. He met Drake’s eyes. “Shall we?”

  Tucking his own watch away, Drake looked over the heads and saw the Herricks’ butler moving in stately fashion through the crowd. “The staff have started rounding up the Chilburns and directing them downstairs.” He glanced at the other five. “We’d better get down to the drawing room ourselves, but not all together. Let’s try for a little discretion.”

  By agreement, Drake, with Louisa on his arm, went down first. Sebastian and Antonia tracked the viscount and viscountess and followed them down the stairs. Michael and Cleo held back until the butler, consulted, assured them all the Chilburns present had been collected and dispatched, then followed the last couple down the stairs and into the drawing room.

  Drake and Louisa had been in the drawing room when Viscount Hawesley and his wife, both transparently mystified, had walked in.

  On seeing Drake, Hawesley had halted and stared. “Winchelsea?” Then Hawesley had seen Louisa, and concern had filled his face. Rather stiffly, he’d bowed. “Lady Louisa.” Then Hawesley had switched his gaze to Drake and demanded, not without a certain trepidation, “What’s this about?”

  Drake had greeted the viscountess and waved her to one of the sofas set perpendicular to the fireplace. He’d met Hawesley’s eyes and, in a tone that negated opposition, replied, “In a moment, my lord.” Sebastian and Antonia had walked in at that point. Smoothly, Drake had continued, “Given the nature of what I have to convey, it will be preferable to have all your family gathered to hear it.”

  Louisa had noted Drake hadn’t specified for whom the arrangement would be preferable, but other than uttering a harrumph and frowning darkly, Hawesley had sat beside his openly anxious wife and had remained grimly silent as his sons and their wives and his daughters and their husbands filed into the room.

  All queries as to what was happening had elicited much the same answer as Hawesley had received. Consequently, when the door finally clicked shut behind Michael and Cleo, the atmosphere in the room was already tense.

  Cleo slipped into the vacant spot in the corner of the sofa beside Lady Hawesley. On the longer sofa opposite, Hawesley’s three daughters were perched somewhat anxiously, while Hawesley’s three daughters-in-law stood behind the sofa, their attitudes distinctly more distant. Unobtrusively, Antonia and Louisa moved to flank the former, who in strained silence made room for them; in a susurration of silks, Louisa and Antonia sat alongside their agreed marks. With the exception of Hawesley, the gentlemen of the family, with Sebastian and Michael hovering close, had congregated in a knot at the other end of the Aubusson rug, facing the fireplace and Drake, who had taken up a stance before the hearth.

  Frowning—as were all the family’s men—Hawesley eyed Michael and Sebastian, glanced at Cleo and Antonia, then looked at Drake. “I can understand that you might wish to speak with us in private, Winchelsea, but these others…?”

  “Earith, Lady Antonia, Lady Louisa, Lord Michael, and Miss Hendon are all actively assisting me in this matter.” Smoothly, Drake added, “One which impinges on the safety of the realm.” Having successfully quashed all protest and snared the attention of all those present, in steady, measured tones, he went on, “I regret to inform you that a body now believed to be that of Lawton Chilburn was discovered on Monday night. He’d been shot.” Drake explained that there had been no identification on the body, and consequently, it had taken a few days to confirm identity via the boots the dead man had worn.

  The viscountess had uttered a strangled cry at the mention of her youngest son’s name. Cleo had edged nearer; instinctively, Lady Hawesley had reached for and gripped Cleo’s hand. But now, clutching a lace-edged handkerchief in her other hand, Lady Hawesley looked up at Drake. “Oh, but it can’t be Lawton. He must have given away his old boots, and it was some ruffian who was wearing them—it was the ruffian’s body you found.”

  Drake regarded her with sympathy and gently said, “The bootmaker was quite certain, and the dead man bore a scar—possibly a sword cut—from the left corner of his lips to the point of his jaw.”

  The viscountess stared unseeing at him, then her eyes filled with tears. On a sob, she bowed her head.

  Cleo patted her ladyship’s hand and murmured soothingly.

  Awkwardly, Hawesley shifted nearer and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “There, there.” His face ashen, he looked at Drake. “I don’t understand—how did it happen?”

  “And,” Robert, Lawton’s eldest brother, somewhat belligerently asked, “why has it taken so long for us to hear? Even if he’d been robbed of his purse and all papers, they might have checked with his tailor. I hear that’s done all the time.”

  Drake inclined his head. “Indeed. But sadly, Lawton—or rather, his body—was dressed in clothes that…we believe were not his own.”

  A collective wordless “Oh” was written on all Lawton’s siblings’ and in-laws’ faces. From their expressions, they were calculating the possibilities raised by Drake’s words—and plainly those possibilities were numerous.

  “But why was he killed?” Lawton’s second-oldest brother, the Honorable Gerrard Chilburn, voiced the question, then shut his lips tightly, as if wishing he hadn’t.

  “Given the way he was shot,” Drake replied, “we believe he might have been involved in a duel. Certainly in some sort of altercation involving pistols.” Drake lowered his voice and directed his words to the gentlemen of the family. “Lawton was shot twice in the chest. He would have
died quickly.”

  Drake paused, then glanced around at all the family members. As the silence stretched, most looked up and returned his regard. Finally, he said, “In order to assist the authorities in determining what led to Lawton’s death, we would be grateful to hear of any insights or suspicions you might have about Lawton’s recent endeavors or those with whom he’d recently been consorting. Any theories at all about what might have led to him being killed.”

  Louisa—and, she felt sure, Michael and Cleo—appreciated Drake’s glib phrasing. It was obvious from the absorbed expressions on the faces of Lawton’s nearest and dearest, from the questioning looks this one and that exchanged, that insights, suspicions, and theories abounded.

  Although understandably the most affected, it was the viscountess who, through gulping sobs, started the ball rolling. “I always knew he would come to a bad end.” Clinging to Cleo’s hand, she forced out the words, “The others all knuckled down—they were always responsible. But Lawton…he wanted and expected things to come easily, without the slightest exertion on his part.”

  That drew forth numerous mutters and dark rumblings from other family members.

  Leaving his wife to Cleo’s ministrations, Hawesley, who appeared to have aged several years and was disturbed and angry, but not, at the base of it, all that surprised, rose and moved to join his sons and sons-in-law.

  Drake walked down the center of the room and joined the group; Hawesley and his two oldest sons acknowledged him with brief nods. All three hesitated, then, haltingly, offered their views of Lawton—a profligate, a bad seed, a man who all three felt had let down the Chilburn name. Drake listened, but heard nothing he hadn’t already surmised.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian attached himself to Basil Chilburn, Hawesley’s third son and the nearest in age to Lawton.

  Basil shook his head. “Like Mama said, he was always going to come to a bad end, but shot in the street! The mind boggles.” Basil glanced rather shrewdly at Sebastian. “I say, that won’t have to come out, will it? How he died?”