On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Amanda steeled herself to insist that Edward’s name remain on the list, but instead of arguing that point, Luc nodded again. “Right. I can check these names more easily than you. I’ll have to ask Mama”—he held up his hand to stay their protests—“without telling her, to get the directions of Oliver and Bruce, who I haven’t seen in years. I should be able to run most of them to earth at their clubs.”

  Martin nodded. “If we can place people at a ball or any public function three nights ago, we can cross them off the list.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same man—the murderer and the man who shot Reggie?”

  “For the sake of the family, I sincerely hope so.” When Luc looked his question, Martin explained, “We have witnesses who’ll swear they both ‘looked just like me.’ “

  Luc eyed Martin’s face, then grimaced. “I’ll start tonight.” He rose.

  Martin rose, too. “Reggie’s staying here, out of sight. Whoever he is, if the murderer isn’t already wondering if it really was me he shot, he’ll certainly be wondering who he hit once I reappear.”

  “And when will that be?” Luc asked.

  “At the Duchess of St. Ives’ ball.” Amanda smiled as Martin turned to her. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Well, my dear.” Her father shut the drawing room door having seen Martin out. “I thoroughly approve of your choice.”

  He smiled as he crossed to stand before the fire, his eyes touching Louise’s as he passed her, reclining on the chaise a book forgotten on her lap.

  “There is the scandal to be dealt with but, overall, my verdict concurs with Devil’s.” Taking up his stance, Arthur smiled fondly down at Amanda. “It’ll be an excellent match, and Dexter’s precisely the sort of gentleman we would have hoped to be welcoming into the family.”

  Amanda exchanged a glance with her mother. Louise smiled, and rescued her book. “Amanda has suggested Honoria’s dinner and ball tomorrow night as the most suitable time to declare the family’s stance—by demonstration rather than proclamation, in the circumstances—and with that, I concur. And so will Honoria and Helena, I’m sure.”

  “I feel confident I can leave Dexter’s social ressurrection safely in your delicate hands.” The twinkle in Arthur’s eye was for them both. He continued to hold Amanda’s gaze, his own rich with affection, but also, she realized, with shrewd assessment.

  “I’m convinced, from all Devil and your cousins have reported, that the old scandal will prove to have been a dreadful mistake, and Dexter will emerge blameless. His character from the time he left England to the present . . . impossible to hide such a flaw for so long, especially under such challenging circumstances as those he has faced. From all you and he have now told me, it seems his plans to resolve the issue are well advanced.”

  Arthur paused; she found herself trapped in his blue gaze. “Which brings us to the matter of the real culprit, who, judging by poor Reggie’s head, remains dangerous. While I have no qualms whatever for your safety while in Dexter’s company, you will please me, for the time you still remain in my charge, by taking all due care when you are not under his protection.”

  There’d been a subtle change in her father’s tone; he rarely laid down the law, but when he did speak in such fashion, Amanda knew better than to argue. “I will—I promise.” She glanced at Louise, who, one brow arched, was looking at her spouse.

  “Is there truly any danger?”

  Arthur met her gaze. “Dexter believes the potential exists, and he isn’t the sort to jump at shadows.”

  It was the perfect setting in which to effect a grand entrance—a grandiloquent gesture to capture the attention of the frenetic ton. The details were discussed and debated over the dinner that preceded Honoria’s ball; the support of the ton’s most influential hostesses—all of whom were present—was therefore engaged and assured from the start.

  All agreed that Martin should make his bow with Amanda on his arm only once most of the ball guests had arrived. When the moment came, Webster announced, first, Mr. Spencer Cynster and his wife Patience, escorting Lady Osbaldestone—who’d insisted on being part of the fun—and the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

  That was enough to have people glancing toward the entrance, primed to hear the announcement of the next arrivals—Lord Martin Fulbridge, Earl of Dexter, accompanied by Miss Amanda Cynster.

  Eyes widened, lips parted in momentary surprise, superseded by rabid speculation as the assembled host watched Martin, tall, starkly handsome, leonine mane winking golden in the chandeliers’ light, bow before Honoria, then shake hands with Devil, all with Amanda at his side. The whispers had started even before they’d turned, side by side, Amanda’s hand on Martin’s sleeve, to descend the stairs in the Dowager’s and Lady Osbaldestone’s wake.

  The ton was wide awake to the implications; everyone watching read the message with ease. When the next guests announced proved to be Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that an alliance had been sealed between two major aristocratic houses, and a formal announcement would be made in due course.

  Formal announcements were never so much fun as being privy to such news ahead of others.

  “I should think”—Lady Osbaldestone directed an evil grin at Martin as he and Amanda joined them in the ballroom—“that your impending nuptials will be the principal item of interest at every gathering tomorrow.”

  Martin raised a nonchalant brow.

  “Tomorrow?” Arthur, with Louise, joined the group, his gaze raking the frantically chattering hordes. “I’ll wager the news will reach half the ton before they find their beds tonight.”

  “No point wagering,” Vane replied. “You’ll never get anyone to take you on.”

  The three men exchanged long-suffering glances; their ladies had already turned to greet others, all dying to learn details of this most intriguing affair.

  Amanda chatted, smiled, played her role of serenely confident countess-to-be to the hilt, all the while guarding against those sly, probing questions that sought to define just where she and Martin had first met, just how she had come to know him, when he had proposed. With her mother on one side and her aunt Helena on the other, she encountered little difficulty maintaining the facade necessary to achieve tonnish acceptance.

  Sharp-eyed matrons and shrewd observers departed, if not deceived, then satisfied that the proposed union was secure, stamped with the Cynsters’ and others’ unconditional approval, and all was as it should be.

  A “suitable and felicitous match” was the ton’s overwhelming verdict.

  As the notes of the first waltz floated over the crowd, Amanda turned. Surrounded by their ladies chatting animatedly, Martin, her father, Devil and Vane stood in a group, tall, broad shouldered, arrogantly handsome, exchanging cynical comments—and keeping watch. Devil’s gaze rested on Honoria; Vane’s gaze flicked again and again to Patience. In her father, it was the habit of a lifetime. As for Martin, he caught her gaze, then took the step that closed the distance between them.

  He smiled charmingly at the ladies with whom she’d been chatting, then his gaze returned to her face, “My dance, I believe.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  He took her hand and led her to the dance floor; she went into his arms and he whirled her away. Into the dance. Into their future.

  Others held back, watching, then Louise and Arthur joined them, then Devil and Honoria, and Vane and Patience, then other couples stepped in and swelled the ranks.

  “So far, so good.” Martin looked down into her smiling face and felt equally smug. “I’d forgotten how such things were done.”

  “We’re not finished yet—one appearance does not a solid facade create.”

  His smugness faded. “You mean I have to attend more functions like this?”

  Amanda’s dimple winked. “Perhaps not quite as intense as this. But you needn’t think you can slink back into that great house in Park Lane, deeming your duty done.”

  He r
ead the determination behind her smile. He glanced around, caught the odd disgruntled eye. “At least I no longer have to pretend to approve of those man-milliners you had in your train.”

  “They weren’t man-milliners!”

  They spent the rest of the dance in a bantering discussion of those gentleman who’d previously vied for her attention. When the music ended, they were beseiged by those wanting to be able to claim acquaintance with the latest news. When the orchestra struck up again, numerous gentleman offered to partner Amanda; she smiled and declined, turned her smile on Martin and gave him her hand. “Perhaps we could stroll?”

  With an easy nod, he excused them; covering her hand where it rested on his sleeve, he led her down the room.

  They were stopped constantly; it was some time before Amanda could ask, “Have you heard from Luc?”

  “He’s somewhere here.” Martin scanned the crowd. “He must have learned something . . . there he is.”

  They changed tack and came up with Luc, standing a few feet from a group that included his sisters and Amelia, surrounded by a court of earnest young gentlemen and some less young, focused on Amelia.

  Luc nodded. “I can eliminate some names . . .” The introduction to a cotillion rang out; his gaze returned to the group. His attention didn’t shift when his sisters accepted partners and headed for the floor; only when Amelia brightly gave her hand to Lord Polworth did Luc look back at them.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?”

  Martin nodded. “Devil said to use his study.” He glanced at Amanda.

  “We can go out through the side door.”

  She led them into the main house. The sounds of the ball faded. Reaching Devil’s study, they walked in. A desk lamp was alight, turned low. Amanda adjusted the wick. “What have you found?”

  Luc searched, patting his pockets. “Damn! I’ve forgotten the list.”

  He glanced at Martin, who went through the same pantomine with no better result.

  Amanda sighed, lifted her reticule, opened it, hunted, and pulled out her copy of the list. Luc held out his hand; she pretended not to see. Spreading the sheet, she held it so the light fell on it. “Now—who have you checked?”

  Luc walked to her side; Martin came up on the other.

  They all studied the list.

  “Moreton.” Luc tapped the list, glanced at Martin. “I was standing beside him when you made your entrance in there—he was genuinely delighted at the sight. He’s no more capable of dissembling now than he was ten years ago. If he was the murderer, he would have been reeling. Instead, he was thrilled.”

  Martin nodded. “Cross off Moreton.”

  “And George and Bruce and Melville, too. They haven’t set foot in London this Season, and from what you told me, the time between either of you deciding to go north and Reggie being shot leaves no leeway for anyone out of town to have been alerted in time to act.”

  “That hadn’t occurred to me,” Martin murmured, “but you’re right. Not only did the murderer have to learn of my departure, there was only an hour in which he could have heard.”

  “Actually”—Luc glanced at Amanda—“it probably wasn’t your departure he heard of, but Amanda’s.”

  “Mine?”

  “Your recent entrance notwithstanding, your relationship hasn’t been any sort of secret. If the murderer heard that you”—Luc nodded at Amanda—“were going to Scotland for a visit, he might well have assumed Martin would accompany you, and that you would stop at Hathersage.”

  “That makes more sense. There was very little time between me deciding and leaving.” Martin looked at the list. “We have five names left.”

  “And I doubt we’ll do better.” Luc leaned against the desk. “I’ve checked four of those five, and none of them can offer verifiable evidence of where they were five nights ago.”

  Amanda blinked. “How can four gentlemen not be somewhere someone saw them?”

  “Easily.” Luc glanced at Martin. “Radley’s the one I haven’t had a word with yet, but you can bet he’ll be the same as the others.”

  Martin grimaced. “I see.”

  “See what?” Amanda looked from one to the other.

  Luc looked at Martin, then said, “Radley and the others are cousins, much the same age as us.”

  When he said no more, Amanda stared at him, then looked at Martin. “You can’t mean . . .” She looked again at Luc. “All of them?”

  He gave her a helpless “what-would-you” look.

  “Humph!” She looked at the list. One name leaped out at her. “What about Edward? You’re not going to tell me he wasn’t doing his duty accompanying your sisters and mama to some ball.”

  The cynical look Luc bent on her was answer enough. “According to Cottsloe, our butler, Edward came home early, told Cottsloe to tell Mama he was in bed with a migraine and didn’t wish to be disturbed, and left. He returned sometime during the night, but no one was awake to know when.”

  Her racing thoughts must have shown in her face, for Luc added, “I wouldn’t read too much into the timing—he’s done much the same before. Unfortunately, the . . . establishment he favors is usually afloat on gin. I wouldn’t trust the word of anyone there. The same goes for the others—not the gin, but that they can’t produce a reliable witness, which means we can’t cross them off our list, but their movements don’t necessarily make them guilty.”

  Amanda wrinkled her nose; she studied the list while Martin and Luc made arrangements to meet at Martin’s house the next day.

  She stared at one name, continued to frown. She was acquainted with the five men still on the list, although other than Edward, she knew them only distantly. The other four were as Luc had said, very like him and Martin; she had no difficulty imagining that they might have been visiting some lady whose name they wouldn’t divulge. That was one thing, but to frequent an establishment that “floated on gin”?

  She knew Luc too well to think he was exaggerating; if anything, he would have—and had—glossed over his brother’s less-admirable predilections.

  Which left her feeling decidedly equivocal about Edward. What sort of man actively posed as a long-suffering, righteous puritan to society, but secretly visited dens of iniquity?

  “Come on.” Martin took her elbow. “We’d better get back to the ballroom before imaginations become overheated.”

  Amanda stuffed the list back into her reticule and let him lead her to the door.

  Under orders from his prospective bride and mother-in-law, Martin called in Upper Brook Street the next morning, took Amanda up beside him in his curricle, then drove across Park Lane and into the park.

  Tooling down the Avenue, he glanced at Amanda, noted her bright eyes, sensed the sheer triumph that gripped her—decided it made the sacrifice worthwhile. She’d assured him he only had to do this once; he’d deduced it was some strange rite understood only by the female half of the ton.

  That deduction gained credence as the matrons and senior hostesses, sitting regally in their carriages drawn up along the verge, preceptibly brightened at the sight of them, then smiled graciously and nodded; Amanda smiled radiantly and nodded back. Martin contented himself with the occasional impassive nod to the more influential ladies and those he recognized as his parents’ friends, and concentrated on guiding his high-bred bays through the obstacle course of the fashionable area.

  They drew up to chat with the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, and later exchanged pleasantries with Emily Cowper. Then they were through the gauntlet, past the last carriage; Martin let the bays trot. He was congratulating himself on having survived the ordeal, when Amanda tugged his sleeve and pointed to where carriages were queueing to turn.

  “Now we go back again.”

  He glanced at her—she wasn’t joking. He grumbled, but complied. He’d agreed to perform as requested until she and her female relatives—a pack of assertive and willful ladies—decreed his resurrection within the ton accomplished. Thereaf
ter, he’d gathered, he could retire from the fray, returning for command performances, much as their husbands and sons.

  He’d deemed it prudent not to mention he intended retiring for most of the year to Hathersage. As they drove once more between the lines of carriages, his home had never seemed more attractive.

  They were back in the thick of things when Amanda grabbed his arm, squeezed so hard he felt her nails through his sleeve. “Look!” She pointed with her parasol.

  He followed the line to two young ladies strolling in the sunshine, a gentleman following a few paces behind. “Edward, Emily and Anne.”

  “It’s Edward.” Amanda’s tone was shocked.

  He glanced at her; the color had drained from her cheeks. She looked at him, eyes wide. “I never realized . . . at a distance, he looks just like you.”

  Martin swallowed a dismissive snort. “Don’t get carried away—all five on our list look like me at a distance.” He glanced again at Edward, but the press of traffic forced him to drive on. “He doesn’t look that much like me.”

  “I know—that’s my point. He’s shorter and slighter and his hair isn’t as bright. And his features aren’t as strong. I didn’t truly think he was that likely . . .” She swivelled to look back again. “But just now . . . it’s the distance. It reduces everything to just proportions.”

  She faced forward again; a quick glance showed her face had taken on that stubborn cast he knew well. “If it is Edward—”

  “Amanda—”

  “No.” She held up her hand. “I’m not saying it’s proven, but just suppose it was him. How did he find out about us—you or me—going north . . .”

  Her voice trailed away; he glanced at her again. Her face had blanked, then she looked at him and excitement rushed in. “Amelia! We have to find her.”

  She looked around, scanning the lawns. “I haven’t seen her . . . she wasn’t with Mama, which means she’s strolling, but she wasn’t with Emily and Anne, and Reggie isn’t about . . . there she is!” She grabbed his arm again. “Pull over. Quickly.”