“Once that your mother knows about,” Shay repeated, wishing for the fourth or fifth time that night that they had the room to themselves. “How many other times that she didn’t know about?”
“Hundreds.”
They reached the families, and with a smile Sarala handed glasses of punch to her mother, Eleanor, and Caroline. Shay passed over the rest, and took the remaining seat beside his sister as Sarala’s mother in the row in front of him yanked Sarala down between herself and Melbourne.
He scarcely noted the change of performers and music as the evening wore on. After Sarala’s story, he felt transported. The yellow sun, the bird songs, the taste of saffron seemed in his eyes and mouth as if he were standing there in the Delhi market beside her. It had been almost painful to hear how clearly and dearly she loved where she’d come from, and how lost she felt to be elsewhere and probably never to return.
As the last piece ended he shook himself, joining in the applause. He stood as Sarala did, stepping forward to stand directly behind her, only her chair between them. “You make me wish to be in India,” he whispered.
Sarala turned around to look into his eyes. “You aren’t quite what I expected.”
More pleased than he would ever admit aloud, Charlemagne inclined his head. “I hope you were pleasantly surprised, then.”
“I was. I am. Thus far.”
“Perhaps tomorrow I’ll find a few encouraging things to tell you about Engl—”
“Oh, Your Grace,” Lady Hanover interrupted, “thank you so much for taking us under your wing tonight.”
Melbourne gave one of his charming smiles that didn’t touch his eyes. “My pleasure, Lady Hanover. And I hope you enjoyed the Franfields’ party, Lady Sarah.”
“I did indeed,” Sarala returned. “It was delightful to make the acquaintance of you and your family.”
“And?” her mother prompted, nudging her forward.
Sarala’s smile could have blinded. “And I would love to continue the acquaintance,” she said, all teeth and unsmiling eyes.
The duke inclined his head. “Thank you again.” With his usual charm, Sebastian then separated the Griffin brood from the Carlisles, and Charlemagne helped Zachary collect hats and cloaks and canes as they made their way outside. “Hattie’s playing is much improved this year,” Eleanor said, kissing each of her brothers and Caroline on the cheek, and then Valentine on the lips. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Yes, supporting friends is all well and good, but next time I say we go someplace where we can play cards and get a decent glass of sherry,” Deverill commented, lifting an eyebrow when Nell glared at him.
“You are so uncivilized,” she returned with a grin and an exaggerated sigh.
“And that is why you find me so irresistible.”
Melbourne put an arm around his closest friend. “Mm-hm. I know that’s why I do.”
“This is too sweet for me.” Zachary shook Melbourne’s free hand. Charlemagne offered his, but at the last moment Zach dodged it and leaned in to plant a kiss on his left ear instead.
“Oh, good God. My apologies, Caroline, for having to put up with him,” Shay said feelingly, rubbing his ear.
“Are you riding with us or with Zachary?” Deverill asked, signaling for his coach to approach, Zachary and Caroline’s following behind it.
“Not Zachary, obviously.” Melbourne took Caroline’s arm to help her into her coach.
Charlemagne looked from the coach to the cloudy night sky. “You know, since it’s stopped raining, I think I’ll walk home.”
“I’ll join you, then,” Melbourne said promptly, turning around again.
“Nonsense. The moon’s nearly out, and I may detour to the Society Club. I haven’t decided yet.”
He knew Sebastian would want to return home in time to read Peep a bedtime story. Besides, he needed to clear his head and decide on a strategy for tomorrow, and he couldn’t do it with his nearly omniscient brother accompanying him. India still seemed to surround him, and if he ever wanted to get to sleep, he needed to distance himself a little from it—and from the Indian princess who intrigued and aggravated him more with each passing moment. Yes, a brisk walk would be just the thing.
Sebastian watched Shay disappear down the street. His younger brother’s odd distraction troubled him—even more now that he might have found the cause. “Let’s call it an evening, shall we?”
Eleanor put a hand on his arm. “That was nice of you, to invite Hanover and his family to join us.”
He nodded. “It seemed prudent to gain their acquaintance.”
His sister’s hand remained. “And why is that?”
So Nell knew something about Shay’s interactions with the daughter. “Why are you asking?”
She withdrew her hand. “No reason.”
“I have the same nonreason.”
“Don’t interfere, Sebastian. For goodness’ sake.”
Zachary stepped in. “What the devil’s going on?”
Caroline cleared her throat. “We think Shay may have an interest in Lady Sarah.”
“Shay, interested in a chit?” Zachary’s surprise folded into a frown. “Then we’re not interfering, are we? If you do step in, Melbourne, I’ll inform Shay about it.”
“I didn’t say anything about anything,” Sebastian put in, mindful that both siblings present had accused him of meddling in their affairs—which he had. “Gaining knowledge is not interfering.”
“That’s right,” Eleanor put in thoughtfully. “And so inviting Lady Sarah to my luncheon at the end of the week wouldn’t be interfering, either.” She turned back to Melbourne. “Not that I’ll tell you a whit about what we might discuss.”
“Do as you will,” Sebastian said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. And so without taking any steps at all, he’d gotten the rest of his family to meddle for him. Not a bad night’s work.
Chapter 7
“Yes, I’ll just walk home and die from an inflamation of the lungs. Brilliant, Shay.”
The problem, Charlemagne reflected, was that he was used to making a decision based on circumstance, knowledge, and logical hypothesis, and then acting. Over the past few days, however, and tonight especially, he found himself delving deeper into himself, toward thoughtfulness. Being thoughtful meant…musing, seeking information beyond what he required for a successful endeavor. It was a detriment to decision making, but splendid for making him insane.
Charlemagne pulled his greatcoat closer around his shoulders and turned up Pall Mall Street. No, walking tonight hadn’t been his most brilliant decision, but in his defense he damned well didn’t want to listen yet to Melbourne commenting about his impression of the Carlisles.
He knew precisely what his brother would say about Hanover and family: that Lord Hanover seemed jovial enough, Lady Hanover practically rabid about joining the Griffin social circle, and Sarala—well, she’d changed her name in order to appear more English. Too tanned and too forward, she might at least have kept her own name, foreign or not, though neither choice spoke particularly well for her. All in all they were acceptable, but hardly worth overlooking the oddities and detriments in exchange for the friendship.
Why had Melbourne invited them over in the first place? People generally sought him out—not the other way around. It was odd, and considering his own dealings with Sarala, troubling. This negotiation didn’t need his brother’s interference.
A dark figure slipped along a brick wall and into an alley in front of him.
Charlemagne slowed, listening. Bloody hell. He hadn’t brought his pistol to the recital. His only weapon was his walking cane, though thankfully that wasn’t as useless as it might appear. Surreptitiously he loosened the neck with his fingers, ready to drop the hollow sheath and expose the razor-sharp rapier inside.
Aware and wary, he continued along his path. Equal to his reputation for wit and sense was his rare and short temper. And despite Sarala’s actions, neither she nor anyone else had rou
sed his anger in some time. His heart rate sped—not from fear, but from anticipation. Being wealthy didn’t make him helpless, for Lucifer’s sake. Not even close.
At this time of night the streets were generally still fairly busy with people leaving the theater, gentlemen arriving at or leaving clubs, or ladies who did their best work by lamplight. Tonight with the cold and damp, he could have been in London alone.
He continued on to the next street, but nothing else caught his attention. No sound but the distant clattering of hooves on cobblestone, no movement but the light, chill breeze that bent the ends of the grass growing at the foot of the wall. And still every muscle and sinew told him that someone watched him.
The sensation followed him the remaining five streets to Griffin House. A night at the club and a brandy might be exactly what he needed, but he also knew the wisdom of a safe port and reinforcements. Those lay ahead of him. And whether this was all in his imagination or not, he didn’t take risks. Not of that sort, anyway.
Stanton pulled open the door as he reached it. “You’ve beaten the rain, my lord,” the butler intoned, stepping aside to let him pass.
“Close the door,” Charlemagne murmured, still facing the interior of the house.
The door clicked shut. “Is something amiss, my l—”
“Is Melbourne home?”
“Yes. I beg your—”
Charlemagne bolted the door. “Keep an eye out,” he said over his shoulder, and strode up the stairs. The billiards room lay at the front of the house, and he hurried to the window. Standing to one side of the curtains, he surveyed up and down the street. Nothing. “Damn,” he muttered.
“Shay?”
Without looking, he knew that Sebastian stood in the darkened doorway behind him. “Just an odd feeling,” he said, his gaze still on the dark outside.
“What sort of odd feeling?” Quietly Sebastian joined him at the far side of the window.
“I kept thinking someone was watching me.” Charlemagne turned from the view. His brother was studying him, his expression cool and alert despite the late hour. “It…Looking at it now, it must have been my imagination.”
The duke nodded. “You being so prone to flights of fancy and hysterics. What did you see?”
Charlemagne shrugged. “A shadow. Probably an owl or a stray cloud. I’ll tell Stanton to go to bed. Apologies for the disruption.”
“Don’t apologize, Shay. And I’ll see to Stanton.” Slowly Sebastian pulled the curtains closed, shutting the night out for both of them.
With a sigh Charlemagne led the way out of the room. Melbourne at least had the compassion not to make fun, but he might as well not have troubled with the restraint. “Which is worse?” he asked, “being wrong about being followed or having a herd of ruffians attacking the house?”
The duke clapped him on the shoulder. “The ruffians,” he answered. “Though anyone would have to be insane to attempt a siege on this house.”
And yet this morning someone had attempted to break into Gaston House. A coincidence? Logically, yes, but obviously it had been enough to make him uneasy. “It was an owl, Seb. Or a shadow.” As if on cue the rain began again outside, tapping quiet fingers against the windows. “Or perhaps I’m just getting old and forgetful.”
“You can’t be, because I’m five years older than you are, and I’m still young and vigorous. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night.”
Caine waited in his private rooms, but Charlemagne sent him off to bed. Unsettled as he felt this evening, he didn’t want a valet hovering over him.
He shed most of his clothes and blew out the bedside candle, then took a seat by the window. With the curtains partially pulled he had a view of the carriage drive at the side of the house and not much more. If he had a mind to sneak into Griffin House, however, the narrow drive offered the best way to the back of the mansion.
For a long time he sat unmoving, watching through the dark mist of rain. Whatever he’d told Sebastian, the shadow hadn’t felt like an owl. And for other than that brief moment of passing shade, he or it had been stealthy enough to completely avoid his detection.
When an hour had passed with no further shadows or even a damp, prowling cat, he rose, pulled on a dressing robe, and made his way quietly downstairs. No harm in making a quick check of the windows in case any of them might be open to the rain. Or he could tell himself that was the reason, though why he bothered with the self-deception, he didn’t know. Something had made him uneasy, and he simply wasn’t quite ready, yet, to ignore the prickling sensation along the back of his skull.
Charlemagne moved silently into the morning room. Just as he paused, he heard it—a swift, quiet intake of breath.
He ducked as a form launched at him from the corner. Twisting at the same moment, he shoved upward. With a yelp his opponent launched into the air and over the back of the couch. Growling, his blood up, Charlemagne charged after him. How dare anyone launch an attack against this house—his brother lived here. His seven-year-old niece lived here.
“Have at you, you bastard,” he snarled, coiling his fist around the man’s collar and yanking him upright. A table crashed over, dumping a vase of roses and one of his history of Greece books onto the floor.
Another figure galloped into the darkness. “Hold there, you scoundrel!” Stanton’s strident voice came, followed by the distinct sound of a pistol cocking.
“Thank God, Stanton! Help!” the other man yelped before Charlemagne could say anything.
Charlemagne jerked his attacker closer even as what the man had said began to sink in. The fellow knew the butler’s name. And further, Stanton was advancing on him, the pistol aimed in the general direction of his head.
“What the devil is going on?” he rumbled.
The butler froze. “Lord Charlemagne?”
“Get some damned light in here, Stanton!”
As if on cue, Sebastian thundered down the stairs and into the morning room. He held a lantern in one hand, and a pistol in the other. “Stanton, what—” His gaze locked on Charlemagne’s for a heartbeat, then the pistol lowered. “Oh.”
“Ah, my lord?” a half-strangled voice came from just beyond his fist. “If you don’t mind, I—”
Charlemagne loosened his grip and Tom the footman staggered backward. “Apologies,” he said stiffly, his gaze still on his older brother. “A word with you, Melbourne?”
Sebastian nodded. “As you were, Stanton.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Tom, get yourself a cup of tea and return to your post.”
With his older brother on his heels, Charlemagne returned to the hallway beneath the stairs. “You set guards.”
“I asked Stanton to have a few servants keep an eye on the house.” With a half smile the duke brushed by him and returned upstairs. “Try not to kill any of them.”
“I told you that I must have seen an owl.”
“Someone broke into your home. As you know, we have enemies. I’m not going to ignore the possibility that one of them might be desperate enough to attempt to directly do any of us harm.” Sebastian paused on the landing. “And even without all that, to paraphrase Hamlet, I believe you can tell a hawk from a handsaw.”
“Only when the wind is north by northwest, apparently.”
“Well, it’s blowing tonight. Go to bed, Shay. The house is secure.”
Slowly Charlemagne followed his brother upstairs to the first floor. The house might be secure, but he wasn’t so certain about his own mind.
Lady Hanover swished into the breakfast room. “My maid tells me you have a picnic with Lord Charlemagne Griffin today.”
Sarala glanced up, then returned to buttering her toasted bread. “Yes, at noon,” she returned, making as little of it as possible. Today was business. She didn’t want her mother trying to turn her meeting with Shay into something more than it was. “I believe he’s taking me for a drive. To show me London.” Calling it a picnic sounded good as an excuse, anyway.
In reality, he’d probably forget about it. He wanted silk, and she wanted a good price for it. The end.
“A picnic and a drive. That’s splendid. Do you think his brother might join you?”
She didn’t bother to ask which brother she might be referring to. “I hardly think the Duke of Melbourne would go on a picnic with his brother, me, or anyone else. And besides, everyone but you seems resigned to the idea that Melbourne will never remarry.”
“One never knows, my love. Wear your green muslin, just in case. And that pearl necklace of yours.”
“Mama, I am not wearing pearls on a picnic. I thought you wanted me to fit in, not become the female at whom everyone points and laughs.”
The marchioness sighed. “Very well. All I can do is try.”
She breezed out of the room again, and Sarala glanced at the clock sitting on the mantel. He would be by in just over two hours. A small flutter of nerves ran through her. Oh, she did enjoy a good negotiation.
Of course he would have to view this seriously and stop flirting with her before she could actually call it a negotiation. At the moment she wasn’t certain what this little meeting would mean, though she had to admit that the whole episode was rather fun. And different. And the most interesting thing she’d encountered since the family had left India.
Her mother didn’t reappear for breakfast, and her father had asked for eggs and ham to be delivered to his office. That couldn’t be good. Her late Uncle Roger’s debts were causing a continuing slow leak of the family coffers, and she knew the situation increasingly worried the new Marquis of Hanover. Doing well as a merchant and doing well enough to support three estates, a London house, and a London life, were completely different animals.
That was why despite her nerves this morning she’d volunteered to run an errand for her father. Luckily Uncle Roger had several rather valuable if hideous antiques she’d been authorized to dispose of.
Something Sinful Page 10
