After another two minutes, he couldn’t stand it any longer. With a curse he shoved open the door, strode past the surprised butler, and barged into the opposite room.
“Lord Hanover, Lady Hanover,” he said, taking in their angry, startled expressions and Sarala’s miserable, defiant tears. His heart wrenched. For the devil’s sake, two hours ago he’d promised that he would never abandon her.
“I beg your pardon, Shay, but this is a private family matter,” the marquis returned stiffly.
“Yes, I know. I wanted to make clear, though, that neither my family nor I have found any fault with Sarala,” he said, facing her, looking hard into her eyes. “Just the opposite. She is a remarkable woman,” he went on, knowing that he was blathering and afraid that if he stopped, the overbearing, logical part of his mind would point out that he shouldn’t even be in the room, much less talking. “She is intelligent and strong and stunningly beautiful, and if she doesn’t fit the mold of a perfect London miss I thank God for it. Every day since I met her.”
The rest of the room, her parents, seemed to melt away as he held her gaze. She stood halfway across the room from him, but he almost felt as though they were touching.
“She…she and I complement one another,” he continued more slowly, not having any idea what he was going to say until he heard himself speaking. “We’re both logical, and trust our intellect over our imaginations or our hearts. But I’m coming to realize something.”
“What might that be?” she asked quietly.
“That love is illogical. It has nothing to do with intelligence or common sense. And I have realized that I would rather love you and have your love than…all the silks and all the tea in China. I love you, Sarala. With every ounce of my ignored, undervalued heart.”
She walked forward, not stopping until she’d walked into the circle of his arms. “That was a very fine argument,” she whispered, lifting her face to look up at him. “I love you.”
His blood humming, he kissed her. This was it. This was what he hadn’t been able to figure out. And it was so stupidly simple. He loved her, and he didn’t need to prove a hypothesis or solve an equation in order to feel that way. Sarala tangled her hands into his lapels, pulling him down to her mouth.
“Ahem,” the marquis’s low voice came.
Bloody hell. Genuinely startled, Charlemagne lifted his head. “We…” He cleared his throat.
“Yes, you’re getting married. And it would seem to be a damned good thing, considering that display.”
“Oh, be quiet, Howard,” the marchioness said, dabbing at her eyes. “That was lovely.”
Keeping Sarala close in his arms, Charlemagne took a breath. “I don’t know how far you got with the story, but the most important component will take place tonight. DeLayne will be attending the Ellis soiree.”
“So will my pistol be, then,” Hanover growled, real anger in his voice.
“Sarala has decreed that no one is to be killed,” Charlemagne countered. “Unless there is no viable alternative, I’ll abide by that.”
“What are we to do, then, smile at the bastard?”
“By no means. By now he can’t be certain whether you know all that’s transpired or not. I’ll let you decide how you wish to play that hand. However, what is important is that none of us discuss the Chinese or the silks where anyone else can overhear. If directly asked about something by DeLayne in someone else’s hearing, humor him. And make it clear that you are humoring him, nothing more.”
Hanover nodded. “I understand. I can’t believe he would abuse my trust in him like that. I had considered him a close friend.” He looked over at his daughter. “I would have treated him with far less…tolerance if I’d known all of the facts.”
“What’s done is done. All that concerns me is making certain that no one believes the stories he tells—or that he’s afraid to tell any story at all.”
“That blackguard,” the marchioness said, picking up her embroidery and roughly putting it aside again. “To seduce a young girl, to pretend to be our friend, to eat our food, and to have no intention but to serve himself no matter the cost to others. I shall never forgive him.”
“Nor shall I,” Sarala said.
“I think altogether we are an unstoppable force,” Charlemagne commented with more enthusiasm than he felt. So many things could still go wrong. “I have a few more things to tend to. I’ll see you at seven o’clock, yes?”
Sarala raised up on her toes and kissed him again. “We’ll be there.”
“And then the game shall begin in earnest.”
Sarala practically floated on air as she walked into the Ellis ballroom on her father’s arm. All day she’d feared disaster, and then Charlemagne had declared in rather dramatic fashion that he loved her. Even her usually critical mother had said some quite flattering things about Shay’s gentlemanly behavior and stunningly handsome appearance. Her father simply shook his head at them, but managed to look grateful that things weren’t as bad as they obviously might have been.
Underlying even her surprising happiness, though, was worry; worry that DeLayne would realize what they were up to, worry that Charlemagne would be hurt—or worse—in the course of the evening. It was so strange. Two weeks ago she’d wanted nothing more than to return to a familiar life in India. Now, however, the idea of being anywhere without Shay left her cold and empty.
A warm breeze seemed to lift the hairs on her arms, and she knew he’d arrived before she’d even set eyes on him. Sarala turned to see Shay standing just inside the doorway, where he and Melbourne chatted with Earl and Countess Ellis and their trio of marriageable daughters.
In a moment his gaze found hers, and a soft smile curved his sensuous mouth. The rest of the world might think him calculating and cold and logical, but she certainly knew better.
“He’s here,” her father said from beside her.
Her own smile deepened. “Yes, I know.”
“Not him, goose. Him.”
Sarala’s expression froze as she looked toward the back of the room. John DeLayne stood behind a pair of footmen, and she couldn’t see anything below his head. She held her breath until the servants wandered away. He’d worn it—the red and silver bandolier with its gaudy yellow flower. Thank God. Everyone would notice him now; and everyone would want to know the story behind that singular decoration.
“Good evening,” a low drawl came from behind her, and her heart flip-flopped.
“Shay,” her father said, shaking Charlemagne’s hand as she faced him.
“We’ve arrived just in time to see the show, it seems,” he commented, glancing beyond her in DeLayne’s direction. “Our tale tonight is that Sebastian had to ask Ellis’s indulgence when the viscount appeared; apparently the idiot sent a note begging to be included with our party. Seb turned him down, but there he is, anyway.”
“I’m glad you lot have turned out to be our friends rather than our enemies,” her father said feelingly.
Shay’s gaze returned to Sarala. “So am I. Deverill’s wandering over to listen in on DeLayne’s conversation. I, for one, am quite interested to know what tale our rat will carry through the assembly.” Anger deepened his voice, despite the light words. Whether he referred to all of this as a game or not, he obviously took it very, very seriously.
“All you lack is the actual shining armor, you know,” she commented.
Shay visibly shook himself. “There’s a suit of it in one of the upstairs sitting rooms at home. Great-great-grandfather Harold Griffin’s. Apparently he bashed several deserving people with a mace. I should have worn the lot of it.”
“No need. I see it in place, just looking at you.”
He took her hand, bringing it slowly to his lips. “It seems, princess, that I shall have to dance with you. You make a fellow feel very heroic.”
And he made her feel safe, and excited, and loved—as if her life and her reputation didn’t still rest in the hands of a scoundrel. When she thought about w
hat DeLayne had nearly destroyed—could still destroy—all for the sake of gaining himself money and admiration, it—
“Don’t glare at him like that,” Shay cautioned her quietly. “You’ll burn a hole through him before I get my chance to shove a hook in his over-large mouth.”
“His over-large mouth is very busy at the moment.” Lord Deverill and Eleanor joined them, the rest of the family approaching from various places about the room. And there she was, directly in the middle of a Griffin family gathering.
“What’s he saying, Valentine?” Melbourne asked.
“Apparently he is responsible both for saving Shay’s life and for curtailing an outbreak of hostilities between China and England. The ribbon is an honor from Emperor Jiaqing, making him lord of the Dragon Guard.”
“Well, that’s better than what we came up with,” Zachary muttered.
“But does anyone believe it?” the duke pursued.
“The room’s about split down the middle, I think,” Deverill continued. “The consensus seems to be that only a madman or an actual participant would wear that ribbon.”
“Good,” Shay said very quietly.
“Barbara Howsen already approached me to confirm the story,” Eleanor said. “I told her that DeLayne met the Carlisle family in India, and has apparently become fixated with making a grand impression in London now that the Carlisles are allied with the Griffins. I implied that he couldn’t abide being in an inferior position.”
Charlemagne kissed his sister on the cheek. “Brilliant. And nary a lie in the mix.”
The duke nodded, pulling out his pocket watch. “Let’s continue as we have, then. In…forty minutes, Shay will go out onto the balcony for a cigar, and then the rest of us will wait.”
With murmurs of good luck the family drifted into the crowd, and Charlemagne slipped an arm about Sarala’s waist just as a waltz began to play.
They danced in silence, Sarala enjoying the sensation of being in his arms again and half wishing she hadn’t rejected his outlandish suggestion that they marry next Saturday. The idea of waking in his arms every morning intoxicated her—her, who until a few weeks ago had thought a good business agreement the best thing she’d ever known.
“Shay?” she murmured.
“Yes?”
“The first Saturday in July.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s the first Saturday in July?”
“Besides being four weeks from now, it’s our wedding date. You said Melbourne wanted to ann—”
Charlemagne let out a deep, resounding whoop. The sound caused two collisions on the dance floor, and nearly sent Lady Grodin onto her backside. “Apologies,” he drawled with a grin as Sarala chuckled. “I seem to be in love.”
John DeLayne surreptitiously fluffed the yellow silk rose he wore. Those Chinese fellows were brilliant. Not only had they given him a flattering tale to tell, they’d provided him with the ribbon as proof that he spoke the truth. It was a bit gaudy, but it more than made up for that by catching everyone’s attention.
His cousin had actually tried to warn him not to make the Griffins look foolish, but William had no idea just how powerless the Griffins were where he was concerned. Of course he supposed they could have murdered him when he first proposed the partnership, but not any longer—now if anything dire happened to him, everyone would know precisely whom to blame. And he’d made that part of his plan tonight, too; by emphasizing the bit about saving Charlemagne’s life he’d made it clear to all and sundry that he’d placed the almighty Griffins in his debt. His.
This was much better than marrying that outlandish Sarala, pretty as she was. Let Charlemagne Griffin have her. He would now reap the benefits of fucking her long past the time when he would have grown tired of her incessant know-it-all-ness.
He watched as Shay went out to the balcony, without his precious lady. The family had been avoiding him all evening, and he could hardly blame them for that. Still, it couldn’t hurt to remind Charlemagne that any injury or alteration of their relationship was now a very poor idea.
Taking a glance first to be certain none of the other Griffins would notice and rush out to outnumber him, he slipped through the open full-length window and out to the balcony. “Good evening, Shay,” he said, seeing the middle Griffin brother leaning over the balcony, a cigar between his teeth.
“What do you want?” Charlemagne asked, not bothering even to look at him.
“Just to thank you again for including me in your negotiations. The Chinese should have collected their silks by now.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
John frowned. “What worries you?”
“The silks. I might have…borrowed a bolt or two. My sisters and Sarala wanted some dress material.” He straightened, tapping the cigar out on the stone railing. “Still, I doubt those savages can count to five hundred. I hardly think they’ll notice if—”
A shadow streaked out of the darkness behind them to grab Charlemagne around the throat. John stood frozen as a gleaming silver blade pressed into the skin above Griffin’s snow white cravat.
“We noticed,” Lord Yun’s near-silent hiss came.
“John, help me!” Charlemagne wheezed, his air clearly choked off by Yun’s bent elbow. His lifted his hands, fingers digging into the swordsman’s silk-covered arm.
DeLayne gulped. “Lord Yun, surely there’s something that can be done to resolve this little—”
Yun muttered something in Chinese, and the other two he’d seen that morning appeared from the far, dark end of the balcony, swords bare and pointed at him. “Do not interfere, Lord DeLayne. You are fortunate that we heard this thief confess to you. Only your innocence has saved you from suffering the same fate as him.”
“For God’s sake, John!” Charlemagne rasped. “This isn’t—”
The sword flashed. Red spurted into the air. With a choked sigh Charlemagne arched his back, then crumpled forward. Unceremoniously Lord Yun shoved him over the railing and into the dark garden below.
“You—you killed him,” John stammered, feeling his own blood draining from his face.
“He thought his family name would protect him, the fool.” Yun wiped his red-covered blade on a silk handkerchief and sheathed it in his belt again. “Your payment is waiting in the warehouse.” He gestured with the bloody cloth, and one of the others backed away, bent down, and reappeared with a vase. “We were going to leave this by your body, but you have again proven yourself an honorable gentleman.”
His fingers numb, DeLayne took the vase. “But—”
“Go and tell his family. I want to see his lady weep when she sees his bloody corpse.”
“Oh, good God,” John burst out, and with a shriek turned to run back inside.
Sarala danced with the Duke of Melbourne. She’d never seen him dance at all, much less waltz, but he was quite good at it, if a little rusty.
“DeLayne’s gone out,” he murmured, his gaze over her head.
Her heart pounded even harder. “How did you know he would?”
“Shay did. He has a rather remarkable ability to understand people and what they will do under given circumstances and in given situations.” His gray eyes returned to her. “Which is why I should have trusted his judgment in the first place. I owe you an apology, Sarala.”
“For what? For thinking that a girl fresh from India might try to trap a handsome, wealthy young man into marriage?”
“For thinking only that. I am generally more circumspect.”
She smiled. “Whatever your first impression, considering all that you’ve done for me over the past few days, you don’t owe me any sort of apology.” With a glance at the empty balcony window, she lowered her lashes. “If it makes you feel any better, my mother initially thought I should marry you.”
He chuckled, another thing she hadn’t seen him do very often. “Best laid plans,” he said, then stiffened. “Get ready.”
A high-pitched shriek came from the direction o
f the balcony.
Sarala whipped around as John DeLayne ran back into the room, his face gray, and a blue and yellow vase clutched in his hands. For a heartbeat she allowed herself to feel sorry for him, but she quickly overcame that. He’d done it to himself; the Griffins had simply pointed that fact out to him.
“Melbourne!” the viscount yelled, staggering forward as the other guests got out of his way. “For Christ’s sake, Melbourne!”
“What is it?” the duke snapped, releasing Sarala to stride forward. “Get hold of yourself, man.”
“He’s dead!”
Melbourne frowned. “Who’s dead? And stop waving that thing about.”
“That’s my vase!” Lady Ellis cried, sweeping forward to snatch it from the viscount. “It came from my grandmother!”
“It’s my vase! They gave it to me!”
“You idiot,” Lord Ellis muttered. “Garvey, take the vase somewhere safe.”
A footman stepped forward, taking possession of the beautiful porcelain creation. “Yes, my lord.”
“No, it’s mine!” DeLayne sputtered again. “They were going to kill me, but they killed Charlemagne instead!”
“What?” the duke roared, grabbing DeLayne’s shoulder and keeping him from tackling the servant.
Sarala shook herself. The play was so engrossing, she’d nearly forgotten it was her turn to step in. “What are you talking about, John?” she asked, hands over her chest.
“The Chinese swordsmen,” he gasped, gesturing frantically toward the balcony. “They’re out there. They cut his throat, and threw him down into the garden!”
Hopefully not on his head. “My God,” she whispered, and sank into a faint.
With splendid timing Zachary caught her under the arms and lifted her upright again. “Steady, Sarala,” he soothed, his eyes dancing. “We’ll go have a look. I think your friend may be having a bit of fun with us.”
“This is not my idea of fun,” she snapped, holding her head as Eleanor and Caroline came to her aid. “I’ve humored you with your little parades and imaginings and claims of heroics, John, but now you’re inflicting them on innocent people.”
Something Sinful Page 30
