“Most thoughtless,” Harry grumbled. “Damned inconvenient. Bothersome business, middle-of-the-night deliveries.”
Peters handed her a small box. A note of censure underlay his words. “A rather loathsome boy brought this, Miss.”
“How very exciting.” Grace's eyes gleamed in the dim light.
Pandora pulled the end of the cord tied around the box and noted with annoyance a slight tremble in her hands. Curiosity, perhaps, nothing more. She pulled off the lid and stared.
It was a brooch: gold and delicate, fashioned in the shape of a hunting horn.
“This accompanied the parcel.” Peters passed her a card. It bore the crest of the Earl of Trent and four words written in a strong, bold hand.
“My dear, your horn,” she read aloud.
“Whatever does it mean, darling?” Excitement sounded in her mother's voice.
“I really have no idea.” She flipped the card over and read: Test number three. “Test number three? How could this…”
You have to catch a deer with gold horns.
She sucked in her breath. “It's a horn! A gold horn. He's calling me ‘dear,’ and this is my horn, therefore this is the gold horn of a dear. What nerve the man has!”
She crumpled the card in her hand. “He shall not get away with this. Peters, did the boy who brought this say anything about it?”
“Only that he was instructed to deliver it and make as much noise as possible in the process.” Peters raised a brow. “I believe he also muttered something about his employer being roused out of bed and made to open his shop.”
“Aha! I knew it.” She stalked to and fro across the foyer. “If Max thinks he can toss his wealth around to win this game he's sadly mistaken.”
“What game? Who is this ‘Max’?” Harry said to his wife.
“Max is Maximillian Wells.” Pandora paused for the inevitable reaction.
“The Earl of Trent?” Grace's eyes widened in surprise.
“Who?” Puzzlement rang in Harry's voice.
“Trent, darling,” Grace said. “He is one of the most eligible men in the country. His title is distinguished, although I've always thought his mother a bit stuffy, his fortune impressive, and,” she cast her daughter a wicked grin, “he has the look of Apollo about him.”
“Grace!” Pandora glared.
“Bravo, darling.” Grace beamed. “I have never been prouder.”
“There is nothing to be proud of!”
“I quite disagree.” Grace plucked the box from her daughter's hand and picked up the brooch, studying it with the expert eye of a collector or a jewel thief. “This is lovely. Excellent craftsmanship. I would expect nothing less from the Earl of Trent.” She passed it back, her voice soft. “What game are you playing with this man, Dora?”
“He wants to marry me.” The horn glittered in her palm, reflecting the candlelight almost as if it had a life of its own. As if a touch of magic lingered amid the warm glow of its golden surface. As if it were indeed made to call restless seekers to the hunt. A hunt charged with promises of adventure and romance.
Harry groaned. “Damnation, girl, not again. What are you going to do with this one?”
“Do?” Pandora started and shook her head to clear the distant sound of a hunting horn from her ear.
“Dora, sweet.” Grace grabbed her daughter's hands and gazed into her eyes. “Tell us about the game.”
Pandora drew a deep breath. “Well, I'm not quite sure how it started. One minute I was telling him what I wanted in a husband--”
“I can tell you what I want in your husband,” Harry said under his breath.
“--And he said I wanted a hero--”
“A hero?” Harry snorted.
“--And he could be my hero--”
“Utter nonsense,” Harry muttered.
“--And challenged me to test him--”
Harry groaned. “Man's a fool.”
“--And if he won I'd marry him and if he lost I'd choose his bride. And naturally I wanted to win--”
“Lord help us all,” Harry said morosely.
“--So the test I gave him…” She paused and chewed her bottom lip.
“Yes, darling, do go on.” Grace nodded her encouragement.
Pandora braced herself and released her words in one, long, fast gasp. “IgavehimthelaborsofHercules.”
Grace gasped. “Dora, you didn't.”
“Did what?” Harry's face was turning a definite shade of frustration red.
“Do you really think that's quite sporting of you?” Grace's tone carried a chastising note.
Pandora jerked her chin up. “He asked for it.”
“Asked for what?” Harry's roar echoed through the house.
“Harry.” Grace directed her voice to her husband but pinned her daughter with a steady gaze. Pandora resisted the urge to squirm. “Your daughter has set this young man a test no mortal could possibly master: the twelve labors of Hercules.”
“You didn't?” Harry's mouth dropped open in astonishment.
“Well, yes, actually I did. However, I also gave him the option of calling the entire thing off.” She gritted her teeth at the memory. “But he said he would consider that a forfeit on my part and he would win. I could not allow that.”
Grace shook her head. “But, darling, this--”
“You heard the girl, Grace, she couldn't allow it.” Harry laughed. “By Jove, she's an Effington, all right. Most stubborn, pigheaded family in the whole of England.”
“Thank you, Harry.” Pandora grinned.
“It is not something to brag of.” Grace folded her arms over her chest. “The man could be very well be killed.”
Pandora snorted in disdain. “I'd wager the bloodshed at the jeweler's shop alone was impressive.”
“Dora,” Grace said sharply. “Hercules had the help of the Gods. Lord Trent--”
“In point of fact, Grace,” Harry said in his most scholarly manner, “Hercules received no help whatsoever from the gods. However, as the son of Zeus--”
“Hush, Harry.” Grace considered her off-spring. “I gather you do want him to lose.”
“I most certainly do.” Pandora nodded firmly, ignoring the odd twinge that stabbed through her. “If given a choice to marry Max or be torn limb from limb by wild animals in the jungles of Africa, I should choose the beasts gladly. And I'd go to my death with a smile on my face and a song of thanksgiving on my lips.”
“She doesn't want him.” Harry heaved a resigned sigh. He could see the day of his daughter safely wed drawing farther and farther away.
“Very well, then,” Grace said, a considering note in her voice. She brushed her lips along her daughter's cheek, then turned to her husband. “Come along, dear. It is high time to retire.”
“Past time,” he grumbled, and headed toward the stairs. “Past time she found a husband, too, isn't it?”
Grace took his arm and they started up. “That's why you gave her all that money, my love, so she could marry whom she wanted, when she wanted.”
“Even so…” The couple climbed the stairs, their figures blending with the shadows but their words still clear. “She calls him Max, Grace. Highly improper, I'd say.”
“That's the other reason you gave her money, so she could do as she pleased.”
Harry scoffed. “Damned intimate, though.”
“I've always called you Harry.” Their voices grew fainter.
“That's different.”
“Oh?” A bare moment later a peal of her mother's laughter rang out in the hall. “Harry!”
Pandora glanced at the butler, trying his best not to smile, then gazed at the horn in her hand. “Peters.”
Peters sighed in resignation. “Beg pardon, Miss, but if we are to have one of our latenight discussions on what you shall do with your life, I shall have to summon Cook and Mrs. Barnes. If they are not included, meals will more than likely be served raw or blackened, and Mrs. Barnes will command her parlor maids not only t
o clean the collections of your parents, but to organize them as well.” He shuddered. “Do you remember the last time?”
“Of course,” she said faintly.
“Therefore, I would suggest--”
“Never mind, Peters.” She sighed. “I understand.”
He hesitated for a moment, then rolled his gaze toward the ceiling, as if even his words were against his better judgment. “You like this one.”
“I don't--”
“You do. It is quite obvious that you regard this man differently than the others. Do not let your competitive nature or your pride over-rule your instincts.” A bare hint of a smile seemed to light in Peters' eye. “And do try not to kill him.”
“No doubt Max can take care of himself,” she said dryly.
“Can you?”
“Of course.” Pandora tossed her head with a confidence that was perhaps a bit less than she'd had only a few days ago. Before a mere kiss had rocked her senses and gray had become a mesmerizing shade for eyes. “I dare-say he'll fail both miserably and quickly.”
“And that is what you want?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, then heaved a heart-felt sigh. “I only really want what they have, Peters.” She glanced toward the stairway, a wistful note in her voice. “Is that so very wrong?”
“No, Miss. It's simply extremely difficult to find.”
Her gaze dropped to the tiny horn in her hand, gold winking with the flicker of the light. The metal as precious and rare as the affection shared between her parents. Love, actually, if the truth were told. The idea of a marriage without love, the kind so common among her friends, empty of the joy she'd witnessed all her life, terrified her somewhere in the depths of her soul. Bargain or no bargain, she would marry no man without love.
She flashed the butler a weary smile and turned toward the stairs. “Good evening, Peters.”
She climbed the wide staircase and barely noted her upward progress. Max hadn't mentioned love in his list of requirements for a wife. Of course, a man like him was more used to baser emotions--lust primarily, she suspected--in his dealings with women. He obviously wanted her. She moistened her lips and the memory of his mouth covering hers fired a hot flush up her cheeks and a tremor through her blood.
What do you want?
The question halted her in mid-step. Two days ago she would have said she wanted life to be adventurous and exciting. She would have said she wanted independence and the freedom to do exactly as she pleased. And she would have said she wanted someday to share with a man what her parents shared.
Had anything at all changed since then? Or had everything?
How very odd. Right now, she could think of but one answer to the question of what she wanted. The only thing Pandora Effington, the Hellion of Grosvenor Square, really and truly wanted.
She wanted a hero.
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Chapter 6
A Canny Strategy
“Six days. It's been six full days,” Pandora said over her shoulder, making her way up the great staircase, through the mad crush that always marked Lady Locksley's galas. “Nearly an entire week.”
She smiled and nodded as she progressed up the broad stairs, tossing a pleasant comment to a young lord here and waving a flirtatious flutter of her fan to a noble gentleman there, all the while moving upward relentlessly with a single-minded determination. And all the while searching the crowd for the one figure she wished most of all to see.
“Pandora.” Cynthia's voice trailed behind her.
“I tell you, Cynthia, if I am to be a hound, I shall be a good one. And a good, determined hound will never fail to flush out its quarry.”
If Max was here (and if he wasn't, he was the only one in town not directly in her path at the moment) his height alone would make him stand out above the crowd of heads. His confidence might well raise him a few inches more.
“I can scarcely keep up with you.”
“It's not easy to flush a fox,” she said grimly. “I cannot do it properly if I am forced to stay in one place.”
Lady Locksley was a typical hostess who did not consider her entertainments successful unless the crowd was large enough to prohibit movement and prevent the breathing of air that had not already been exhaled by any number of celebrants. It was uncommonly stuffy and overly warm, and tomorrow would be considered a high point of the season for precisely those reasons.
“Pandora, if you do not slow down at once I shall be forced to swoon right here on the spot!”
Pandora stopped and swiveled so quickly that Cynthia nearly stumbled into her. “You'll do no such thing!”
“I will, I swear it.” A stubborn light gleamed in her friend's eye. Pandora noted it with a measure of satisfaction. Perhaps Cynthia was finally developing the fortitude needed to navigate the tumultuous waters of society. “I shall collapse on this stairway with half of London above me and the other half below if you do not explain yourself right now.”
“Very well.” Pandora hooked her arm through the younger woman's and urged her upward. “The first thing one learns when one hunts is to give the hounds the freedom to pursue their quarry.”
Cynthia stared in confusion. “What hounds? What quarry?”
“You said it yourself. I am the hound and--”
“Trent is the fox.” Understanding dawned on Cynthia's face.
“Exactly.”
They reached the top of the wide staircase and turned into the gallery. Here, too, scarcely an inch of space remained unoccupied. Pandora quelled her impatience and managed to greet one and all with a fair amount of feigned charm and a well-practiced smile. She had learned well the lessons taught through seven seasons: leave every lady with the impression of friendship, and each and every gentleman with an unrealistic hope of much more.
The few moments it took to reach the balustrade overlooking the crowd below stretched to a lifetime, but at long last Pandora reached the vantage point. She scanned the crowd, assuming her gaze would light on Max like a pigeon on a statue.
“Do you see him, Cynthia?”
Cynthia gazed downward, gripped the stone railing and closed her eyes. Her voice was weak. “I don't think so.”
Pandora shot her a quick glance. Her porcelain complexion was perhaps a shade more porcelain than a moment ago. And just a touch green.
“I am sorry, I quite forgot about your fear of heights.” Guilt twinged through her. “I never would have made you look over the edge had I remembered. Here.” Gently she grabbed her friend's shoulders and directed her steps until she was a few feet back from the edge, settling her against a column that hid the view of the ballroom. “Now you may look.” Cynthia's eyes flickered open. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Cynthia heaved a heavy sigh. “I always feel I am somehow disappointing you. You never seem to be cowed by anything.”
“Nonsense. You are my friend, and I don't care about your fears or weaknesses. They are not at all uncommon, you know.” Pandora studied her for a moment. Cynthia was indeed her truest friend. Oh, she had any number of acquaintances and a host of Effington relatives, but Cynthia was the one person with whom she shared her secrets. Ironic, to realize she had befriended the girl to help her, when Pandora herself had gained so much from their relationship.
“Even I have my limits. Personally, I cannot abide,” she drew a deep breath, “being trapped in carriage in the rain. I simply cannot sit still in a closed carriage with the rain pounding down.” Pandora shrugged in an off-handed matter as though her admission was of no real concern.
It was, of course. Cynthia was right about Pandora setting high standards, and she set none higher than those she set for herself. This illogical fear was a weakness she refused to dwell on and hated to acknowledge. No one outside her immediate family knew of its existence…until now.
“Admittedly, it sounds ridiculous.” Pandora grimaced. “But the walls seem to close in on me and I feel trapped.”
A bemused smile lit Cyn
thia's face.
“I see my confession has improved your spirits and your color.”
“I do feel much better.” Cynthia's grin widened and she shook her head. “Wet carriages.”
“Carriages in the rain.” Pandora said in a firm, this-is-the-end-of-this-discussion manner. “Now, while I am searching below, you can keep watch here. It's always possible the fox has managed to escape detection long enough to reach the gallery.”
“You can never really trust a fox,” Cynthia murmured.
“They are cunning creatures. And we must be just as cunning.” Pandora turned to peer over the balustrade. “Try to appear natural, as if we are simply chatting.”
“Oh, I daresay that will look natural. I often stand against columns at gatherings and chat to my companion's backside.”
Pandora ignored the sarcasm while noting Cynthia's newfound boldness.
“Do you see him?” Cynthia said.
“Not yet.” Pandora studied the milling crowd. “One would think a man that tall…” Colors of every hue imaginable swirled and mingled like a jeweled kaleidoscope. “…With shoulders that broad…” Laughter mixed with murmurs of conversation and the odd squeal, and rose from the ballroom. “…And eyes like an oncoming storm…”
“Really?” There was a definite grin in Cynthia's voice. “I imagine that alone would make him stand out in a crowd. Especially a crowd viewed from a bird's vantage point.”
Pandora paid no heed to Cynthia's amusement. Max did indeed have the most remarkable eyes. The memory of the knowing looks they'd harbored lingered at the back of her mind and had intruded at unexpected and altogether too frequent moments in recent days.
“It is possible he isn't here, you know.”
“I know.” Pandora leaned forward slightly. “It's just the sort of annoying thing he'd do.”
“I believe there as many people up here as there are in the ballroom,” Cynthia said idly. “Lord Chalmers is at the far end of the gallery, chatting with Lady Simpson-Atwood, who looks as lovely as always. Of course, she is standing beneath a portrait of a remarkably unattractive ancestor.”
The Wedding Bargain Page 6
