by Lucy Leroux
His smile was taut when he nodded. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m not pursuing a bride at the moment.”
“That does not mean they are not pursuing you.” The duchess laughed. “You’re at the very top of every matchmaking mother’s list this season.”
“Oh.” Well, it was not news that he was a target on the marriage mart; nevertheless, it was disconcerting to hear that he was considered the main prize—and from a duchess no less.
A mental image of his head mounted like a deer in a hunting lodge flashed before his eyes as he caught Clarke’s eye from across the room.
“Well, I see I’ve given you something to think about,” the duchess said when he turned back to her. “I shall leave you to it. Lord Harrow’s daughter is over near the window, by the way, in the white muslin.”
With that less than-subtle-hint, the grande dame departed in a cloud of scent.
Behind him, Clarke sniggered. “Never understood why they call them the weaker sex.”
Feeling wrung-out, Gideon spun around to face him, accepting the glass of champagne he held out with alacrity.
“Trust me, I’ve never made that mistake,” he muttered. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting our hands on something stronger?”
“I bribed a waiter to raid the old duke’s liquor cabinet. I’m not sure what we’ll be getting, but it should do the job.”
“That is why you’re my closest friend,” Gideon said gratefully.
He drank the champagne in one gulp, looking around. The Harrow chit was making calf eyes at him. He nodded politely, trying to summon the enthusiasm to ask the girl to dance.
“Best get it out of the way now,” Clarke said when the musicians began to play a cotillion. “You don’t want to have that hanging over your head when Amelia arrives.”
An excellent point. He nodded at Clarke. “Save me that glass of purloined liquor when it comes. Something tells me I’m going to need it.”
The next quarter hour dragged as he did his duty and danced with Lucy Harlow. She was as advertised—a lovely girl, but painfully green. He knew it was the usual practice for a man of his age and station to marry a girl as young as sixteen or seventeen, but he personally couldn’t stomach the idea. Miss Harlow and all the debutantes of her age were little more than children in his eyes.
Amelia had only been two years older when she married Martin, he reminded himself. Perhaps she resented being forced to wed at such an early age despite her affection for his cousin. And she had some—that much he remembered.
With an effort of will, he forced himself to stop thinking about Amelia and applied himself to the task at hand. He chatted and danced with several girls in their first or second season. He also paid court to the matrons and singled out one or two wallflowers, careful not pay too much attention to any single female. While he couldn’t stop the ton from speculating on his marriage prospects, at least he wouldn’t fuel the rumors that he had someone particular in mind.
After doing the rounds, he found Clarke again. The contraband French brandy he’d procured wasn’t a good year, but by then, he didn’t care.
“She’s been here for twenty minutes. The reception from the duchess was a little frosty, however, Amelia didn’t appear to notice. Actually, she looks a bit fatigued.”
Trying not to be too obvious, Gideon and Clarke moved in the crowd on the edge of the ballroom until they were in sight of Amelia. She was with Worthing again.
Gideon stood much closer to her than he’d been in the park, near enough for him to know that “fatigued” was an understatement.
“She looks bloody exhausted.”
Though Amelia was striking in a muted violet bombazine gown, there were dark circles under her clear blue eyes. She was also paler than he’d ever seen.
“What the hell was she doing out riding in the park this afternoon? The woman should have been abed.”
Clarke made a rough sound of agreement in his throat. “Something is bothering her. That much is clear. I believe it’s time you forced the issue—provided you can run her to ground this time.”
“I’ll break into her house if I have to,” Gideon vowed, his eyes tracking Amelia’s every movement.
He let her dance a few more times, comfortably aware that her partners weren’t anything special to her. There wasn’t even a spark of interest in her expression when she looked at any of them.
Taking advantage of a break in the music—and the fact Worthing had departed to the card room—he stepped forward to greet Amelia with a benign nod. She closed the short distance between them.
“Good evening, my lord.” The skirts of her violet gown stopped swinging as she stopped in front of him.
“Good evening, cousin.” He waved a hand to a passing waiter and asked for two glasses of champagne. “I would ask you to dance if I did not think you would topple over like a ninepin.”
Amelia’s head drew back, and she blinked a few times. Much-needed color flooded her white cheeks. He was being quite rude, but that did not seem to signify. She didn’t chastise him.
“I…”
“Yes?”
Her shoulders lifted and dropped and she looked away. “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping again, I’m afraid.”
“Then I prescribe an early night and bed,” he said.
He did not have to feign the concern in his tone. Face to face, Amelia appeared fragile and wan. A stiff breeze could have knocked her over.
Without looking directly at him, she answered in a whisper. “I don’t want to go home.”
Was there a problem with her townhouse? “Why not?”
“Oh, no reason really. It’s just…so empty there.”
“Has something happened? You seem unsettled.”
Amelia’s head shot up. “Well…I suppose I am. Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.” She laughed brittlely. “On occasion, one’s imagination gets the best of you, I suppose. I’ve been told that sort of thing is commonplace when one lives alone.”
Except you live with a horde of servants. Gideon nodded in understanding anyway. “It’s understandable after spending so much time in one person’s company. You must miss Martin terribly.”
“I do,” she breathed, looking down as tears flooded her eyes.
Guilt swamped him when she surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes behind her fan. A brave smile lit her face. “Never mind that. Tell me more about you. How are things at your estate?”
“Which one?” he asked with a grin before launching into a detailed description of his new holdings.
Despite his desire to interrogate her, Amelia’s gentle and insightful questions had him lowering his guard. Before he knew it, they were discussing the improvements he was implementing to improve agricultural yields—debating benefits of crop rotation and drainage.
After a few minutes, he caught himself and apologized. “I must be boring you to tears. Really, you should have stopped me at least ten minutes ago.”
Amelia shook her head. “On the contrary, I was about to suggest you read Mr. Shipman’s article in the latest Agricultural Review. It’s called Innovations and Improvements in planting and harvesting of cereal crops.”
Gideon blinked. Yes, her questions had seemed informed, but he’d had no idea of the extent of her knowledge…
“I had no idea you were so well-versed in farming techniques.”
One corner of her mouth turned up. “My father always said an investor had to be informed about all the commodities they trade.”
He should have expected such an answer. No, she hasn’t changed as much as you think. “So you are investing in crop futures?”
“Among various other things. I also dabble in manufacturing, shipping, and the like. Variety is the key to a sound investment strategy.”
Gideon didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “That much? I know your father was an expert investor, but I wasn’t aware you had followed in his footsteps.”
Her father had left her a fortu
ne. Naturally, he assumed she was living off that money. He had underestimated her. But had she grown the fortune or lost some of it?
“I find a little gambling on the ‘Change keeps things interesting.”
The stock exchange? Even he didn’t invest there. The market could be capricious, and he was still unused to possessing a fortune. True, he’d spent some time in the hells in the last few years, but only when he needed to fleece certain gentlemen for information. Hells, or rather the men who ran them, were excellent sources of gossip.
“Can I ask how you managed that?” he asked after a moment. Most traders wouldn’t take bids from a woman.
She knew exactly what he meant. “My father’s solicitor, Callaghan, makes most of my bids for me. We meet once a week. I enjoy it for the most part. It keeps my mind occupied.”
This was unexpected news. “Would that be Tolbert Callaghan?”
Amelia brightened, no longer appearing so tired. “Yes. He was a close associate of Papa, as well as his attorney. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
Tolbert Callaghan was one of the nation’s top solicitors—one often consulted on legal matters by the crown. He was wealthy in his own right. The fact such a renowned man spent an hour every week with Amelia gave Gideon an excellent idea of just how skilled she was at choosing investments.
Or they were having an affair, his cynical side said. Except Callaghan was in his sixties and happily married by all accounts. Gideon needed to stop assuming the worst and gather actual evidence.
“I take it you do well in these endeavors?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Amelia said, adorably smug.
The brilliance of her smile shot warmth through him. “What—”
His next words were drowned out as multiple reports sounded behind him. A sudden howling wind swept the ballroom. More than half of the tapers were extinguished in the blast, plunging his portion of the room into darkness.
In a split second, he had shoved Amelia behind him before turning to face the enemy. The sound had come from the left. Despite the darkness, he could see every door to the garden patio had been thrown open.
But the doorways were empty. There were a few guests near them but none close enough to have opened them. Napkins fluttered wildly and the sound of broken glass could be heard as people stumbled and stepped over champagne glasses they had dropped.
The startled screams of the women didn’t even register until one long shrill cry filled his ears, nearly stopping his heart.
“Amelia!” He turned around, groping for her in the darkness. She wasn’t behind him anymore.
Adrenaline flooded him as he shouted her name once more. The panic in his voice did nothing to quell the pandemonium breaking out around them. Cursing under his breath, he tried to calm himself so he wouldn’t feed the hysteria.
Amelia was only a few feet away. He could not see her features, but her arm was clear enough. She pointed up behind him at the darkened balcony that overlooked the ballroom. That part of the room was pitch black. He couldn’t see anything up there.
He’d only taken his eyes off Amelia for a second, but when he turned back to her, she was on the floor.
“Bloody hell!” He ran to her side, swinging her into his arms.
“Did you see them?” she whispered, her head lolling against his chest.
“See what?”
“The eyes that killed him.” Amelia swooned, going lax in his arms. He shook her, but she didn’t move.
“Give her to me,” someone called. Gideon looked up to Worthing struggling toward him. The viscount stepped over a fallen man a few feet away and held out his arms.
“Not on your life,” Gideon growled, pulling Amelia’s unconscious form closer to his chest.
Worthing scowled at him. “I don’t know how to help them,” he yelled, gesturing to the people in disarray behind them.
Footmen were rushing in with lit candlesticks, illuminating the scene.
People had fallen over each other. Those on their feet milled aimlessly. Others were on the floor, hurt. If the darkness had lasted even a few moments more, the duke’s guests might have trampled each other to death.
Just to the right of him, there was a young girl in white holding up a bloody hand. She had fallen on a champagne flute and cut herself.
Gideon swore again and reluctantly handed Amelia’s still form over to his rival. “Don’t you dare leave until I come back to escort her home,” he ordered.
Worthing’s lips compressed, but he didn’t argue with him. Gideon turned his back to him, going to the young girl’s aid first, belatedly recognizing her as one of the Turney chits.
He took her hand, examining her palm. He tsked. “It’s a paltry cut. You’re going to be fine.”
The girl’s wide eyes didn’t shift from her hand. “It’s bleeding. There’s b-blood,” she stuttered.
“Yes, but not too much of it,” he assured her, trying not to sound impatient as he untied his cravat and pressed it to the wound. Unceremoniously, he hauled the girl to her feet, happy to give her to a concerned gentleman hurrying toward them—one of her brothers judging from the family resemblance.
There were a few other injuries equal to Miss Turney’s, but luckily none more serious. Gideon helped a few more people, most of whom appeared merely overset. Servants hurried to relight the extinguished tapers, and the duke called for more champagne be passed around to the guests that remained.
The strains of a determined country reel began before Gideon could look for Amelia and Worthing. They were nowhere in sight. He searched the ballroom for a full twenty minutes before the footman at the door confirmed their departure.
Gideon swore a blue streak and left the ball. He tried her townhouse first, but they weren’t there.
“Not again,” he fumed, staring daggers at her butler.
“Um, madam was here,” the man said, fingering his collar nervously. “But she asked that her trunks be loaded to her traveling coach immediately. She departed a few minutes ago. Madam suddenly decided to accept an invitation to visit the country.”
Adolfo pointed to one end of the busy street, but Gideon didn’t see the brown and cream equipage he knew to be Amelia’s. “I don’t understand. I just saw her. How did she get packed so quickly?”
It should have taken a lady of the ton most of the day to pack all the gowns and other necessities required for a weekend country visit.
Adolfo appeared relieved to have an answer for him. “Madam’s trunk was packed,” he volunteered. “She’s had one at the ready for the last few months, apparently for such an occasion.”
Damn and blast. “Did Worthing go with her?”
“I believe so, my lord,” the butler added a bit more reluctantly, cautiously starting to close the door in anticipation of his displeasure. When Gideon glowered and nodded, Adolfo bid a hasty adieu and shut the door, making good his escape.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, heading back to the Marlboro’s ball.
He was going to collect Clarke and then, come hell or high water, he would find Amelia—and nail her skirts to the floor.
Chapter 7
Lord Westcliff’s country party was in full swing. Their host and hostess had organized all the usual country amusements as well as a few others unique to their household. For the women, archery had been followed by croquet and then a trip to the local village. The men had been indulging in endless rounds of billiards interspersed with the occasional grouse hunt. That afternoon, there was a contest to see who could make it through the immense garden maze first.
Having had more than enough of hedge mazes, Amelia pleaded a headache and excused herself to rest in the ladies’ salon. The well-trained staff had left a tea tray at her disposal, and she selected a novel from the library before sitting down.
Crispin had gone fishing with the men. His family had been connected to Westcliff’s for generations. Despite their eleventh-hour arrival, they had been welcomed to the coun
try party with ready grace and good humor. They waved away the fact Crispin had already sent his regrets.
If their hosts were reluctant to have Amelia under their roof along with Crispin, they showed no sign. Indeed, the Westcliff’s were all that was gracious, a rarity among the ton. It was the first time Amelia had felt accepted at one of these affairs. But her host’s opinion of her was the least of her concerns at the moment.
I am either being pursued by a monster or I am going mad.
Either prospect was terrifying. She set her book aside and picked up the fine china cup set in front of her. Ignoring the rattling of the saucer on the bed, she drank until her hands steadied.
It was a terrible situation when madness was the best prospect she faced, but Amelia could not afford to deny reality any longer. But how did one know when they were going mad?
Well, imagining monsters was probably an excellent indication of mental derangement. She shuddered involuntarily, the image of those unnatural eyes watching her from the balcony of the Marlborough’s ballroom burning in her mind.
It hadn’t been the first time. They had watched her from the upper story of their house in Kent the day she had found Martin’s body.
You are not mad.
In the year since her husband’s death, Amelia had convinced herself she’d imagined that ghastly vision.
Self-delusion had been easy. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened while she had been in mourning. It was only now that she was reentering society at Crispin’s behest that strange and unnerving events had begun to occur.
But those eyes belonged to no man or animal she recognized. Their glow was not the reflective sheen of any night beast. It was the light of hellfire. And it had been as real as the floor under her feet.
She hadn’t known what to tell Crispin after she collapsed at the ball. He’d been so concerned about her this past week. He hadn’t understood her frenetic need to socialize the last few days—she who had avoided and criticized the shallow frivolity of the ton at every turn. Crispin had been confused and a little hurt by her behavior and the silence she had maintained about it.
