The Handbook to Handling His Lordship

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Not as pretty as my lion,” Greaves commented, his tone disdainful. “Social climber.”

  No one had ever spoken so dismissively of Ebberling in her hearing before, and it was surprisingly comforting. If he could be mocked, even jokingly, he could be defeated. She squared her shoulders, then turned around.

  The tall, broad-shouldered lion half-mask turned his gaze about the room, clearly looking for someone. The marquis was well dressed, as he always had been, tonight in a dark brown jacket to complement his mask, with a black waistcoat and trousers with polished Hessian boots and an amber pin through his impeccable cravat.

  This man had tormented her dreams for more nights than he had any right to. He’d ruined the proper life she’d set out to make for herself—indeed, if he hadn’t murdered her employer, she would have been perfectly content to remain as young George’s governess for as long as she was needed. After that, a good recommendation from Lady Ebberling would have seen her to another fine household, and so on until she’d earned enough money to retire to a small cottage well away from Derbyshire and any remnants of her old life there.

  Instead she’d been forced to begin all over again, with a different name and a different past. If not for The Tantalus Club, she had no idea where she might have ended up. Certainly not at a grand masked ball in the company of a duke and a duchess, with an earl currently touching her fingers with his.

  As the face beneath the lion’s eyes turned in her direction, she quickly looked away. Tonight he was supposed to be suspicious, not certain of her identity. Rycott would have done what he could, but a great part of it was up to her, to play the part of a duke’s guest, of a former governess, but not too well.

  The tiger handed her a glass of Madeira. “If you don’t drink that, Em, I will,” he said tightly.

  She gripped the glass, and made herself take a shallow swallow. “Thank you, Mr. Stokes.”

  “God, please, Laurie,” he returned with a forced smile, flushing beneath his mask.

  They were all trying so hard, and just for her. She smiled back at him. “Laurie, then. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “They gave you a dance card, yes?” Nate put in.

  She pulled it from her reticule. “Yes. I’m not certain I can dance with him, Nathaniel. I can look at him, but—”

  “We’ll make it a country dance. That way he won’t get a good look at you.”

  He’d become the spymaster, she realized, more concerned with tonight’s outcome than with how nervous she might be. That was the man this venture needed, but she couldn’t help wishing he would offer a few more words of comfort, pitiful as that might make her.

  Swiftly he wrote his name beside two dances, handed the card and pencil for Greaves to do the same, then to Laurie for another two. That left three dances. Rycott was to take one, and Ebberling one. They needed another partner for her, or Ebberling would attempt to take two. She knew it, because he would want another look at her.

  Nate seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he cursed under his breath. Before he could write his name a third time, something that would raise the eyebrows of everyone in the room, Sophia put a hand on his arm. “Leave it to me,” she said, and took both the card and Emily’s arm.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Hush. Greaves, with me.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” her husband said obediently.

  Together they walked toward a small group of gentlemen standing by the windows. As they drew closer Emily recognized at least three of them as members of the Tantalus, and she balked. “What are you doing? If they know I’m a Tantalus girl, Lord and Lady Tremaine will have me thrown out.”

  “Hush,” Sophia repeated, then released her husband’s arm. “Greaves, go fetch me Francis Henning.”

  He grinned, but the glitter in his eyes said something entirely darker. “Order me about all you wish, love, but you’ll pay for it later.”

  Sophia gave him a slow smile. “I know it.”

  The exchange forcibly reminded Emily that as nervous as she was tonight, this was not all about her. Her friends were risking their reputations, and Sophia barely had one of those to begin with. If her husband hadn’t been a duke, and a very wealthy and powerful one on top of that, Sophia might well have found herself not invited to a great many events of the Season. In fact, there were places she wasn’t welcome, as it was.

  “How goes you and Almack’s?” Emily asked, as Greaves’s appearance among them caused the small herd of men to begin bobbing and chittering like parrots.

  “We remain enemies,” her friend said easily. “It sounds dull as dirt, and I have no real desire to ever set foot there, but Adam’s offended by that stupid letter of regret they had to send, when I never even requested an invitation to the assembly in the first place.”

  “He loves you. The idea of anyone slighting you infuriates him.”

  Sophia sighed. “Yes, I know. And I know he’s been slighted a few times recently because of me, which … annoys me excessively. But I’ve resolved to dislike the people who dislike either of us, and I just wish he would do the same.”

  Greaves rejoined them, the round-pated Francis Henning in tow. Henning had donned a hawk’s mask, though the narrow-faced predator seemed an ill match for the wide-faced, jovial fellow beneath it. He bowed. “Sophia. It’s marvelous to see you and Greaves again. I had, well, the most magnificent time ever at Greaves Park over Christmas. My grandmama was near to bursting when I told her about it.”

  Smiling, Sophia took his hands. “I’m so glad you stayed after all the chaos erupted.”

  “Heh. I’m only glad Greaves didn’t kick me out on my arse like he did most of the rest of his guests.” He looked over at Emily. “Greaves said you’re up to a prank, Miss Em,” he whispered, “and I’m happy to play a part. Might I have a dance with you?”

  She grinned, more touched than she could say. “Thank you, Mr. Henning. Any dance you please.”

  Sophia handed him the card, and he wrote his name down beside one of the two remaining quadrilles. “I’ll see you then,” he said, bowing again before he trundled off to rejoin his friends.

  “That man is supremely underestimated,” the Duke of Greaves stated, as the music for the first dance of the evening began. “And I have a dance with my wife. Are you ready to be intercepted?”

  Swallowing, Emily nodded. If everything went as planned, Nate would be close by, ready to step in. And he was correct; this needed to be done, or she would never have a moment’s peace, or a good night’s sleep. “As ready as I ever will be.”

  “Good.” Unexpectedly, the duke took her arm. “I did some checking on your friend Westfall,” he said in a low voice. “He’s a good man.”

  “Yes, I know,” she returned, and with a nod he released her to escort Sophia onto the dance floor.

  She stood where she was for a moment, watching her friends step gracefully into a waltz. Nate had said counting slowly would calm her as she waited for her doom to arrive, but he was far more experienced at this sort of thing than she was, and she’d already flown past seventy on her way to ninety when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

  “Excuse me,” the deep voice of Jack Rycott came, at the same moment a hand touched her shoulder.

  She jumped, not having to feign her startlement, and at the same time she was grateful that he’d been the one to speak rather than the man she knew would be standing beside him. Emily took a breath and turned around. And her voice froze in her throat.

  Three feet away from her, a demon in a lion’s mask looked at her. Stared at her, dark eyes seeming to rip the mask from her own face, the rich gown from her shoulders, as he tried to see through them. As she panicked, her thoughts went automatically to Nate. He’d sworn that no harm would come to her. He’d sworn that he would protect her. And he would. He would.

  “Y-yes?” she managed, tearing her gaze from Ebberling’s face and looking at Rycott’s black panther.

>   “You may not know me, Miss … Portsman, is it? But I’m a friend of Nate Stokes. Jack Rycott. Has he mentioned me?”

  She forced a nervous smile. “Rycott? Yes, yes, of course. He said you were a good friend of his from when he went looking for old books on the Continent.”

  Rycott shared a glance with Ebberling. “Indeed. And I was wondering if you, as a friend of my friend, would consent to a dance with my other friend and myself. This is the Marquis of Ebberling, by the by. Ebberling, Miss Portsman.”

  “Miss … Portsman,” the marquis echoed, the sound of his voice sending another tremor through her.

  “I … Yes, I would be happy to.” She made herself lean closer to the king’s spy. “You know I’m not truly supposed to be here. Sophia—the Duchess of Greaves, I mean—said it would be fun.”

  “You’re a friend of Nate’s. Where you came from is of no consequence to me.” Rycott took the dance card from her stiff fingers, smiling warmly at her as he wrote his name by the remaining quadrille.

  Ebberling didn’t look overly pleased with his remaining spot, but he scrawled his name by the country dance, nevertheless. When he handed her card back to her their fingers brushed, and for a heartbeat or two she thought she might faint. But she didn’t. She couldn’t, or Nate would have likely rushed in and stabbed Ebberling and both of them would end up in prison—or rather, he would end up in prison, and she would be hanged.

  “There you are, Em,” Nate said, and his warm hand wrapped around hers. His voice, though, was anything but warm. “Rycott. I didn’t know you were in London.”

  “Just arrived yesterday. Th—”

  “Ebberling. Excuse us. We have a waltz.”

  Nate didn’t wait for Jack to finish, or for the marquis to comment at all. If he had, he might have leveled the fiend, and then all of Emily’s courage would have been for nothing. No, he’d asked her to do this—for her own sake, but against her wishes—and so he would follow the plan, as well.

  But he didn’t have to like it. “Are you well?” he breathed, drawing her closer against his side as he hurried them to the dance floor.

  “I don’t know,” she squeaked, her face white beneath her owl half-mask. “Just keep talking to me for a minute.”

  “Certainly.” Sliding an arm around her waist, he stepped forward, half lifting her until she began to match his limping movements in the waltz. “What shall I talk about? I heard a rumor that Wellington might appear tonight. Would you care to meet him?”

  “Wellington?” she gasped. “You are trying to make me faint!”

  “Then I would have the excuse to sweep you up in my arms and carry you upstairs. I’m certain Tremaine would be happy to give over a spare bedchamber to us for an hour or so. For your health, of course.”

  That made her smile, as he’d hoped it would, and the color began to return to her cheeks. “You’re a wretched man, you know.”

  “And you are a supremely brave woman.” He gazed into her deep brown eyes, wishing time would slow so he could hold her like this, dance with her in his arms, forever. “I seem to be in constant want of you, but at this moment, love, I suggest you stay very close to me.”

  She chuckled, the sound lighting his heart. “How could I ever have believed you were a bookish slug, Nate?” she whispered.

  “First appearances can be deceiving. I think we both know that. My present and forever opinion of you, for example, is the one that matters to me.”

  “And what is your present and forever opinion of me?”

  He hesitated. “Ask me that the next time we’re alone.”

  “That poor, is it?” she asked, still grinning, her dark eyes dancing in the candlelight.

  “Yes, excessively, I’m afraid. I don’t wish to embarrass you in public.”

  “Mm-hm. Likewise, my … dear.”

  That hadn’t been the word she’d been about to use. Even if he hadn’t been accustomed to looking for hesitations and glances, for what they meant, he would have heard it. What was the missing word, though? He knew what he wanted to hear her say, and if it was as he suspected, he also knew why she’d altered her choice.

  With him in the superior position socially, perhaps he needed to stop hinting about and simply say it to her. No bandying about or teasing or hinting. It would only take all the courage he’d ever had, shoved into one terrifying moment. Surely he could do that.

  Not here, though. One or both of them might end up in a dead faint on the floor. Curving his lips upward, he glanced over her head. Rycott and Ebberling were deep in conversation. Neither of them looked happy—and the marquis’s betrothed looked positively annoyed beside them. Would the chit be happy to have her fiancé removed? Was she looking forward to the marriage? Did she have any idea what had truly become of the first Lady Ebberling?

  “I feel sorry for her,” Emily said, echoing his thoughts.

  “Harriet Danders? She might well be perfectly safe from him. A man would have to be both vicious and a fool to murder two wives, after all. And I don’t think Ebberling is a fool. Arrogant, yes. But foolish? I don’t see it.”

  She danced a shade too precisely; no doubt she’d made a point of learning the steps, whether she ever thought to be able to make use of the lessons in public, or not. “He’s greedy. And sometimes arrogance is all a man needs to bring him down.” She sighed. “I’ve seen that more times than I can count at the Tantalus’s gaming tables.”

  “We’re depending on that arrogance of his,” Nathaniel pointed out, happy to return his attention to the matter at hand and away from the question of what he meant to do about her after all this mess was over. He had the distinct feeling that the former would be a much easier task than the latter. “Otherwise he would never expect to find you within a day of hiring Rycott.”

  “You found me within a day,” she reminded him, a brief smile touching her mouth again beneath the feathered owl mask.

  “I wasn’t certain at first, though. You knew something you didn’t wish to share, but it took me a time to figure out for certain what that was.”

  “And is that the only reason you went upstairs with me, then?” Emily asked, her half-hidden eyes lowering to his mouth.

  “I could say yes,” he returned, wondering whether all the party guests in the room would be more scandalized to know a murderer walked among them, or that a Tantalus girl did so. And he thought he knew the answer, which disgusted him. “It would be a lie, though.” He leaned a breath closer. “I wanted you.”

  Her soft smile faded. “Why do I have the feeling that you’ll help me with one disaster, and cause me another?” she asked softly.

  Nate tightened his grip on her hand. “I believe I told you that you’re mine, Emily. I wasn’t jesting.”

  “I didn’t think you were, Nathaniel. But I’ve spent all of the past three years among lords, when they come to the Tantalus to wager. Some of them have lowborn mistresses, but none of them claimed them in public.”

  She didn’t say the rest of it, but he heard it, anyway. None of them married a lowborn girl. No, they hadn’t. And given his own rather precarious place in Society, marrying her would not be the wisest choice he could make. If he did so, this could well be the last grand ball he ever attended. And no one would task him with finding their lost baubles when they couldn’t even tolerate looking upon his scandalous person.

  “You are Emily Portsman, my dear. I don’t believe I’ve ever asked anything of you other than your choice of name. The rest doesn’t signify.”

  Emily looked down. “Not to you, perhaps. Not now. But it will.”

  He swept her in a close circle, attempting to remember to limp. “Now is now. If we earn a later, we shall discuss it. Agreed?”

  For a long moment she stayed silent. “You are a very unusual man,” she finally murmured, a sigh in her voice. “I’m all for putting later off as long as possible. Agreed.”

  “Good.” That only left the challenge of her surviving the night, and him somehow managing to let Ebb
erling close enough to touch her without killing the man out of hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Might I ask you a question, Laurence? Laurie?” Emily asked as Nate’s brother circled around her.

  The country dance was already half over, the evening three quarters so, and she’d survived dancing with Jack Rycott and even Francis Henning—though her toes were still undecided. But the next dance was the one, and every second brought it closer, and her hands were already shaking. Since the idea was to make Ebberling half rather than completely convinced of her identity, she needed to calm the devil down.

  “I’m not answering any questions,” he returned with a scowl, taking her hand and then moving by her again. “I’ve learned my damned lesson. Blasted lesson. Beg your pardon.”

  She forced a grin. “No need for that. I’ve served as croupier at faro tables when the players lost hundreds of quid. I doubt there’s a word I don’t know.” She closed her mouth again as Stuart, Lord Dashton, took her hand in turn and then moved down the line. At least she thought it was Dashton—the elk with the large antlers had his jaw, but as the viscount hadn’t been granted a Tantalus membership; he’d only visited on occasion as a guest of some member or other.

  When Laurence returned, she curtsied and danced up the line with him. “I only wanted to ask if your brother often entangles himself in the troubles of scandalous women,” she said in a low voice.

  Somehow Rycott had managed to keep Ebberling out of this dance, but he wasn’t the only one who could arrange trouble for her tonight. She’d spent the evening avoiding most conversations, and being Danielle Flagg when someone insisted on an introduction. Even if Emily Portsman hadn’t killed anyone, she was still a Tantalus girl. And no aristocrat would forgive anyone who’d allowed her presence in their midst.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he commented, sending a glance past her shoulder in his tall, lean brother’s direction. His tiger mask glittered orange and red in the chandelier light as he moved. “Before the last few weeks, we spoke at holidays—some holidays—and over a fortnight when he came home to take the title.”