by Anne Stuart
She was just as glad, she told herself, that Michael was off in the corner talking with Brenna. Not a glance in her direction had he bestowed. No looks of glazed admiration, not even that small, mocking smile that held a world of meaning acknowledged the elegance of her toilette. And now he stood towering over the tiny Irish girl, his eyes rapt, his attention totally absorbed.
The same could hardly be said of Brenna. Whenever she could, she would cast a surreptitious glance at Sumner's bemused face, and the misery in her fine green eyes would have been apparent to a complete moonling, Elizabeth thought angrily. Doesn't Fraser realize she wants to be left alone? And doesn't he realize that I would like to give him a piece of my mind?
Sir Henry Hatchett hadn't been much of a reassurance either. He had proved to be a short, round little man, with a cheerful expression about his myopic eyes, a drooping white mustache and side whiskers, and a slight Scots accent. His wife, Lady Beatrice, he had explained with a faint burr, had become indisposed and would be unable to join them. Elizabeth had thought it somewhat odd that Sir Henry had come on ahead with his adjutant, but no odder than his preoccupied, absentminded behavior. He seemed hardly the type to hold a high position in the Foreign Office, as Sumner had whispered to her importantly, and Elizabeth wondered if, as usual, her brother had merely been claiming more intimate knowledge of a situation than he actually possessed.
All in all, Sir Henry Hatchett inspired no confidence in Elizabeth's worried breast. She could no more unburden the tangle of information that had come her inquisitive way this long day than she could have confided in the forbidding General Wingert. At least, not yet. She would give Michael a little more time to inspire her with confidence. As her eyes swept over the planes and shadows of his tanned face, she uttered a tiny sigh.
The one real improvement in the status quo of the houseparty moved to her side, and she smiled up at him welcomingly, hoping that the wretched Captain Fraser would notice.
Sir Henry Hatchett's right-hand man was none other than Rupert St. Ives, Jeremy's roommate at Oxford and one of Elizabeth and Sumner's oldest friends. When Elizabeth first entered the drawing room, conscious of her elegance and determined to be cool and remote, she'd taken one look at Rupert's tall, familiar figure and let out an unladylike shriek of joy.
"Rupert!" Ignoring Fraser's quizzical expression, she had run across the room and flung herself on Rupert's broad chest, into arms that were only too happy to welcome her. Even Sumner had left off his elaborate posturings to greet Captain St. Ives with real pleasure, pumping his hand and begging his sister to "leave off crushing the poor fellow."
"Why such a sigh, Elizabeth?" he questioned now in an undertone. "And such a pensive look?"
"I was thinking about Jeremy," she said mendaciously, and then felt swamped with guilt as Rupert's handsome face looked suitably grave. She should be thinking more about Jeremy and about what villains such as Michael Fraser could do to his safety if they weren't stopped in time.
"You haven't heard from him in a while, then?" he questioned.
"Not a word for weeks."
"Well, from my experience let me tell you that usually means that all is well. With any luck old Jem will be back with us by summer."
"Oh, do you really think so?" she questioned eagerly. "I confess we've both been terribly worried these last months."
"Yes, I really think so," he said firmly, and Elizabeth smiled up at him gratefully, noticing for not the first time in her life how very attractive he was.
Rupert St. Ives was a military man from the tips of his well-shod feet to the top of his well-cropped brown hair. He was just a bit over medium height, but his soldier's bearing lent the impression of added height, and the broad shoulders, trim waist, and well-turned legs appeared to advantage in uniform. His hazel eyes had an uncomfortably sharp expression in them when they dwelled on most people, his mouth was a thin, determined line, and the jaw was just a trifle too decisive, especially coupled with a hawklike nose. But on the rare occasions when he smiled, he could appear quite charming, and Elizabeth, having known him since childhood and having survived a desperate crush on him at the tender age of fifteen, still had a latent tendency to think him a veritable Adonis. Although Mars might be more apt, she thought now, looking at him with more impartial eyes.
"Tell me, Elizabeth, how long has that fellow been here?" he requested suddenly in a disapproving voice.
"Whoever do you mean?" she questioned with a great show of innocence, knowing perfectly well the object of his censure.
"Michael Fraser. I can't imagine what he's doing here. The man's got a terrible reputation. I hate to see you having to be polite to him. I, for one, have no intention of having anything to do with him."
"What's so terrible about him?" she queried.
"Now is hardly the time to tell you. But I don't trust him, and I'm amazed that an astute old soldier like Maurice Wingert tolerates him on his staff." He shook his closely cropped head reprovingly.
"But what . . ."
A sudden lull in the quiet hum of conversation told them that their host had arrived. Looking up toward the door, Elizabeth was for once in her life struck dumb.
Sir Adolphus Wingert had outdone himself that evening. Attired in ells and ells of pale pink satin trimmed with falls of the finest Mechlin lace, he made an astounding figure. Despite the tight lacing that announced itself with a great creaking at his every move, his formidable stomach, adorned with a waistcoat of ivory embroidered with tiny blue forget-me-nots and golden fleurs-de-lis, and the generous jowls that drooped gracefully over the high shirt points and rested carefully on the intricate folds of a tie that Elizabeth recognized with her usual acumen as Dolph's rendition of the Oriental, proclaimed him as a man of great appetite.
His pale pink unmentionables clung to voluptuous thighs, the clocks on his silk stockings matched his waistcoat, and a lace garter adorned with rosettes decorated one plump calf.
The pale moon face was carefully shaved, the thinning blond hair was thickly pomaded and swept into an ar- rangement that Elizabeth failed to put a name to, and from one pendulous earlobe dangled a large diamond earring.
As he paused to allow his assembled guests to fully appreciate his sartorial magnificence, he flicked open his snuffbox, cunningly designed to resemble a small casket, and applied his favorite mixture of snuff to one nostril with the expedient of a tiny silver shovel. Sneezing delicately, he blinked his pale, watering eyes and smiled benevolently on his assembled guests.
The assembled guests were speechless. Clearly, Adolphus expected praise and admiration for his turnout; clearly, no one felt able to voice such approval. As the silence lengthened and Adolphus's moon face lost some of its benevolent glow and began to turn sulky, Elizabeth gave herself a small shake.
Rising from her seat, she gave Adolphus the dazzling smile that had won more than one man's heart and had the ability to bring forth a furious frown from the watching Michael Fraser.
"You needn't expect, dear Dolph," she said lightly, "that any of the ladies will have a thing to do with you. It is wicked and unconscionable and a great deal too bad of you to outshine us so. We all look like drab hags compared to you. Unfair and uncivil of you, Dolph." She leaned up and kissed him in a cousinly fashion on one plump cheek, which promptly turned pink to match his ensemble.
"Yes, indeed," Sumner added smoothly, belatedly realizing which side his bread was buttered on. "You look absolutely glorious. I doubt the Prince Regent has anything quite so fine. You quite outshine us all, yes indeed."
Adolphus bestowed a gracious smile upon his vicar.
"You're quite correct, Sumner. Prinny's clothes are positively shabby compared to this. Thought I'd do the ladies honor by wearing it."
The ladies did their best to look honored, while Lady Elfreda rose to her full height. "Well," she said in frosty tones. "I suppose we may finally eat, Adolphus?"
"But of course, Mama," he said indulgently, reassured as to his loveliness. "Conte
ssa'" He held out one plump arm, and that lady accepted it, smiling demurely into his rosy face.
The couples arranged themselves swiftly. Too swiftly, Elizabeth thought disgustedly. Lady Elfreda immediately commandeered both elderly gentlemen, Brenna grabbed for an absentminded Sumner, and Elizabeth, by rising and greeting Adolphus, found herself squarely in between the two remaining gentlemen, Michael Fraser and Rupert St. Ives. They both moved swiftly, but Fraser was the faster of the two. She found that she had no choice but to accept his arm, despite the belligerent glower on his tanned face. But apparently the glower was for Rupert, not her.
"You know, you needn't accept Fraser as your dinner partner, Elizabeth," he said coldly, ignoring Michael completely.
"Miss Traherne knows that perfectly well," Michael replied, placing a possessive hand over hers as it rested on his arm. She had little doubt that if she tried to pull away, the fingers would tighten unmercifully.
"If you'd prefer not to associate with traitors, Elizabeth, you could take my arm," Rupert grated out.
The fingers tightened anyway as rage flooded Fraser's usually impassive face. "Are you interested in fighting for the lady, St. Ives?"
"I have some consideration for my hostess," he replied stiffly. "I am waiting to hear from Elizabeth."
Elizabeth found that despite the nervousness such a bellicose air was arousing in the area of her stomach, she was actually enjoying having two exceedingly handsome gentlemen fight over her. But she knew she would be deceiving herself if she really believed Elizabeth Traherne was the bone of contention between these two snarling beasts.
"Captain Fraser claimed me first, Rupert," she said gently. "If my hostess accepts him, then I must do so too."
"Very well, Elizabeth. But remember, I'll be nearby if you require assistance." He marched out of the room without a backward glance, leaving Elizabeth alone with Michael Fraser. There was a dangerous expression on his face, one that didn't soften when he looked down at his dinner partner. He wasn't wearing his uniform tonight, and his somber black coat did nothing to detract from the strong back and shoulders. Here was one who'd have no need of corsets and buckram padding in his shoulders. The only thing that would improve him, Elizabeth thought objectively, would be a more amiable nature. He glowered down at her as disagreeably as he had glowered at Rupert, and she responded with an impish smile.
"Are we going to be at dagger drawing again?" she inquired. "I thought we had declared some sort of truce this afternoon."
"Then you mistook the matter. What happened this afternoon was an even stronger declaration of war. Unless you've thought better of my suggestion and decided to keep that delightful nose out of things that don't concern you.
Elizabeth couldn't resist reaching to touch that feature, having never had the felicity of hearing it described as delightful in her short life. "I hadn't realized it was merely a suggestion on your part," she said sweetly. "It sounded more like an order to me."
"An order you chose to ignore."
"I don't happen to be your subaltern, Captain," she fired back. "I'm certain there's nothing you'd like better than to have me under you and forced to obey your commands." The moment the unfortunate words were out of her mouth, she stopped, horrified, a deep red suffusing her features.
Fraser smiled down at her, a glint of laughter in his eyes. "I am certain you would rather have me not reply to that remark," he said gently, his low, deep voice amused.
"Yes," she said in a strangled tone of voice. They had almost reached the great dining hall. Surely he wouldn't say anything outrageous as long as they were in earshot of the others.
"Let me know when you'd like an answer to that question, Lizzie," he requested calmly. "Perhaps once this weekend is over."
She could feel the betraying color subsiding as he held the chair for her. "Yes," she said limpidly. "I shall be very busy this weekend." She smiled up at him defiantly.
Chapter 10
It was a spur of the moment thing, Elizabeth realized, and foolish beyond permission. Lady Elfreda had ordered her guests into the ballroom. General Wingert had started off alone, and Elizabeth, hoping to gain some insight into the enigma of Michael Fraser, followed the elderly gende- man willy-nilly into a long deserted hallway running along the side of the gardens.
"General Wingert, I wonder if you could help me?" she began in her prettiest tone of voice, running to catch up with him.
The stout little fellow turned and stared measuringly at Elizabeth out of dark, protuberant eyes as he ran his tongue over his thin pink lips. "And which chit are you, hey?" he barked, moving closer and pressing that large, commanding stomach against her. "Not a favorite of m'sister's, are you, gel?"
As she tried to edge away, one pudgy, surprisingly strong hand reached out and caught her arm in a viselike grip, and he moved even closer. He exuded an unpleasant odor of a nauseatingly sweet cologne, his fingers dug into the tender flesh of her arm, and to her amazement and indignation she felt a fumbling hand reach behind and pinch her.
"Why don't we take a small stroll in the garden? We can talk out there. I'll help you, and then you can help me," the general suggested in a tone that failed to allow for refusal. "Nice night, and you're a taking thing. A bit too tall, but you've a demmed nice figger." And he began pulling her toward the French doors off the hallway as Elizabeth foundered helplessly for excuses.
"General Wingert!" Like a deus ex machina, Michael Fraser's voice broke through the aging lecher's concentration, and with a particularly foul curse he released Elizabeth so abruptly that she fell back against the wall, staring in wonder as Fraser caught up with his superior. "Sir Henry wondered if you could spare him a few moments, sir. He says it's urgent."
The general's beady little eyes ran over Elizabeth's trembling figure with a lingering glance. "Not now, Fraser," he barked. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
The rebuke didn't faze Michael in the slightest. "Yes, sir. But Sir Henry was quite insistent."
"What was he insistent about?" The contessa's lazily amused voice drifted past them as her elegant, black-clad figure moved into the hallway. "There you are, Miss Traherne! I had been wondering where you got to. Your brother tells me you play divinely, and unfortunately Lady Elfreda failed to arrange for musicians. We cannot dance unless we can prevail upon your generosity." Taking the same arm that the general had so recently manhandled, she led Elizabeth down the corridor without a backward glance.
Once they were out of earshot, she dropped Elizabeth's arm, the feline smile still in place. "You ought to watch out for the general, my dear. He has a fancy for very young ladies. I wouldn't suggest you encourage him. He has some rather exotic habits that I fear would both alarm and disgust you. Much better to leave him to an old campaigner like me."
"Contessa, I assure you, I have no interest in the general whatsoever," Elizabeth stammered, both horrified and fascinated by the contessa's hints.
By that time Fraser had caught up with them, a fierce glower on his dark face. "If you don't watch your step, Miss Traherne, you'll have no say in the matter. The general isn't one to be balked of what he wants. Keep away from him."
Elizabeth's temper flared. "Is that an order?" she inquired sweetly.
"If you choose to see it that way," he rejoined. "Or you can see it merely as a piece of friendly advice."
"I hadn't realized you were my friend," she shot back, then bit her tongue as she caught the contessa's entertained expression. "I beg your pardon," she murmured, color high in her face. "I thank you both for your concern. I . . . I believe I'm needed in the ballroom." And she vanished into the room.
The contessa smiled up at Fraser, greatly amused. "So the wind sits in that direction, does it, my friend? How very interesting."
What Lady Elfreda had no doubt considered an absolute whirl of dissipated pleasures struck Elizabeth as deadly boring. Three couples had been added to the uncomfortable little party in order to make up several tables of whist and allow for dancing. As the three cou
ples—the Marshbanks; Sir Junius Harford and his meek wife, Lady Helena; and the Dantons—were all of Lady Elfreda's generation and temperament, the additions were not a success. It was soon discovered that Elizabeth was the only guest who had the slightest claim to musicality, and therefore she found herself spending the next few hours after dinner playing the pianoforte with stolid determination while Sumner and Rupert took turns waltzing with the flirtatious contessa, Brenna suffered Adolphus to tread all over her toes, and the elderly couples played whist with gimlet-eyed determination. Michael looked on from a spot in the corner, not even offering, Elizabeth thought disconsolately, to turn the pages for her. She could comfort herself with the realization that at least he didn't choose to dance with the contessa.
One look at Brenna's great green eyes and the expression of acute misery therein convinced Elizabeth that her brother was even a greater fool than she had first imagined. If such a thing was possible, she added, missing a note in her amusement. If there was ever such a cod's head!
Another missed note, and Elizabeth redirected her attention to the pianoforte for a few moments. When she looked up again, Michael Fraser's tall, lean figure had disappeared from the wall where he had been leaning nonchalantly; he was nowhere in sight.
Immediately deciding that the man was up to no good, Elizabeth speeded up the tempo, disconcerting the couples no end, and then brought the waltz to an abrupt halt. She rose from the bench hastily before her audience could demand an encore that would give them an excuse to hold a member of the opposite sex in their arms for a longer period of time.
"I need a short rest," she said somewhat breathlessly as Sumner cast her a glowering look, reluctantly releasing the contessa's clinging black form. "Perhaps a breath of fresh air."
None of the gentlemen seemed disposed to accompany her, which, though offensive, was just as well. Adolphus had taken advantage of Sumner's temporary inattention and claimed the contessa's hand, and Sumner had more pressing duties than squiring his unencouraging sister about a springlike garden. Besides, it was dashed raw out there. Even Rupert had wandered off to oversee the aging card players.
