by Barton, Anne
But books were a start.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ben hadn’t been to White’s since returning home from the war. In fact, the last time he’d been there, Robert had been with him. They’d toasted the Thoroughbred that Robert purchased at Tattersall’s, and Ben ribbed him, saying he paid twice as much as he should have. Robert had just laughed and said life was too short to quibble over a couple thousand pounds.
Too short, indeed.
In any case, he’d been the one who forced Ben to venture out of his dark study and rub shoulders with their peers.
Though Ben had little desire to discuss politics, the weather, or anything else, he’d come to White’s this evening with a purpose.
The club looked the same as it had seven months ago. Ben steered away from the side of the room he and Robert used to prefer, opting for a comfortable leather chair near a window. He greeted the gentleman nearby, ordered a drink, picked up a paper, and pretended to read while he listened to snippets of conversations around him.
There was talk of wagers, women, and whiskey, but nothing about the portrait. He supposed he should be relieved that it wasn’t the topic on everyone’s lips, but how could he help Daphne if he didn’t know where Hallows was or what he planned to do?
“Evening, Foxburn.” Ben turned toward the commanding voice.
“Huntford. Care to join me?” He waved his glass at the empty wingback chair beside him. Daphne’s brother-in-law wore a black jacket and black trousers—formidable, as always. He wasn’t scowling, however, which Ben took to be an excellent sign.
The duke signaled to a waiter as he smoothly lowered himself into the chair. Ben noted the effortless way he moved and tried to squash the envy he felt. He wasn’t entirely successful, so he tossed back the rest of his drink.
“A pleasant surprise, seeing you here,” Huntford said.
“Yes, well, I do venture out on occasion, although I’m never sure why. I trust the duchess is well?”
The corners of Huntford’s mouth lifted and the harsh lines of his face softened. “She is much improved. So much so that she insists she is able to resume her normal activities. My wife can be… stubborn.”
Ben nodded, intimately familiar with that particular family trait.
“My sisters tell me that Biltmore’s house party was an unqualified success.”
Ben resisted the urge to shrug. “I’m glad Lady Olivia and Lady Rose enjoyed themselves.”
“I’ve noticed, however, that Anabelle’s sister, Miss Honeycote, seems uncharacteristically despondent since her return from Biltmore Manor.”
At the mention of Daphne, Ben’s stomach clenched, but he kept his tone light. “You don’t say?”
Huntford glared for several seconds, and Ben glared back.
“Miss Honeycote and her mother, as you may know, have been staying with us. Daphne is not her usual, cheerful self. Anabelle is concerned. And when my wife is concerned, so am I.”
Ben chose his next words carefully. “Miss Honeycote’s sunny disposition will return. She is much like her sister, in that her strong personality cannot be suppressed for long.” He hoped to God it was true. She deserved to be happy.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the cause of this sudden change, would you?”
“I am no expert on women, Huntford.” Truer words were never spoken.
The duke inclined his head, suggesting he, too, found women to be one of the universe’s great mysteries. His drink arrived and Ben ordered another.
Ben was searching for a way to broach the topic of the portrait, just in case Huntford had heard anything about it, when the duke sighed. “I just spoke to Lord Foley. He’s hosting a ball in a fortnight.”
Ben craned his neck in search of the waiter. “Balls hold little interest for me. Dancing’s not exactly my strong suit.”
Huntford arched a brow. “This ball promises to be… interesting.”
Highly doubtful. Where in God’s name was his drink? “How so?”
“There’s a chap who owes Foley a decent amount of blunt. He doesn’t have the coin to pay him back, but he claims to have a valuable painting.”
The hair on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end; his heart pounded. “What does that have to do with the ball?” He had a good idea of the answer but prayed he was wrong.
“Foley’s debtor says the painting is a portrait of ‘a proper young miss in a highly improper pose.’ He wants Foley to auction it off at the ball and claims it will bring an excellent price—more than enough to cover the debt.”
“Who is the woman?”
“It’s meant to be a secret. Even Foley doesn’t know. He’s going to unveil the thing at his bloody ball. He’s always had a dramatic streak,” the duke said with blatant distaste.
“And he has no qualms about publicly humiliating a young woman or ruining her reputation?”
The duke eyed him suspiciously. “What’s this, Foxburn? I would never have taken you for a defender of reputations.”
“It just doesn’t seem sporting.”
“Agreed. However, any well-bred lady who poses for a lewd painting is beyond foolish. She had to have known the risk.”
She’s your sister-in-law, and she had her reasons, Ben wanted to yell. But any sort of rebuttal would be giving too much away. The waiter hurried over and flourished a tray with Ben’s drink in the center. Thank God. “I assume there is plenty of speculation as to the identity of the woman?”
“Wagers are being placed as we speak. Everyone is guessing the name of the English Beauty. Smithson had the gall to write Anabelle’s name in the book. I had a word with him.”
“A word? Is that what we’re calling threat of death these days?”
Huntford grinned. “Suffice it to say that rumor has been squashed. I suspect other names will be bandied about for the next two weeks… until the truth is revealed.”
A chill ran the length of Ben’s spine. Two weeks to come up with a plan that would prevent Daphne’s ruin. With forced casualness, he shrugged. “Sounds like the Foley ball is not to be missed.”
The duke raised his glass. “To the English Beauty—whoever she is—for inspiring Foxburn to attend a ball.”
Ben drank to that. There wasn’t much in this world that he wouldn’t do for his English Beauty.
Olivia had convinced Daphne that a trip to the milliner’s would be painless, and it appeared that she was correct. The previous night’s rain had washed away much of the road dust and the sun glinted off the pristine shop windows. Ladies and their maids scurried about Bond Street, darting in and out of the busy stores, balancing parcels and boxes.
Olivia pulled the brim of her bonnet forward. “I should have brought my parasol. A mere minute in the sun is all it takes to bring out my spots. I do hope they have the trim I’m looking for. It must be just the right color—green, to match James’s eyes.”
Daphne laughed. “I’m sure they’ll have something equally soulful.” They’d almost reached the shop when she stopped to check that she hadn’t forgotten the list of items Anabelle had asked her to purchase. She peered into her reticule, relieved to see the list there. She secured the drawstring and looked up—to find Miss Starling directly in front of her. The young blonde’s mother was just behind her, clucking her tongue and muttering about the potential dangers of failing to look where one is walking.
“Forgive me,” Daphne said. “I’m afraid I was a bit distracted. Good afternoon, Miss Starling, Mrs. Starling.” She hadn’t seen Miss Starling since the Seaton musicale and wished the respite from her company could have lasted another month. Or year.
Olivia greeted the women as well. “What a striking hat, Miss Starling.”
It was remarkable. The white plumes protruding from the top were so long they brushed the awning above the storefront. Each time she turned her neck to the left, her mother received a mouthful of feathers. But while the hat was a touch ridiculous, Daphne had to admit that Miss Starling looked stunningly beautiful. Eve
ry tendril of her golden hair seemed as though it had been trained to curl and cascade perfectly. Her gown clung to her svelte figure without appearing indecent in the least. And while Daphne’s day gown was perfectly appropriate for an afternoon shopping trip, she suddenly felt frumpy.
“Imagine,” Miss Starling declared, “I was just telling Lord Foxburn that we hadn’t seen Lady Olivia, her sister, or Miss Honeycote in an age. And here you are.”
“Here we are,” Olivia repeated dully.
Daphne glanced down the street. Ben was nearby? She wanted to ask Miss Starling where she’d seen him and how he looked and whether his leg seemed to be bothering him. Instead, she pointed to the shop window and inanely said, “We were just going to get a few supplies.”
“Yes,” Olivia chimed in. “The right shade of trim can make all the difference in a ball gown.”
“Your sister-in-law would know,” Miss Starling said snidely. She never could pass up an opportunity to remind others that Anabelle had been her seamstress. The fact that Anabelle was now a duchess was a mite difficult for Miss Starling to swallow. Daphne let her comment pass, hoping to end the encounter as soon as possible. But Miss Starling seemed equally intent on prolonging it. “There are a good number of balls in the next fortnight. Why, four at least! Although none is as anticipated as Lord Foley’s. I assume you received an invitation?”
Daphne had not been paying much attention to invitations since her return to London; she shrugged and looked to Olivia.
“Oh, indeed. We shall be there.” She elbowed Daphne in the ribs. “Shan’t we, Daphne?”
“I suppose.”
“Trust me,” Miss Starling said, smiling like she had a secret. “You don’t want to miss it.”
“We don’t?” Olivia cried. “Of course we don’t. But why don’t we?”
Miss Starling sighed as though Olivia sorely tested her patience.
Mrs. Starling pushed past her daughter, her very large bosom leading the way like the prow of a ship. “Because some silly chit was foolish enough to pose for a vulgar painting,” she announced shrilly. “And on the night of the Foley ball she shall be exposed for all the ton to see!”
Daphne’s face grew hot and her palms clammy. She swayed slightly, but Olivia righted her without seeming to notice her distress.
“It shall, no doubt, result in a huge scandal,” Miss Starling said with obvious glee. She narrowed her eyes at Daphne. “I should think that you would be pleased, Miss Honeycote, that for once you and your sister are not the objects of censure, unless… you are.”
“What?” Olivia cried. “I am appalled that you would insinuate such a thing. What a ridiculous notion!”
“Is it?” Miss Starling curled a blond ringlet around her finger.
Olivia was indignant. “Imagine how foolish and remorseful you shall feel at Lord Foley’s ball when the truth is revealed.” She linked arms with Daphne. “We shall be there, of course, so that you may issue your apology.”
Miss Starling merely smirked, revealing a perfect dimple.
“Gads!” Mrs. Starling bustled down the sidewalk. “Come along, darling. We don’t have time for this nonsense. It’s nearly teatime and we still need to stop in the dress shop.”
The beautiful young woman cast a smug look over her shoulder as she trailed after her mother. “Until the Foley ball, ladies.”
Olivia waited until Miss Starling was out of earshot. “Oh, she is horrid, is she not? I cannot believe that I used to admire her. I actually considered her a friend!” Olivia tossed her head in the same affected way Miss Starling had. “ ‘Until the Foley ball, ladies.’ Her snide manner makes me want to pluck each pretty curl right off her head.”
“Olivia!” Daphne chided. But her heart wasn’t really in it.
“You are quite right. We mustn’t let her spoil our outing. Let’s go into the shop and see what treasures we may find.”
Daphne peered through the large plate-glass window of the milliner’s and frowned. Almost every square foot of the shop floor seemed to be stuffed with hats, aprons, hosiery, jewelry, slippers, and more. Customers crowded around the main counter, clamoring for assistance. “Would you mind if I waited out here for a few minutes?” Olivia furrowed her brow, and Daphne rushed to explain. “It looks busy inside and I’m enjoying the fresh air. I’ll join you shortly, once the crowd thins.”
“Shall I stay with you?”
Daphne shook her head. She needed a moment to herself—a chance to think.
Olivia hesitated. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“I am.” Daphne forced a smile. “Go, find the trim to match James’s eyes.”
A dreamy look stole over Olivia’s face. “They’re the color of moss. But with flecks of gold. Very well, I’ll see you inside. Don’t linger too long.”
“I won’t.” Daphne stood close to the stone front of the shop, in the shade of the building, and inhaled deeply. For days she’d been tortured by thoughts of what Hallows might do with the painting.
Now she knew.
She was surprised that he hadn’t revealed her name. But perhaps he thought the portrait would bring a higher price if there was an air of mystery around it. She hadn’t honestly thought Hallows intelligent enough to concoct such a clever scheme, but then, both times that she’d met him he’d been rather inebriated.
Strange as it seemed, there was some comfort in knowing what her fate would be. The painting would be publicly revealed. Mama would be humiliated and utterly aghast at Daphne’s wanton behavior. Anabelle would be saddened and disappointed. Daphne would be forever shunned by polite society, and her dream of belonging to that shining, glittering world would be dashed to bits. It was all but done.
“Daphne.” She felt Ben’s deep voice like a breath over her skin. He stood before her, looking as surprised as she. And more handsome than any man had a right to be. “How are you?”
“Very well,” she lied. “How is your leg?”
“I cannot complain.” The weary look on his face said he was lying, too. He glanced quickly behind him and in a lower voice asked, “You’ve heard about the Foley ball?”
Daphne swallowed, determined to be brave. “Miss Starling was kind enough to inform me just now.”
Ben made a face like he’d drunk curdled milk, and Daphne adored him for it. “I’m going to try to stop the auction.”
“Please, don’t do anything that could land you in Old Bailey or the Tower. I’m afraid there’s little we can do. Hallows is angry with both of us. He’s intent on destroying me, and he has the portrait, which is all the ammunition he needs.”
“Don’t give up, Daph.”
Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. What a fine thing for him to say. He was the one who’d given up. He’d given up on them. “Olivia is inside. I need to go.”
“I’m sorry that everything got so complicated and messy.”
“But that’s the way life is. You taught me that, remember?”
“I remember.”
She wiped her eyes and prepared to go inside, then halted. “Thank you for the books.”
He shot her a puzzled look.
“Caro told me. Nothing goes on in that orphanage that she doesn’t know about. That was a very kind thing to do.”
He used the foot of his cane to push a pebble back and forth in front of his boots. “The little urchins need something productive to do. To keep them out of trouble.”
“I think it’s very nice that you care about them.”
He opened his mouth as though he’d deny it, then clamped his lips shut.
Well. If he could change, so could she. “I’ll be at the Foley ball.”
His gaze snapped up and locked with hers. “Daphne, people can be incredibly cruel. If you think Miss Starling is bad—”
“I’ll be there,” she repeated. “And I hope you will be, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Varnish: (1) A transparent, protective coating applied to a finished painting. (2) To give a f
lattering but often deceptive rendition of facts, as in, Try as she might, the beautiful debutante could not varnish the truth about her wanton past.
Ben might not be a sleuth, but he had a good idea where to find Hallows that night—a gambling hell. The question was, which one?
He wasn’t at the hell on Pickering Place or the one on Cleveland Row. But the third one—on Bennett Street—was the charm.
Ben had pressed Averill into service. Naturally, Averill had been curious as to why Ben was so determined to find the infamous painting, so Ben told him the truth: the portrait was of a woman he cared about, and he needed to intercept it before the Foley ball.
Averill’s eyebrows had shot up, but he hadn’t asked Ben to reveal the identity of the woman—that was the kind of friend he was.
He was also the perfect person to assist with this mission: the rare type of man who could blend in anywhere, as much at ease in a rough tavern near the docks as in the finest drawing rooms. This particular gambling establishment, with its marbled fireplace, ornate paneling, and rich carpet, gave the impression of elegance, but beneath the façade lay desperation and deceit.
Ben and Averill walked through the dimly lit parlor and found two vacant chairs at a table where players bet on the roll of the dice. After a few games, Ben was fairly certain the dice were loaded. He placed a wager, lost, and bet again. All the while, he scanned the room for Hallows’s large blocklike head and beefy neck. As he was on the verge of telling Averill it was time to try another house, Hallows sauntered in. A couple of rough-looking men hunkered at his sides.
He had the confident swagger of a man who’d had a few drinks, but not so many that he was stumbling. Ben stayed out of his line of sight. If Hallows recognized him, he’d either run out of the building or beat Ben to a bloody pulp. Neither suited his purposes. He needed information.
Averill might be able to wheedle something out of him, but Hallows had met him briefly at the picnic. If Hallows remembered him, his guard would be up.
An overly rouged woman sidled up beside Ben and laid her bare hand on his shoulder. “Care for a drink? Or something else? She thrust her breasts forward, and they jiggled precariously above her tightly laced corset.
