by Erica Taylor
“Morton is flat broke,” Halcourt began. “He has blown through the entirety of the Morton funds and is in deep with a dicey set of fellows who work out of the docks. Your new fiancée was meant to be payment for part of his debt.”
Andrew ran his hand through his hair and silently cursed.
Halcourt continued. “The morning he threw her out of Morton House he had arranged her to be picked up from the street. He would spin some story about how she ran out in an overly-dramatic fit and was scooped up by some no-good criminal, and he was helpless to save her. There would be a search, of course, but she would never be found.”
“That is appalling,” Andrew replied, his voice calm, but his mood was anything but. “How could he sell his sister?”
“You forget that Morton hates his sister.”
“Yes, but to do something that horrible?” Andrew shook his head, unable to comprehend that level of hatred. “There is more to this, I am certain.”
“Oh, there is,” Halcourt answered. “My guess is that he’s trying to get his hands on the Patterson gold.”
“Patterson gold?”
“Miss Solana Patterson was a very wealthy heiress, the daughter of some sugar cane farmer. Her father brought her up to town, debuted her with great success and married her off to the highest bidder. However, Old Patterson was no idiot; he knew his daughter’s suitors were only after his money. She was not to receive a dime until his death, and then the money would be held in a trust to be passed along to the daughters of his daughter’s daughters, and so on. Over a hundred years and some smart investing by the Patterson women, the funds have more than quadrupled the original amount. Clara’s mother, Lady Meredith Masson, was the last Patterson heir, and her daughters are the sole beneficiaries of the trust. Only her daughters can access the funds, once they are five and twenty. If they die without issue, it goes to the sons. Jonathan Masson is such a son.”
“But there is another Masson. Patrick, I believe.”
“He’s away in the war. He will not bother Morton.”
“So you think that Jonathan Masson wants to get his hands on the Patterson fortune?”
“I think he had Lady Christina kidnapped or threatened, and it was convenient she died in childbirth at that back country parsonage,” Halcourt replied. “When he realized it was only Lady Clara standing between him and the money, he knew what a convenience it would be if Lady Clara was kidnapped from his doorstep.”
“I cannot believe this,” Andrew said and stood up, pacing the length of the room, weaving around piles of books stacked throughout the room.
“People kill for a lot less, your grace,” Halcourt said to him.
“Is there any proof?”
“Possibly. We think we have found Lady Christina’s footman husband. He has a grand house just south of the Scottish border. He has been making a great deal of noise lately and claims to have been paid off by some great lord and said if the lord does not pay up the rest he is owed, then he will start being more specific with his information. He’s ready to start naming names.”
“Does Morton know of this?” Andrew asked.
“It is possible. The individual I’ve tasked with finding him will have him here within a fortnight. Once the footman sees your face his expression will tell if he’s the one or not. And I’m sure that he can be persuaded to tell the entire story truthfully.”
“Morton wants Clara dead.”
“I think he would not mind if it happened,” Halcourt replied. “He is too cowardly to actually get his hands dirty, but I think that is his end goal. He wants that money. And he is desperate.”
“Then it is a good thing I intend to marry her,” Andrew stated, his mind springing into motion. Morton, he could deal with later. One look at the clock told him he was going to be late to the ball.
“Best be going,” Halcourt said, noting Andrew’s glance at the time piece.
Andrew stood and picked up his hat. “Keep me informed of any more developments.”
Halcourt nodded in agreement, and Andrew set off for the ball.
As promised, the members of Jonathan’s staff who found themselves needing employment presented themselves at Evans, Smith and Watson Employment Agency and were promptly placed in positions around the country. Molly was one of those fortunate to escape Jonathan’s employment, and Clara was relieved and grateful to have her former maid returned to her. Molly had been her lady’s maid at Morton House, but since Christina’s elopement Molly had been assigned other duties in addition to being Clara’s maid. With Molly here, Clara felt a little closer to her normal self.
Although her trunks had arrived from Morton House weeks earlier, Clara still accepted the use of a gorgeous sage-green gown from Lady Norah. The color was a luxury she’d never been afforded. This once, she wanted to try and see what it would feel like to be a part of this family, of this life. She wanted her attire to be appropriate for the Garden Club Ball, especially if she was attempting to convince the ton her engagement was not a lark.
Clara thought she did look rather nice in the sage-green gown. Her reflection was a bit of a shock to her. She was used to simple dresses meant for walking and day wear; even the evening dresses she had worn before were never this elegant. The pink gown she had worn at the Macalister Birthday Ball had been the nicest gown of the lot. The dresses and gowns her Great-Aunt Bridgette had paid for were lovelier than her country attire, but this dress was more exquisite than Clara had ever worn before. It was a soft satin with a wispy sprinkling of minute pearls carefully interwoven into the delicate embroidery along the bodice and bottom hem. Her golden hair had been curled and teased into a myriad of plaits woven into pinned curls. There were even a few curling over her hairline, dropping fashionably along her forehead, and more importantly, concealing her healing wound. She adorned herself with pearls borrowed from Sarah, and as she looked at her reflection one last time, Clara realized that she looked like a lady—a sophisticated, intelligent, desirable London society lady. She felt confidence surge through her veins.
Wrapped in her own cream shawl, Clara descended the stairs, her eyes darting around the front hall in search of Andrew. She was excited to see him, excited to be out with the Macalister family. But the tall, dark-haired man standing in the foyer was not Andrew.
“Luke!” Norah exclaimed as she rushed down the stairs. “We thought you’d left already!”
Lord Luke glanced up the staircase and his mouth split into a wide grin.
“I had planned on it, but his graceness begged me to escort you lovely ladies to the Garden Club Ball.”
“Clara, this is our brother, Lord Luke Macalister,” Sarah said, introducing the roguish brother. Clara had met him once before, years ago when Andrew was courting her sister.
“Be careful, Clara,” Susanna teased. “It is rumored that his eyes alone can charm a young lady senseless.”
Lord Luke offered her his other arm. “And we all know how reliable rumors can be, don’t we, Lady Clara?” he teased with a wink.
Clara accepted his arm. “Quite right, my lord. I have asked your sisters to simply call me Clara and would appreciate if you would do so as well.”
“Sounds reasonable of you,” Luke replied. “Since you are to be my new sister, you may call me ‘my lord,’ or simply ‘Lord’ for short.” He threw her a teasing grin.
Clara wanted to roll her eyes. “Andrew is otherwise indisposed for the evening?” she asked as they stepped outside to the waiting carriage.
Luke handed Norah and Susanna into the carriage after Clara before offering a hand to Sarah, positioning himself beside his widowed sister. It was a tight fit with three to a bench but the three ladies were slim enough to make it work. Thankfully, it was a short drive.
“His grace begs your forgiveness for the change of plans, but relays the message that all is well, and he will meet you there.”
“I certainly hope it was important,” Norah huffed, gazing out the window.
“Oh, you know Andrew,” Luke commented and managed a shrug in the tight carriage. “One hair out of place is reason for an uproar. I assure you it is nothing to worry about. Something about a missing duck returning to London, and Andrew needing to get him back in his row.” He spoke the words to the group at large, but he was looking directly at Clara, and she heard what he was not saying: her brother had returned to London.
Clara tried to not let the rocking of the carriage bounce her into Norah, but every jolt made Clara want to leap out of her skin. It was nerve-wracking to know Jonathan had returned to London. Her brother would be angry, for sure, but what would he do? She was engaged to Andrew, banns had been called twice in Kent and once in Cumberland. There had been an announcement in the newspaper for goodness’ sake. She was out of his reach, just as Andrew had intended.
But would it be enough?
It was all so stressful, and Clara could feel the beginnings of a headache making her even more anxious. She had to keep her mind occupied so she would not think or worry about Jonathan and what he may or may not be doing. Andrew said he would protect her. But how could he protect her when he had sent his giddy younger brother in his place?
With Andrew absent the night seemed less enchanting. The duke’s jovial brother did not offer the same level comfort and security as his brother. Luke was tall and handsome, but something about him stuck Clara as odd. Perhaps it was his eyes, she thought, watching the siblings’ idle banter during their ride in the carriage. Luke’s eyes were an unusual shade of lavender blue, striking and laughing at the same time, though guarded. There was something more to Lord Luke, a depth he seemed keen to hide.
Clara soon discovered Luke was not the only bodyguard Andrew had directed. Arriving at their destination moments later, the ladies were handed out one by one, each passed to a tall male figure before being quickly ushered inside.
“Good evening, Lady Clara,” a tawny-haired man said as she descended from the carriage. “I am Lord Emmett Connolly, the Viscount Barrington. His grace has sent me to make sure you have an enjoyable evening. It would be my pleasure if you would allow me to escort you inside.”
“Yes, of course, my lord,” Clara replied, a bit taken aback by the fact Andrew had sent someone other than his brother to escort her. “Are you a friend of his grace, Lord Barrington?”
“One of his oldest and dearest,” the man replied as they stepped inside.
“Who else has his grace sent to protect me from the evils of the world?” Clara asked in partial jest.
“Lord Bexley and Lord Kensburg are also here at the request of his grace.”
“Gracious, what does Andrew think will happen in the middle of a ball?” she asked, glancing around at the occupants of the front hall where they all stood queued to be announced to the ball.
“You would be surprised how much goes unnoticed during a ball,” Connolly replied. “Morton could pop in and out and no one would notice.”
“Is he going to?” Clara worried.
“It is not likely,” Connolly admitted. “You are not to worry about it—Andrew’s orders.”
“And does everyone usually obey what Andrew commands?”
Connolly laughed. “Usually. Most people stay out of his way, he has a certain dark air about him, you know. But there are a select few who knew him before he was the duke. Our loyalty is based on friendship and respect, not rank.”
“Who are these people you are referring to?”
“Our little troupe of friends,” Connolly explained. “Myself and Bexley, Halcourt, and Trevor, though we have not seen Trevor since he was sent off to fight in the war. And Redley, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?” Clara asked. She noticed whenever someone mentioned this Redley person they always followed it with “of course.”
“His grace and Viscount Kensburg are cousins,” Connolly explained. “Andrew’s mother and Redley’s father were siblings. Redley arrived at Eton just after Andrew inherited the dukedom and has never left Andrew’s side. We tried to get rid of him; he was Andrew’s younger cousin after all, though only by several months. But once we got to Oxford we realized we actually liked Redley. He is a peculiar sort, but a top-notch gentleman. It is difficult to explain why he is a bit odd, but once you meet him you will understand.”
“What about his grace’s spy friend?” Clara asked. “Which one is he?”
Connolly let out a bark of laughter. A few people nearest to them turned at the sound, glanced at Connolly, then at Clara for a fraction longer before pointedly looking away. “Spy friend? I’m assuming you are referring to Halcourt. That is rich, Lady Clara. Goodness, I am beginning to understand what he sees in you.”
“Was it so difficult to see before?” she asked, not sure if she had just been insulted or not.
“Well, yes and no, if I’m being honest,” Connolly admitted and turned his striking green eyes down at her. “You are quite beautiful, though don’t tell Andrew I said so, for he might get cross with me. He is quite protective of you, you know.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she replied dryly.
“But you are Morton’s sister,” Connolly continued. “They are akin to mortal enemies. You are also Christina Masson’s sister, the girl who jilted him at the altar. I admit it was a shock to find out you were the girl he was going batty over. No offense, of course.”
“None taken,” Clara replied. Moments later they were announced to the ballroom, Clara included in the group of Macalisters and Andrew’s friends. Clara did her best to ignore the inquiring looks as she entered the ballroom. Some leered in disgust and yet others were just overly curious.
The Garden Club Ball was as grand as every other ball she had ever attended, but there seemed to be an abundance of flowers everywhere. Vases overflowing with arrangements were crowded on every flat surface. Roses hung in spheres from the ceiling, greenery woven into garland hung along with walls. Trees were tucked into the alcoves. The middle of the room was sectioned off with a rectangle of knee high garden hedge, a tree in each corner. The guests had also taken on an unspoken garden theme with their evening attire as well. Ladies were dressed in pastels, pinks, lavenders, greens and yellows, little flower buds decorating their elegantly coiffed and curled hair.
Clara stood with Susanna, Connolly, and Luke and a red-haired gentleman who was introduced to her as Lord Bexley, another of Andrew’s friends tapped to play bodyguard.
A tall, blond gentleman arrived at their group, and she was introduced to the Viscount Kensburg. He smiled politely at her but did not speak, which Clara found odd. After observing him for a few minutes, she realized his quick grey-blue eyes were taking inventory of the room. The Macalister cousin exchanged a wordless observation with Luke before they both slipped away from the group.
Having disappeared to her own group of friends within moments of arriving, Norah stood on the opposite side of the ballroom holding court with the fashionable crowd, Lady Laura included. Clara met two of Susanna’s friends, Miss Gemma Scott and Lady Monica Summers, both smiling sweetly at her, no doubt privy to their scheme. Their presence indicated their support of her, and Clara was grateful.
A few gentlemen stepped up to request a spot on Susanna’s dance card, each one shooting curious glances at Clara before disappearing into the crowd. Luke had commandeered Clara’s card, writing in name after name along each black line. It seemed her bodyguards were also responsible for dancing with her.
The Garden Club Ball was proving to be a successful crush as more people packed into the room, but still there was no sign of Andrew. Clara knew better than to be worried, but his absence made her anxious. He had a calming effect on her, and while she knew she would survive without it, she desperately wanted his support.
“Have you heard about Miss Griffin?” a gossiping voice sa
id behind Clara. “Her father inherited, and now she’s Lady Eleanor.”
“What a social-climbing little gnat,” a second voice replied. “She’s almost as bad as Lady Clara. It’s amazing how she weaseled her way into polite company.” Clara stiffened, determined not to let the words bother her. If there was anything polite about this company, Clara had failed to see it.
“Oh, do tell,” the second lady said with a laugh.
“She is apparently engaged to the Duke of Bradstone,” the first lady said. “He must be having some sort of laugh about this. I daresay he only intends to jilt her as her sister jilted him. He is just keeping her as some sort of pet.”
“Pet?” the second woman asked. “That sounds . . . titillating!”
“You would think so, Maurine,” the first lady said. “It is sad she does not realize he’s just having a laugh at her expense. This is certainly some grand old scheme to amuse the duke.”
“I don’t ever recall Bradstone having a sense of humor.”
“Mark my words, he has no intention to marry her,” the first woman replied. “You know he and the Earl of Morton hate each other. It must just grate on Bradstone to have to endure her presence in his house. If I were him I’d toss that old rug out the door. Once I’m done treading its threads, of course!”
“Oh, you are so delightfully wicked!” the second lady laughed.
Clara turned her head to deliver the two gossipmongers the coldest, haughtiest stare she could muster, trying her best to imitate Andrew’s best glares. The two ladies stared back and Clara raised one blonde eyebrow in challenge before looking forward again, nose tilted slightly up.
She danced the first set with Connolly, who was pleasant enough, but he did not eliminate her uneasiness. Luke returned to her side for the second set and was all grins and laughter in an attempt to ease her concern, but Clara did not miss how his eyes darted around the ballroom, watchful and intelligent, much like his cousin’s. She decided there was something else to Lord Luke, and Lord Kensburg as well, something she could not quite put her finger on.
