by Regina Scott
“We should have expected this,” Ariadne said with a shake of her head that set the plumes on her riding hat to fluttering. “The impoverished heroine seeking to rise above her station for a noble cause? A villain was bound to show up.”
“Perhaps in the novels and plays you read,” Priscilla replied, tucking the note away, “but this is my life. I assure you, I did not expect to find a villain lurking behind every bush.”
“Or in your pocket,” Daphne agreed. She guided her horse around a bush as if to make sure no one was lurking there. “It must have taken a great deal of daring to slip such a note into another person’s pocket. Perhaps I should try it.”
“Perhaps you should find better ways to impress the gentlemen,” Emily said. Her dark eyes were still narrowed, as if she could not focus on anything but Priscilla’s problem. “But your point is well taken. I’ve been considering where you were today, Pris. There is a more important question. Where was your pelisse? And when did you last wear it?”
Priscilla pursed her lips, thinking. “The last time I wore the pelisse was on a walk in Hyde Park with Mr. Cunningham, two days after the ball.”
“Mr. Cunningham called on you?”
Even in her distress, Priscilla could hear the wistfulness in Ariadne’s tone. She knew her friend was enamored of the curly-haired gentleman they had met through Emily’s dastardly former fiancé, Lord Robert Townsend.
“Only a couple times,” Priscilla assured her with a wave calculated to dismiss as Emily instructed the coachman to stop among the trees. “I’m sure it was only to establish the fact that he had nothing to do with Lord Robert’s predations.”
“I wonder why he didn’t visit us, then?” Daphne mused, slowing her mount to keep her abreast of the carriage.
“Or protest his innocence to me,” Emily added.
They were only making matters worse. Couldn’t they see that Ariadne’s big blue eyes were clouding, her teeth worrying her lower lip?
Priscilla lay her hand on her friend’s. “He’s a puff of eiderdown, drifting from one social engagement to another. You could do far better.”
Ariadne offered her a smile. “Well said. I shall ask you to repeat that later, when I have my journal with me.”
“I’d be honored.” As Priscilla withdrew her hand, Emily leaned forward. The branches of the trees, waving gently in the breeze, were bright behind her bonnet.
“We can safely assume the note could not have been placed in your pocket before the ball,” she said, “as you had told no one of your interest in pursuing the duke.” She affixed Priscilla with a frown. “You did tell no one but us, correct?”
“Certainly,” Priscilla insisted. “I haven’t even confided my hopes to my parents.”
“Not wanting to raise their expectations,” Ariadne murmured, leaning back. “How kind.”
“How expedient,” Priscilla corrected her. “If they knew my intentions, they’d never leave me be. As it is, they constantly push me toward this gentleman, pull me away from that one. None of the six who have proposed was good enough for them.”
“I thought they might approve of Mr. Richmont,” Daphne put in, sliding from her sidesaddle to the ground. “He has a remarkable stable.”
“And all his money goes to improving it,” Priscilla replied. “Lord Preston they deemed too low on the social scale, being only a baron. Sir Eustace was already supporting a mother and three sisters on the income from his rather meager estate. Mr. Tinker has a brother in trade. Mr. Willenjoiner recently earned the wrath of the Prince by making a comment to His Highness about how manly corsets could be. And they would not countenance a match with Prince Yorganoff because his small principality is situated in a chilly northern climate.”
Her friends were staring at her, and she willed herself not to blush. This time, Ariadne was the one to pat her hand.
“The important thing is that none of them engaged your heart,” she said with a smile to Priscilla. “That is the best reason to refuse them.”
Priscilla pulled her hand away. “And we all know that even if I had dearly loved one of them, my parents would have insisted I refuse anyway. I simply don’t have the will to disagree.” She forced herself to focus on Emily’s gaze, always so open and frank. “So the pelisse and its perfidious pocket have not left my possession since I walked with Mr. Cunningham in the park, except for today, when Acantha’s butler took it while I visited.”
Emily tapped her pointed chin with one finger. “You have no maid or servant all your own, so we can rule out your staff. I see no reason for Mr. Cunningham to warn you away from the duke when he has not singled you out for his attentions.”
“Perhaps someone else slipped it into her pocket in the park,” Ariadne suggested, “while she was staring dreamily into Mr. Cunningham’s lovely blue eyes.”
Enough was enough. Priscilla met her gaze. “In the first place, Mr. Cunningham’s eyes are a perfectly common shade of blue that I ceased paying attention to after the first introduction. In the second, when I am strolling in Hyde Park, my focus is on the other eligible gentlemen I hope to meet.”
Ariadne had the good sense to look chastised.
“Which is why,” Daphne cried, raising a hand so quickly the gesture set her horse to shying “you wouldn’t notice if a nonentity slipped something into your pocket!”
Priscilla stiffened. “You’re right!”
Daphne beamed as she soothed her beast. “I know.”
“So, anyone in the park could have issued that note,” Emily summarized as if determined to keep them all on topic. “Or anyone in the Dalrymple household.”
“If I wagered,” Daphne said, “my money would be on Acantha, thirteen point eight to one.”
“She makes an exceptional villain,” Ariadne agreed. “I know no one more mean-spirited.”
Priscilla met Emily’s gaze and realized her friend was in agreement.
Emily raised her head. “That settles it, then. We will approach the creature and see what sort of accounting she can make for herself.”
*
Nathan accepted His Grace’s coat as the tailor fawned over the duke. He tried not to cringe as the fellow trotted out fabrics ranging from chartreuse to fuchsia.
“I believe we agreed on dove gray for this morning coat, Your Grace,” Nathan said.
His cousin’s look was mulish, but the tailor immediately took away the brighter colors. It seemed Nathan had not been demoted to valet just yet.
Of course, their family expected him to take on any role, so long as the good fortunes and name of the House of Rottenford remained unsullied.
He still remembered the day he had been given his position as personal secretary to the new duke. All members of the family had gathered at the ducal mansion outside London after the funeral of the previous duke and his oldest son. Black wreathed the doors and chimneys; the curtains had been closed against the light. Family members of varying degrees of age and closeness were perched on the brocade-covered sofas, the satin-striped chairs of the formal gallery. The portraits of their shared ancestors had gazed balefully down upon them.
Nathan had always liked the room. It was solid, elegant, dignified. It spoke of the long line of regal forebears who had carried the family name with which he was proud to be associated. The jade and porcelain vases on the gilded shelves among the portraits, the Greek and Roman statuary between the windows, proved that his family had both good taste and the financial prowess to keep such treasures for the next generation.
“This is a tragedy of the first order,” his Great-Aunt Lady Wolvenstone had pronounced to the room at large, striding up and down the crimson carpet, her black skirts snapping with each step. “To lose Rottenford and his heir within a day of each other is bad enough. To find Lord Percy at the head of the family is to court disaster.”
Leaning against the wall at the back of the room, Nathan had been glad his cousin was still down the corridor being advised by the vicar on his new duties to the church. He a
nd Percy were in their final term at Oxford and trying to determine where they would go afterward. Nathan had toyed with becoming a barrister on the advice of his uncle Lord Augustus, while Percy could not make up his mind between buying a commission in the military or joining the circus, neither of which his father would have allowed.
“There is only one thing for it,” his other Great-Aunt Lady Pruton had insisted, rising from the tufted pouf on which she had sat. “Someone must be there beside him, day and night, to watch over him and guide him.”
His other aged relatives had nodded sagely. So had most of the younger ones who had grown up with Percy.
“It won’t be easy,” his uncle Lord Augustus had said from his place on one of the largest chairs. He paused to suck the prominent front teeth that were a family trait Nathan was thankful to have been spared. “He’s young enough to want to do things his own way.”
“And stupid enough to try,” Lady Wolverton predicted.
Lady Pruton held up a finger. “What we need is a young relation, someone of uncommon good sense and propriety.”
“Someone who will be guided by our advice and admonitions,” Lord Augustus agreed.
“Someone we can trust to safeguard the family name,” Lady Wolverton insisted.
“And all its treasures,” Lord Augustus added, glancing around at the paintings and statuary.
Nathan had felt a tingling at the back of his neck as all heads turned to him. From that moment on, his future was set.
But he was not without hope. Being the Duke of Rottenford’s personal secretary and relative, though distant, had its benefits. He lived in luxury with his own suite of rooms and little on which to spend his more-than-adequate salary. If he succeeded in persuading His Grace to marry the right duchess, his duties would diminish. Someday, he might hope for a wife of his own, a small estate in the country. All he had to do was keep Percy on the straight and narrow until then.
He folded the coat more carefully in his grip, and something fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird. Bending, he retrieved the piece of parchment.
You are mine. Stay away from Priscilla Tate, or I will see that she troubles you no more.
Nathan’s spine stiffened even as his hand fisted on the note. He knew he should be concerned for His Grace. Who felt so proprietarily about him? Who could have been so close as to slip a note into his pocket without Nathan observing it?
And how could he protect Priscilla Tate before disaster struck?
Chapter Five
Catching Acantha Dalrymple alone that afternoon proved difficult. Emily directed her carriage to the Dalrymple domicile, even though Ariadne and Daphne in their riding habits were hardly dressed for a social call. Unfortunately, the other carriages waiting outside told them the Dalrymples were entertaining.
“Though, mind you,” Daphne said, “I have never found Acantha the least bit entertaining.”
Priscilla could only agree. Still, it seemed some members of the ton sought out the family as eagerly as her mother did.
“We cannot confront her before so many people,” she told her friends. “It would be socially advantageous to no one. I’ll simply have to wait until my mother is granted a private audience again.”
Ariadne regarded her with sad eyes. “How noble you are, Priscilla.”
She hardly felt noble. If Acantha Dalrymple knew her secret, her life in Society was over. Either her nemesis would use the threat of talking to make Priscilla dance like a puppet, or she’d reveal the information and no good member of Society would speak to Priscilla again. How could she sleep tonight not knowing?
As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait so long.
She and Emily had both been invited to Lady Weston’s musicale that evening. Normally, Priscilla would have been glad to attend, as any number of Eligibles were sure to be present. She knew Emily had little use for the social scene, but for Priscilla, there was no finer sport.
Truly, every ball, every rout, every musicale was a war to be waged. Her weapons were her beauty, intellect, and cunning. Her goal was to use them to best advantage to attract and hold the attention of the highest-ranking gentlemen present.
And she was very good at it.
She knew just how to tilt her head while smiling so that the candlelight glinted on her golden hair and set her emerald eyes to sparkling. She knew how to glide about the room as if she weighed nothing while displaying her admirable figure. She knew how to laugh in a way that drew people to her with a smile, how to pout to set them to doing her will, how to fill her eyes with tears and cause men to stammer out an apology and promise to make everything better.
But tonight, not knowing who was out for blood, she wanted to blend into the fine rose-colored wall coverings and hope no one noticed her.
Easier said than done. She’d chosen a simple white silk gown with wave of flowers embroidered along the hem and a single green satin ribbon that tied under her bosom. Still, several gentlemen told her how well she looked as they came to pay their respects where she, Emily, and Lady Minerva were sitting on little gilt chairs in the very back row waiting for the music to start.
“There never was a need to gild the lily,” Lady Minerva muttered as Priscilla slouched against the seat, trying to make herself as small as possible.
“That,” Emily said, “depends on the lily.” She nudged Priscilla’s emerald velvet evening slipper with her toe. “Look who just arrived.”
Could she mean Acantha? Every muscle in Priscilla’s body stiffened, but she waved a hand languidly before her face and looked about as if searching for an open window to escape the growing warmth. Lady Weston’s music room had a massive white marble fireplace at either end, bracketing a series of long windows before which squatted a golden harp, violins, cellos, and a pianoforte lacquered in white and painted with pink and red roses. Roses in porcelain vases rested on either mantle, perfuming the room. And more than four dozen people in silks, satins, and velvets ambled about, attempting to see and be seen before the music temporarily robbed them of the opportunity.
A braying cackle led Priscilla straight to her quarry. Acantha Dalrymple, replete in a lacy confection the color of jonquils, was standing by the far hearth, giggling over the gangly gentleman who had bowed over her hand.
Priscilla faced front, mind whirling. Surely Acantha wouldn’t announce the secret to the entire room. She felt as if the iron bars of debtors’ prison were encircling her, drawing closer, holding her frozen.
“Look for an opportunity,” Emily murmured beside her. “We can question her tonight.”
Tonight? Where anyone might hear? Priscilla had feigned a faint more than once in her life, but for the first time, she actually felt light-headed.
“Good evening!” Lady Weston, in a wine-colored satin gown with a graceful overskirt stitched in gilt thread, stepped to the front of the room. Her white hair gleamed under the light of the crystal chandelier. “Thank you all for coming. If you would please take a seat, we will commence our marvelous musicale shortly.”
Her guests jockeyed for position. Gentlemen intent on pursuing a certain lady veered to secure a place at her side. Those hoping to escape the Season unshackled held for the back of the room. When a gentleman seated himself beside Priscilla, she hardly noticed, so intent was she on watching Acantha.
Her rival sashayed to the front of the room and took a seat in the center of the row, a gentleman on either side. Priscilla recognized the Marquess of Bathhurst on her left.
“Does Mr. Cunningham have no taste?” Emily murmured, evidently recognizing the curly blond head on Acantha’s right.
“Bit of fluff, remember?” Priscilla returned.
“Indeed. I shall have to warn His Grace.”
Priscilla sucked in a breath at the dry voice beside her. It couldn’t be. She pasted on a smile and turned to find Nathan Kent gazing at her. His evening black was impeccable, but it only fueled the panic rising inside her. She glanced past him to the empty seat beyond.
/> “His Grace is indisposed,” he said, correctly interpreting her look. “He sent me to convey his regrets to Lady Weston and his friends.”
He made it sound as if she was one of them. So, at least the blackmailer had not regaled the duke with her secret. Yet.
“Mr. Kent,” Emily said with a nod. “Good to see you.”
“You do have a way of turning up,” Lady Minerva put in with a humph, twitching her black silk skirts closer to her side as if she feared he might sully them.
He did indeed have a way of making his presence felt, and at all the wrong times. If Acantha revealed Priscilla’s secret now, Priscilla would have no opportunity to present a counter story to His Grace. And she was certain Nathan would make sure his employer heard every sordid detail. She could not allow that.
“Indeed, Mr. Kent,” she said, fluttering her lashes, “it is an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon. But it distresses me to hear His Grace is feeling unwell. Perhaps we should both forego the pleasantries of the evening. You should hasten to his side, and I will return home to offer prayers on his behalf.”
He frowned. “Now?”
Priscilla rose. “Yes. Now. This very minute. If you’d be so good as to escort me.”
Lady Minerva glared up at her. “Oh, do sit down. I won’t be able to hear the music with you posturing, girl.”
Others were glancing her way as well, and Priscilla felt her color rising.
“Did you have something you wished to say, Miss Tate?” Lady Weston asked from the front of the room.
More eyes turned to her. Priscilla smiled at them all. “No, your ladyship. I’m only delighted to be here among so many talented young ladies.”
Lady Weston’s smile could have graced a cobra. “And I cannot think why I did not include you among their number. I’m certain you won’t mind opening the evening with one of your lovely piano concertos.” She waved toward the elegant instrument behind her. “Come along, dear. Show everyone what you’re made of.”
