Ballrooms and Blackmail

by Regina Scott

  Did she think him a misogynist? “Several, I assure you: maids, the cook, a seamstress.”

  “All servants or in trade,” she summarized.

  “I fail to see the distinction. I am informed any number of families use Bow Street for similar purposes.”

  “So I have heard.” She approached the desk. “And I can tell you truly think that if I am innocent, I will not suffer. But there you are wrong.”

  When Nathan frowned, she continued. “You must have been exposed to the gossip that passes through the ton faster than gold leaves a spendthrift’s pocket. What do you think will happen when it becomes known that Bow Street is investigating me?”

  “Bow Street is very discreet,” he started, but she held up a hand.

  “So very discreet that I was able to determine I was being investigated within a few hours of your commission. No, Mr. Kent, the word will get out. Even when your investigation proves me innocent, the damage will have been done.”

  Her lower lip was trembling again. The look made him want to gather her in his arms, hold her close, and promise her everything would be well. He didn’t move from the back of the desk.

  “You see, no one will believe my innocence,” she said, voice throbbing with emotion. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, they’ll say. No decent man will take a chance on marrying me. No lady will wish to be seen in my company lest she be tarred with the same brush. I will be ruined, Mr. Kent, a pariah, just because of your standard practices.”

  He wanted to doubt her. He’d seen those green eyes brim with tears on the least provocation. Yet the bleak look on her face, the way she picked at the stitching on one glove, told him this time she truly was hurting.

  And he knew enough about Society to realize her fears were grounded in reality.

  “I’ll contact Bow Street immediately,” he said. “Assure them it was a mistake. If I catch word around town, I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Her shoulders sagged, as if he’d lifted a weight. “Oh, Mr. Kent, thank you.”

  He came around the desk and lay a hand on her arm. “It is the least I can do. You’re right. I was thinking only of His Grace and not how such an investigation might reflect on you.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “When I learned of it, I was so frightened! My parents expect me to make a brilliant match. How could I face them and tell them there’d be no match at all?”

  Her parents wanted an impressive match? He’d always thought her pursuit of the duke was merely a young miss grasping for greater glory, not that she might be under pressure from family to do better than the six gentlemen she’d already refused, or so the stories went. Perhaps Priscilla Tate wasn’t the opportunist he’d feared.

  Of course, the only way to know for sure was to go through with the investigation. But not with Bow Street. He realized that now. Bow Street was too obvious. If Nathan wanted to know the truth about the lovely Miss Tate, he needed someone more discreet, someone absolutely trustworthy.

  It very much looked as if he would have to investigate Priscilla Tate himself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Priscilla could not help but feel relieved as she and Lady Minerva returned to the Emerson town house.

  “Feel free to use my services any time,” Lady Minerva said as they entered the lofty entryway, fingers stroking the broach that Priscilla had inherited from her grandmother.

  She felt a pang of regret at the broach’s loss. But when she was duchess, she’d have enough money to buy back all her treasures. And she wouldn’t have to enact a Cheltenham tragedy with as much skill as the famous actress Sarah Siddons either. At least Nathan Kent had agreed to call off Bow Street. She had no doubt he’d keep his word. There was something upstanding and noble about him, even when he was being thoughtless. Her secret was safe a while longer.

  Except from her blackmailer.

  “The Misses Courdebas are waiting with Lady Emily to speak to you in the withdrawing room,” Warburton informed her as she handed him Lady Emily’s pelisse. “Shall I send Mary to see to your hair?”

  Priscilla affixed him with her haughtiest look. “Are you implying there is something wrong with my hair?”

  Warburton’s cheek twitched, as if he were trying not to smile. “Certainly not, Miss Tate.”

  With a grin, Priscilla sashayed up the stairs to meet her friends.

  Ariadne and Daphne were once more in their riding habits. Emily still wore her painting smock, and the fresh streaks of red attested to her work. Either that, or Mr. Cropper was in much greater trouble than Priscilla had thought.

  Ariadne was all business. “Miss Bigglethorpe still believes herself the duke’s desire,” she reported, opening her journal in her lap as Priscilla sat nearby and began pinning her hair back into place.

  “And the fondest dream of nearly every Eligible in London,” Daphne complained from where she paced the room, her riding skirts looped up over one arm.

  “As to her writing paper,” Ariadne continued, “it is insufferably lavender, in color and in scent. No one with a modicum of taste would use it.”

  “I’ve ordered some for Mother,” Daphne added.

  Ariadne shook her head.

  “I told you, Emily,” Priscilla said. “Miss Bigglethorpe is not our quarry.”

  Emily did not look convinced, but she waved for Ariadne to go on.

  “We have also ascertained the current status of the six gentlemen who have thus far requested the honor of your hand in marriage,” she said obligingly.

  “Prince Yorganoff has returned to his country,” Daphne supplied.

  “Nursing a broken heart,” Ariadne confirmed with a sigh as if she appreciated the romance of it. Her gaze sped down the page. “And Mr. Tinker purchased a commission and headed for the Continent, I suspect for the same reason.”

  No doubt Aunt Sylvia would have preened to think Priscilla had such power over the emotions of these men, but Priscilla only felt saddened. She’d sincerely liked all six of the fellows who had courted her, and though she had hoped for a declaration from the duke, she would have been willing to marry any of the others, if her parents had approved.

  She hadn’t been in love with them, of course, but she’d hoped her feelings would grow with time. That they had felt it necessary to make drastic changes in their lives said their feelings for her had been stronger. She had not meant to hurt them.

  She realized the room had grown silent and glanced up to find her friends regarding her with equal amounts of pity. She straightened her back. “I am sorry they felt it necessary to run away instead of re-entering the marriage mart. What of the others?”

  Ariadne and Daphne exchanged glances. Daphne paused in her pacing. “Mr. Willenjoiner has fixed his sights on Miss Crandall, and she seems rather pleased by the fact.”

  Emily nodded. “Then we can likely cross her off our list, as Priscilla suggested earlier.”

  “Sir Eustace as well,” Ariadne reported. “His betrothal will be announced tomorrow. And Lord Preston has decamped for Bath.”

  Priscilla leaned back. “That leaves Mr. Richmont.”

  Daphne hurried over and plunked herself down in the chair closest to Priscilla. “The most interesting fellow of the lot, if you ask me. He rides a black stallion with a fiery temper, the horse’s, that is.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “Never trust a man on a black stallion. His consequence must be quite overblown.”

  “The color of his horse is immaterial,” Emily said. “Tell me the quality of his character. Has he run into the arms of another? Fled the country to lick his wounds?”

  “Neither,” Ariadne replied. “He’s simply gone about his life as if nothing had changed.”

  Priscilla didn’t know whether to be pleased he hadn’t been hurt or annoyed she was so easily left behind. “So we’ve ruled him out as well?”

  “Not necessarily.” Ariadne tapped the end of her pencil against her rounded chin. “We were able to confirm that he was in Hyde Park the day you
walked with that adorable Mr. Cunningham and that he left his card at the Dalrymple house the morning you called on them. He had opportunity to slip the note into your pocket and Acantha’s reticule.”

  “Without the servants noticing?” Priscilla frowned. “Not likely.”

  “It is possible,” Emily insisted. “Remember that Lord Robert managed to roam the houses of his victims with no one the wiser, and they all had servants.”

  “Servants who were used to seeing him,” Priscilla countered, “because he was having an affair with the lady of the house or her daughter.”

  Emily winced as if she did not like the reminder of her former fiancé’s perfidy.

  “Regardless,” Ariadne said, closing her journal, “he is the most likely suspect of the lot.”

  “We can keep an eye on him for you,” Daphne promised. “Just in case.”

  Priscilla sighed. “Just promise me you will not cause a scandal.”

  Daphne’s eyes widened. “Me? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “You have been remarkably bolder since the ball,” Emily pointed out.

  “Only because I realized I don’t have to hide my true nature,” she protested. “Gentlemen like a lady with a certain dash.” As if to prove it, she threw wide her arms and smacked her hand into the tall Chinese vase on the side table.

  Ariadne caught it before it fell. “Be that as it may, it wouldn’t hurt to be certain he isn’t the blackmailer.” She steadied the vase back into place with an admonishing look to her sister. “You needn’t ride the fellow down in Hyde Park or climb through his bedchamber window to spy on him.”

  Daphne pouted as if she would have liked to do just that.

  Priscilla rose. “I will leave him to you, then. As it is, I’ll have my hands full preparing for the duke’s breakfast.”

  *

  The duke’s breakfast was to be held a few days later in the afternoon, like all good Venetian breakfasts, and in the gardens behind his large London home. Priscilla arrived just before the hour and directed her family’s man-of-all-work to let her and her mother off across the way rather than join the queue of carriages lining up in front of the elegant stone house.

  Her mother did not question her decision. She knew their carriage was considerably less fine, their servant not even in livery. She and Priscilla were more likely to make a favorable impression if they strolled up to the house as if they were old friends of the family who lived nearby instead of the genteel poor on whom the duke had had pity.

  Priscilla had dressed for her role in a frothy muslin gown and lacy parasol, Ariadne’s lovely white bonnet trimmed in yellow satin ribbons and ostrich plumes, Emily’s pearls at her throat. In a more simple muslin gown and a velvet hat with a peacock feather pinned to the side by an ivory broach, her mother looked presentable as well. They joined the line of attendees promenading up the front walk and were led through the house to the back gardens by a footman in a powdered wig.

  “Mrs. Tate and Miss Tate,” he announced to the assembled company before going to perform a similar service for the next guests.

  A wide veranda spanned the back of His Grace’s home, with stone stairs leading down onto pebbled paths wandering through artfully placed shrubs and flowers. Already several dozen people meandered among the greenery, pausing to chat, to smile in the warm summer sun.

  In an impossibly green coat with gold buttons the size of saucers, His Grace stood near a topiary that was clipped to resemble an elephant balancing on a ball. He was surrounded by women. Most were older and, based on their prominent front teeth or long noses, related to him. Priscilla was less pleased to spot Glynnis Fairtree and Acantha Dalrymple among them. Glynnis she could understand, but Acantha could only be classified as a rival, particularly as she’d chosen to wear a blue-and-white striped gown and charming straw bonnet lined in blue with blue flowers clustered on the crown.

  To make matters worse, Priscilla sighted Mr. Richmont conversing with some of His Grace’s male family members on the opposite side of the garden. He’d been the most prepossessing of her suitors, raven haired, dusky eyed, with an easy grace and a ready wit. Now he glanced up, met her gaze, and turned his back on her.

  The cut direct! So much for remaining on friendly terms. It seemed she was about to enter the lion’s den.

  Priscilla raised her head, smiled angelically, and gave her parasol a twirl as she descended the stone steps into the garden. She could see heads turning, quizzing glasses being lifted, smiles blossoming around her as she and her mother progressed along the path. She purposely avoided the duke, stopping to chat with this lady, that gentleman. Her mother followed her like a shadow, saying little, gazing about her as if she suspected someone was going to come and throw them out as imposters any moment.

  “There you are!” His Grace heralded.

  Priscilla turned with a smile, then joined her mother in dipping a curtsey.

  “Your Grace,” Priscilla murmured, gaze humbly downcast. “Thank you for inviting us. What a lovely garden.”

  She peered up through her lashes to find him looking about as if he had never noticed the greenery. He wrinkled his nose like a rabbit.

  “I suppose it’s all right,” he said. “But I know I’ll enjoy myself more now that you’re here.” He offered her his arm and nodded to her mother. “With your permission, madam?”

  Priscilla’s mother waved them off with an incoherent babble, tears gathering in her eyes.

  The duke set off about the garden, long legs eating up the ground. Priscilla would have preferred a more sedate pace, but she tried to keep up.

  “Is there someplace we must be, Your Grace?” she asked, hem skimming the grass as groups parted before them.

  “Here, of course,” he said, blinking as if questioning her sanity or mental capacity.

  “Yes, certainly,” Priscilla said smoothly. “It’s just rare to find a man who walks with such purpose.”

  “Walking is good,” he pronounced, taking a deep breath that swelled the chest of his coat so much the buttons dug into his waistcoat. “Clears the lungs, cleans the senses. I walk whenever I can.”

  “How very commendable,” Priscilla said. “I must try to emulate your practice, Your Grace.”

  If only she could catch her breath first!

  But in that, she had no luck. The duke paraded her around the garden at a frantic pace. She no sooner greeted one group of his relatives before he dragged her off to meet another. Each conversation went much the same.

  “My dear aunt, have you met Priscilla Tate?”

  The elderly relative would raise a quizzing glass and level a bristling gaze her way. “Miss Tate.” Ice crystals hung from the salutation.

  “Your ladyship, such a pleasure,” Priscilla would say, curtseying deeply.

  “Marvelous woman,” His Grace proclaimed, “and she’s with me!” And then they’d be off again.

  She counted six aunts of varying degrees, five uncles, over a dozen cousins, and a former linen draper related by marriage. None seemed particularly pleased to meet her or nearly as delighted as the duke at her presence among them.

  The worst moment came when he attempted to introduce her to Mr. Richmont, who appeared to be an old friend of the family. He was standing with Glynnis Fairtree by a flowering plant trimmed to resemble a leopard. Someone had even set planes of amber among the green to resemble eyes. Mr. Richmont’s gaze was nearly as baleful.

  “We have met,” he drawled as if unwilling to recall more than that, then promptly excused himself.

  Miss Fairtree watched him go with a sigh. Had someone else fallen under his spell? Then again, she seemed to have dressed particularly well today, her spring green gown of fine cotton and straw bonnet with daisies on the crown complemented by the surroundings. Perhaps Mr. Richmont was courting her.

  Before Priscilla could do more than wonder, Miss Fairtree faced front once more. “So nice to see you again, Miss Tate. I hope you have a moment to talk with me.”

  The
duke released Priscilla’s hand at last. “I will allow it only for you, Glynnis, and only for a moment. She has yet to meet the Nether Crawley branch of the family.” As if determined to prepare his relatives for that momentous meeting, he strode away.

  “I see His Grace has been showing you off,” Glynnis said to Priscilla with a smile. “How are you holding up? Our family can be rather overwhelming.”

  Priscilla would never admit that. “It must be wonderful to have so many people so close,” she said instead, angling her parasol to give herself more shade. “I’m an only child, and so is my mother, so I have precious few relations.”

  “Only an aunt, if memory serves,” Glynnis said. “I find family histories so fascinating. I’d love to hear more about the delightful dowager Lady Brentfield.”

  Her eyes were wide and guileless, but Priscilla felt as if she were measuring Priscilla for the noose.

  His Grace came bounding back just then. “What’s this? An aunt? Which aunt? Is she here?”

  “Alas, no, Your Grace,” Priscilla assured him. “But I’ve been so honored to meet so many of your aunts. Which one is your favorite?”

  She thought surely that would take him off the scent, but his shook his head. “Wouldn’t dare claim one. Imagine what the others would do.” He shuddered, then leaned closer to Priscilla. “Tell me all about your aunt instead. Is she smart, like you? Is she kind?”

  “Will we have the honor of seeing her this Season?” Glynnis asked politely.

  “Come now, don’t be shy,” His Grace urged. “Tell us everything.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  His Grace looked prepared to be enthralled with anything Priscilla said, but Glynnis’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Either she knew she was putting Priscilla in a difficult position or she truly was simply trying to make meaningful conversation. Asking after family and friends was a recognized gambit among the ton, after all.

  So was obfuscating.