Ballrooms and Blackmail

by Regina Scott

  Priscilla sighed. “Everyone was posturing so much that I could well believe we might have missed a dozen blackmailers sneaking about. And, to make matters worse, most of our suspects were there: Acantha; Mr. Richmont, who appears to be in Glynnis Fairtree’s pocket; Nathan Kent.”

  “Nathan Kent?” Emily frowned. “I was under the impression you didn’t wish to add his name to our list of suspects.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” Priscilla said. “He is entirely too determined to see the duke wed elsewhere.”

  Emily wrinkled her nose. Odd that the gesture was far more charming on her than on the duke. “And he’s made no bones about the matter. Besides, he has enough authority that he doesn’t need to sneak around.”

  “Perhaps,” Priscilla allowed. Emily did have a point. If Nathan was against Priscilla, no doubt a word in the duke’s ear would suffice. He had no need to resort to blackmail.

  She accepted the notes back from Emily with a sigh. “Regardless, I cannot cower in my corset waiting for the next note to arrive. I made some gains with His Grace today. I don’t intend to lose them.”

  “So what will you do?” Emily asked, pulling off her smock as if she were done painting for the moment. “And how can I help?”

  Priscilla would have liked nothing better than to call on His Grace herself, but a lady did not call on a gentleman. She brought the gentleman to her. Having just attended one of the duke’s entertainments, it would be only right to find some entertainment for the fellow in exchange.

  Priscilla narrowed her eyes at her friend. “You are going to host an adventure of some sort. I care nothing for the details save that they should serve to entice His Grace to attend, even if Mr. Kent objects. And we should be able to go within the week.”

  “Shall I invite the Prince as well?” Emily quipped. “Perhaps the royal princesses?”

  “They are optional,” Priscilla said with a smile. “His Grace is not. You devise the scheme. I will endeavor to present it to His Grace.”

  That should not be difficult. She knew the duke’s habits by now, when he was likely to be found driving in Hyde Park, how often he visited his tailor, where he sat for services at St. George’s Hanover Square. It was relatively easy to ensure that she and Emily were ambling along in the park with Lady Minerva and a footman a few steps ahead of them, the next afternoon at precisely the time His Grace preferred to drive.

  Though Emily had chosen a pelisse the color of aged wine, Priscilla was dressed in a sky blue velvet pelisse with chevrons edged in white satin piping along the shoulders and down the front. Her bonnet was of the same material trimmed in a profusion of ostrich plumes and tied under her chin with a white satin ribbon. She fancied she was the perfect match for His Grace’s beautiful white coach as it pulled up beside them. When she was a duchess, she’d insist on using it daily.

  “Ho, Miss Tate!” His Grace leaned out of the open window. “And Lady Emily. Good to see you both.”

  Priscilla curtsied, and Emily inclined her head.

  “How pleasant to see you as well, Your Grace,” Priscilla said as she straightened. “I was just telling Lady Emily how much I enjoyed your breakfast.”

  “Salmon and kippers,” he agreed. “Have it every morning.”

  Was he telling her what he’d eaten for breakfast that day? How odd! Priscilla tried not to frown.

  “I believe,” the ever-present Glynnis said from the other side of the coach, “that Miss Tate meant the Venetian breakfast she attended with us.”

  He blinked at his cousin as if the muted yellow of her gown was too bright for him. “Well, of course she did. Honestly, Glynnis, at times I am certain you are hard of hearing.”

  Glynnis dropped her gaze, paling.

  “I also enjoyed the opportunity to become better acquainted with Miss Fairtree,” Priscilla said, pitying the woman.

  Glynnis offered her a small smile. “It’s delightful to have someone with whom to share secrets.”

  Priscilla felt Emily’s hand on her arm. What, did she think herself eclipsed in Priscilla’s affections? She had never had a better friend than Emily. She covered Emily’s hand with her own, finding her friend’s fingers as tight as bed ropes.

  “Secrets?” Lady Minerva chirped, returning to their sides. She smacked her lips as if ready to sample a few right then and rubbed her lean hands together in front of her serpentine pelisse.

  The duke waved, the lace at his wrist flapping. Today, he was dressed in a sensible navy coat that Priscilla suspected had been commissioned by Nathan.

  “I hate secrets,” he declared. “Never can keep them straight.”

  “I find honesty to be prudent in many things, Your Grace,” Priscilla assured him. “Haven’t I always said so, Emily?”

  “Always,” Emily drawled.

  Lady Minerva snorted.

  Oh, but the woman could be a double-edged sword! Her company gave Priscilla the propriety expected of a young lady on the ton, but Priscilla never knew whether she was going to respond with any propriety! Worse, Emily had yet to invite His Grace to her entertainment. Priscilla squeezed her friend’s arm, hoping Emily would get the message.

  Emily straightened. “By the way, Your Grace, I am planning an entertainment the day after tomorrow. I hope I can count on you to attend.”

  He wrinkled his nose. Priscilla would have to break him of that habit. No one could take him seriously when he looked as mad as a March hare. “I’m not sure,” he said with a look to Glynnis.

  His cousin smiled politely. “What sort of entertainment, Lady Emily?”

  Priscilla watched Emily, waiting. She’d thought of so many things she’d love to host, a tea party among the botanical wonders in Kensington Gardens, a private tour of the exotic treasures of the British Museum, even an evening among the rare animals of the Tower Zoo. Her family would never be able to afford such luxuries, but nothing was too difficult for the daughter of a wealthy, well-positioned duke.

  “I am hosting an expedition to view the crypt at the graveyard at St. Mortimer’s,” Emily said, “at twilight.”

  Priscilla stared at her. A crypt? A graveyard? What was she thinking? And the crumbling medieval abbey of St. Mortimer’s was out beyond the docks. Priscilla had passed the gloomy place on the way to visit Aunt Sylvia, whose new residence lay a short distance away. Who could possibly want to go there for enjoyment?

  She opened her mouth to suggest something more appropriate when His Grace slapped the side of his coach, making the horses shift in their traces.

  “The very thing! A dark night, a bit of skullduggery.”

  Glynnis giggled at the pun.

  He did not appear to notice his own wit. “Count me in, Lady Emily. Send word on the time.” With an airy wave, he urged his driver on.

  “Ah, the cemetery at midnight,” Lady Minerva said as if she regularly spent time in such locations. “That ought to make for some interesting courting.” She sidled up to Priscilla. “For your pearl bandeau, I could be persuaded to look the other way.”

  For her pearl bandeau, the woman could be persuaded to stay home! She turned to Emily.

  “A crypt? That was the best you could do?”

  Emily frowned. “What’s wrong with a crypt? There’s bound to be history and pageantry. Very likely a martyr or two. What more could you want for entertainment?”

  Gorgeous costumes, witty conversation, pleasant company? Priscilla sighed. As always, she would manage.

  “Then you’ll make the rest of the arrangements?” she asked her friend.

  Emily shrugged. “Certainly. But I’d feel more encouraged that the duke would attend if Mr. Kent had been with him to approve of this outing.”

  A chill ran through Priscilla. Emily was right. Always before when the duke had driven in Hyde Park, Nathan had been at his side like a loyal hound.

  So where was he today? And did his suspicions of her have anything to do with his absence?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nathan realized he was h
urrying and forced his steps to slow. If anyone was watching from the Dalrymple establishment where he’d just called, he didn’t want them to think he was running away.

  Even though he was.

  He had never understood the duke’s fascination with Acantha Dalrymple. True, she seemed kinder lately, sweeter, the blue of her gowns setting her eyes to sparkling. But he could not shake the feeling that her nature was entirely too grasping. It was as if, having arrived in this place in Society, she must cling to it with both hands or crawl over the backs of others to reach higher.

  As it was, she had been most unhelpful in unraveling the mysteries of her shriek at the Venetian breakfast.

  “I do not wish to speak of it,” she’d insisted, long nose in the air. “It is most ungentlemanly of you to remind me.”

  “I simply wished to ensure that you had taken no lasting harm,” he’d promised her as he’d sat near her in the family’s withdrawing room. Singular space. Several rooms in various ducal properties were arranged around a particular color, but he’d never seen one where every shade clashed. “His Grace would never forgive himself if you were unhappy because of something he did.”

  Her face softened. “His Grace is very kind. But it was nothing he did. It was all that wretched . . .” She choked back her words. “As I said, I would prefer not to speak of it.”

  “Of course.” Nathan inclined his head but kept his gaze on her. “I’m merely glad Miss Tate was able to come to your aid.”

  “She’s been very kind as well,” Acantha admitted, grudgingly, he thought. As if she realized it, she sat straighter in her chair. “And that is quite unusual for her. Oh, but I could tell you stories!”

  Despite himself, Nathan leaned forward, hands on his fawn-colored trousers. “Such as?”

  Acantha glanced at her mother, who was conversing with two older women who had come calling. A moment earlier, and her mother had been shooing out two precocious cherubs Nathan assumed must be Acantha’s sisters, for all the young lady had refused to acknowledge them.

  Now she leaned closer to Nathan. “Priscilla Tate makes her own clothes, you know. I have no idea where she finds the material, but I’m certain she’s pieced those dresses together to make her wardrobe.”

  She seemed to find it a great scandal, but Nathan thought Priscilla should be commended. Several of His Grace’s female relatives had sent him a bill for an outrageously priced gown at one point or another, begging his aid in paying for it. Faced with constrained circumstances, Priscilla had found a way to live within her means. And she looked rather fine while doing so.

  “A shame a lady must resort to such tactics,” he told Acantha.

  She frowned as if she’d expected a more indicting response. “They have only a man-of-all-work now. Everything of any substance was supplied by her aunt.”

  “The Countess of Brentfield,” Nathan acknowledged. “I wonder why she hasn’t made her presence felt this Season.”

  Acantha’s eyes brightened. “I heard she took an Italian dancing master as a consort and is frolicking on the Continent.”

  “With Napoleon on the loose?” Nathan shook his head. “What an intrepid lady she must be.”

  Acantha leaned back. “Well, she has some reason for her absence. Perhaps she simply couldn’t bear to watch her niece become such a terrible failure.” She nearly crossed her eyes looking down her nose at him. “She had six men courting her, and none of them came up to scratch.”

  Something had pushed Nathan to his feet. “Perhaps they too failed to recognize her sterling qualities. I will give your regards to His Grace, Miss Dalrymple.” He’d inclined his head, taken his leave of her mother, and quit the house before the stuffy air smothered him.

  Now he allowed himself a sigh. Each time he sought to learn Priscilla Tate’s dark secret, he uncovered more light. She appeared to be loyal to her friends, a devoted daughter ready to sacrifice herself for her family. Now it seemed she was industrious as well. Much more of this, and he’d never get her off the duke’s list.

  He was halfway across Mayfair when he spotted the lady herself. She was walking with Lady Emily, Lady Minerva, and a footman, chatting with her usual animation, the plumes on her bonnet waving with her movements. He fell into step far enough behind so that she wouldn’t notice him.

  They reached the Emerson town house a short time later, and Lady Emily, her aunt, and the footman entered. As soon as the door closed behind them, Miss Tate squared her shoulders and set off. Where was she going? Why?

  Only one way to find out.

  For the next hour, Nathan followed her about. She was careful to avoid thoroughfares where the fashionable congregated, as if making sure no one of their class might see her. She stopped at a grocer’s and purchased two apples. She haggled over the cost of a length of cord with an out-of-the-way linen draper. She paused before the window of a jeweler’s and sighed over a tiara. Then she hurried on, rounded a corner, and disappeared from sight.

  Nathan lengthened his stride. She had wandered into a part of town that was considerably seedier than he was used to patronizing. The shops were narrow and dimly lit, their patrons dressed in cast-off clothing and none of it too clean. A lady should never be alone in such a place. Was he to learn the truth about Priscilla Tate at last?

  He barreled around the corner, and his toe caught on something. Stumbling forward, he went down on one knee, the cobblestones hard against the bone.

  An apple appeared in his field of vision, held by a graceful gloved hand.

  Glancing up, he found Priscilla gazing down at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kent,” she said. “It appears we must talk.”

  *

  Priscilla held her ground as Nathan climbed to his feet. Like her, he was dressed for calling, in the regulation navy coat and fawn trousers tucked into boots. Of course the knee of one trouser was filmed with dirt, and the shine of his boots had dimmed with the yards she’d put on them as she’d led him all over town. As he dusted himself off, he glanced back at the length of cord she’d strung across the alleyway.

  “My hunting skills are obviously lacking,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Priscilla smiled. “There aren’t many places to hide in Mayfair without being observed.” She felt her smile slipping. “Which is why any number of people might have noticed you following me. Are you determined to ruin me, sir?”

  He grimaced as he straightened. “If anyone noticed me, they are more likely to find me at fault.”

  There was that. Her worth on the marriage mart might increase if Society thought she’d captivated the duke to such an extent that he sent his personal secretary to follow her. Of course, some might think it was the secretary and not the duke who was infatuated with her.

  She held out the apple again. “Peace. You are clearly concerned that I am up to no good. What can I do to prove myself innocent?”

  He accepted the apple with great reluctance. What, did he think she’d poisoned it?

  “Will you answer a few questions?” he asked.

  “Certainly, so long as the answers will not compromise my virtue or betray another’s trust.”

  She could see the calculation behind his fine brown eyes. Truly, they were so deep she thought she might peer into his soul. She was certain it would be as shiny as the apple.

  “Why did you help Miss Dalrymple at the breakfast?”

  Priscilla blinked. That was not what she’d expected. “We’ve known each other for years,” she said, going to untie the cord. Waste not, want not. “I didn’t like seeing her discomforted or making a fool of herself.”

  “Because it could reflect badly on you.”

  She shrugged as she straightened. “I suppose so. But I also didn’t want to see His Grace’s lovely party ruined.”

  He took a bite of the apple and chewed slowly as if he was thinking hard. “Why are you pursuing the duke?”

  Slipping the cord into the pocket of her pelisse, Priscilla gazed at him over the top of her own apple. “A
lady does not pursue a gentleman, sir. You must know that.”

  “A lady does not appear to pursue a gentleman,” he countered. “But we both know matches that came about because the lady showed interest first.”

  “True.” Priscilla bit into her apple. The larder had been distressingly empty when she’d left the house earlier. Now her stomach growled for food. She started out of the alleyway, and Nathan fell into step beside her.

  “So why show interest in the duke?” he pressed as she began retracing her way to Mayfair.

  Priscilla stopped. “For shame, sir! You are his trusted associate. Can you not see his many qualities?”

  “Perhaps I am too close to him,” he said with a smile. “Educate me.”

  “Well . . .” Honestly, what could she say that didn’t make her sound like the worst fortune hunter? She admired him precisely for what he could do for her. She couldn’t praise his intellect, for she was coming to realize he had little. His shoulders were scrawny, his figure too lean for him to be considered particularly manly. That nose and those teeth prevented any claim to beauty.

  “He is very good to his family,” she managed.

  He raised his brows as if surprised she’d noticed. “Yes, he is. But then, they demand it of him.”

  “A demand he accepts with grace,” she insisted, starting forward again. “I come from a similar family, but I’ve always wished for siblings. A brother could protect me, introduce me to the right sort of gentleman. And think what fun a sister would be! I am fortunate in my friends, but I envy His Grace his large, testy, demanding, loving family.”

  She had never admitted her longings to anyone but Emily. She glanced at him to see how he was taking her confession. He was regarding her, head cocked, as if truly seeing her for the first time.

  “Did you have other questions, Mr. Kent?” she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  He stopped at the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s. “How is it you know just what to say to disarm me?”

  She felt warmth in her cheeks. This time it was through no will of her own.