by Regina Scott
Nathan still found it hard to believe his cousin could be homicidal. She certainly looked innocent as she took a step back and pressed a hand to her chest as if wounded. “Why, Lady Emily! What do you mean?”
Acantha evidently understood the meaning of their actions. “Her?” she sputtered, staring at Glynnis. “She’s the one who’s blackmailing us?”
“Not entirely,” Lady Emily said. “I believe she took a page out of the original blackmailer’s book and decided to copy their tactics.”
Beside him, Priscilla’s hand trembled in his. She must have thought their villain captured, only to learn another was still at large.
“Their?” she said. “Then more people know about Aunt Sylvia?”
Nathan squeezed her hand again in encouragement. Whatever happened, he was prepared to stand beside her.
“No,” Emily assured her. “That wasn’t the purpose. The original notes were misspelled, if you recall, childish in their appearance.”
Like her aunt. “Then Lady Brentfield sent them,” Nathan guessed, though he noted that Glynnis was turning more pale every moment.
“But she hadn’t escaped yet,” Priscilla protested.
“Escaped? What are you talking about?” Acantha demanded.
“I think you all are candidates for Bedlam,” the duke agreed cheerfully, crossing his arms over his chest as if prepared to enjoy a play at the opera.
“Hear them out, Your Grace,” Nathan cautioned, keeping his gaze on Glynnis. “I believe they may be on to something.”
Glynnis visibly swallowed.
Lady Emily inclined her head. “Your aunt didn’t send any of those notes, Priscilla,” she said. “The originals were sent by Acantha’s sisters. They delivered one to her and one to the woman who obsessed her as a rival. They most likely thought they’d gain a few moments of her time.”
Acantha apparently had no trouble believing the story, for her face was turning a shade of red nearly as dark as the duke’s costume. “Those creatures! Wait until I get my hands on them!”
That could not be the answer. “But the note to His Grace,” Nathan pointed out. “The notes that appeared at the Venetian breakfast. Those cannot have been engineered by Miss Dalrymple’s sisters.”
“They weren’t,” Lady Emily said. “Only one person was aware that Acantha and Priscilla were rivals for the duke’s hand and wanted him for herself badly enough to stage this farce.”
“Miss Bigglethorpe,” Daphne said with a nod.
Nathan didn’t think so. Neither did Priscilla. “Miss Fairtree,” she insisted.
Glynnis laughed, color flaring into her cheeks. “Me? But I’m no one. His Grace hardly remembers I exist.”
“Hm?” the duke said. “Oh, it’s Glynnis. I didn’t notice you standing there. Isn’t Miss Tate in fine form tonight? I could look at her for hours.”
Glynnis stiffened. “Of course you could. Miss Tate is beautiful, accomplished, and charming.” Nathan had never heard her voice drip such spite.
“Oh, she isn’t all that charming,” Acantha put in with equal venom.
“Or that accomplished,” Priscilla said, “or I would have realized who was plaguing me. You do not give yourself enough credit, Glynnis. It took a great deal of cleverness to work out your plan. You had me guessing.”
Nathan frowned at her. How could she praise this woman who had nearly ruined them all? Though she kept her smile in place, she squeezed his hand. The minx!
“You even had Bow Street baffled,” Nathan said to Glynnis, realizing Priscilla’s game. “I greatly admire a woman who can think her way out of a scrape. Don’t you, Your Grace?”
The duke nodded, head bobbing. “Oh, certainly, certainly. But what has this to do with Glynnis?”
For the first time in Nathan’s memory, his timid little cousin glared at the duke. “I did it. Don’t you see? I saw Miss Dalrymple’s sisters sneak notes into her and Miss Tate’s pockets, and I intercepted them. It wasn’t hard to guess their game or determine that their targets were sincerely concerned. I sent the next notes myself, threatening dire consequences if they did not stop pursuing you. I sent you a note as well, but I should have known Nathan would find it first.”
His Grace frowned at him. “I say, Natty, it isn’t the thing to take another fellow’s love letters.”
“This was hardly a love letter,” Nathan replied.
“It most certainly was!” Glynnis cried. She turned to the duke. “I adore you, Your Grace! You needn’t look further than your own home to find your bride. I was meant to be your duchess!”
His Grace peered at her. “No, you weren’t Glynnis. You’re not nearly pretty enough, and you wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I need a wife who will stand up to family. You wouldn’t see Miss Tate allowing anyone to bully her. She’s smart.”
“I’m smart!” Glynnis was all but shouting now, face a hideous shade of purple. “I’m kind and patient! Who else would teach you chess a dozen times and still let you win! I deserve to be your duchess!”
The duke lay a hand on her shoulder. “Now, now. We all have our roles to play. I’m the duke. You’re the poor relation.”
Beside Nathan, Priscilla cringed.
“But you loved me!” Glynnis cried, hands outstretched. “You spent nearly all your time with me, before you met her! I looked into her family, you know. She is nothing without her aunt, but Lady Brentfield is quite mad. I was the only one who followed the whispers and uncovered her secret. I should be your countess!” She crumpled onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands.
“’Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,’” Emily quoted. “’Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’”
Nathan felt chilled. “If you loved His Grace so much,” he couldn’t help telling his cousin, “you chose an odd way to prove it, Glynnis. That falling statue might have killed him.”
She glanced up, cheeks ashen. “That was never my intention. Sabotaging the statue and releasing Lady Brentfield was his idea.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had an idea in my head for at least six months,” the duke protested, brow furrowed as if trying to remember.
Nathan could well believe it, but beside him, Priscilla stiffened. “You confided your fears to someone else?”
Glynnis nodded, sniffing back a tear. “To my shame. He hated you as much as I did. I thought he’d be glad to help stop you. But when it was clear to me the duke might be harmed, I begged him to desist.”
“A shame he didn’t,” Emily said. “It appears there is only one person with true homicidal tendencies: Mr. Richmont.”
Daphne gasped. So did Glynnis.
“How did you know?” his cousin asked, staring at Lady Emily.
Lady Emily glanced toward Priscilla. “He has reason to dislike Priscilla, and I heard he’d showed interest in you.”
“Richmont must be here tonight,” Nathan told them all. “We have only to determine his costume.”
“Perhaps a centurion?” Priscilla guessed, eyes narrowing.
Glynnis shook her head. “No, a chevalier.”
“How very two-dimensional,” Daphne complained. “Ariadne says all boys think about are horses.” She frowned. “Where is my sister, by the way?”
Priscilla stepped away from Nathan and lowered her voice to explain. Nathan went for the bell. “I’ll call a footman, and we’ll send for Bow Street. The magistrates might have something to say about a man who threatens a lady.”
“And a duke,” Lady Emily reminded him.
His Grace rubbed his hands together as Nathan rang the bell beside him. “I say, this is better than any farce. What next?”
Nathan turned as the footman hurried into the room. “Now, we locate Mr. Richmont and keep him from striking again.” He met Priscilla’s gaze, and she nodded her agreement.
Lady Emily went so far as to smile. “Let’s catch a villain.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Priscilla returned to the masquerade feeling as if she led His Ma
jesty’s army. They fanned out along the ledge at the top of the stairs, with Acantha, Emily, Daphne, His Grace, and Glynnis beside them. The circus troupe had left, and the guests were either prancing in the dance or promenading from one group to another to engage in conversation. The din of voices rose above the sounds of the music.
“There!” Glynnis cried, pointing.
Near the clock, a man in the velvet doublet and hose of the medieval French knights stood poised, watching the proceedings. The black leather mask covered most of his face, but the hair escaping his plumed hat was equally dark. And he stood with such presence he might have been the host of the evening.
“That’s him,” Priscilla agreed.
Nathan started forward, but fear pricked her. The sword at the masked chevalier’s hip looked terribly real. And sharp. She latched onto Nathan’s arm to keep him at her side. “Perhaps we should wait for Mr. Cropper.”
“If you accost him in view of the others, there will be scandal,” Glynnis agreed with a shiver.
“But what if he gets away?” Acantha protested. “I don’t want to receive any more of those notes!”
Daphne shuddered. “Don’t look at me. I’m learning a lady must decide when it’s appropriate to show her dash.”
“We haven’t much time,” Emily argued. “It’s nearly midnight. If he suspects we know about his deeds, he won’t stay for the unmasking.”
They each had a point. Priscilla narrowed her eyes, sorting through stratagems. There had to be some way to keep Richmont in the ballroom until Jamie arrived, without endangering any of her friends or Nathan.
Then inspiration struck. She straightened, releasing Nathan. “Leave this to me.”
This time it was Nathan who put out an arm to stop her from descending the stairs. “He pushed over that statue,” he reminded her, gaze intent. “He’s cunning. He may well be dangerous.”
Priscilla smiled at him. “That’s why I intend to send someone equally as cunning to keep him busy. Now, here’s what I propose…”.
It took only a few moments and one of her ivory hair combs to put her plan into effect. While His Grace, Glynnis, and Acantha watched from the safety of the stairs, ready to direct Mr. Cropper to the scene as soon as he arrived, the others filtered through the crowd, slowly converging on Mr. Richmont.
Who was already backed up against the clock, attempting to escape the sharp eyes and conversation of Lady Minerva.
Emily’s aunt had eschewed a fancy costume, dressing instead in a dark-green hooded cloak with a mask bedecked with peacock feathers. They arched away from the eyeholes like massive lashes, making it appear as if she was thoroughly shocked by all she saw.
“I understand you’re a wicked sort of fellow,” she was telling Richmont as Priscilla found a spot not too far away to observe. “For a consideration, I might be willing to forget what I know.”
A little beyond Richmont, Nathan shook his head at the woman’s attempt at blackmail. It was a little like the pot calling the kettle black.
“I believe you have me confused with someone else, madam,” Richmont replied, voice heavy with disdain. He tried to shift around her, but she moved to block his path.
That was it. Only a few more moments. Already Priscilla caught sight of Jamie Cropper on the stairs. His Grace happily pointed him in her direction, and she could see Acantha speaking animatedly, as if airing her many grievances. If she wasn’t careful, she might catch Richmont’s attentions and give away the game.
Priscilla glanced at Nathan, who shook his head as if in warning, but her former suitor had managed to move around Lady Minerva, still protesting his innocence. Heart pounding, she placed herself in his path.
“No, indeed, sir,” she said with her prettiest smile. “I’m certain this dear lady has the right of it. You have a presence about you.” She lay a hand on his arm, finding it tensed. No tenser than her own. “It positively exudes danger.” She allowed herself a shiver and the smallest of giggles.
Behind the black mask, his dark eyes glittered. “Is that what it takes to reach your cold heart, Miss Tate?” he asked. “The hint of danger?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Lady Minerva said with a sniff, eying his costume as if she found it lacking.
“It is not my heart but yours that concerns me,” Priscilla told him, her shiver no longer contrived. “Please know I never set out to hurt anyone. I intended only to capture the greatest matrimonial prize. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”
He frowned as if he could not believe her. “And I was not enough? Are you so grasping, madam, that you could overlook the polish of my address, the height of my position in Society, the size of my stables?”
Was he so arrogant he thought those things truly mattered? Once she might have agreed, except for the stables, of course.
“I fear such things do not move me as I had hoped,” she confessed. “Now, I know that it is a man’s character, his integrity, his loyalty, that I admire.”
He shook his head. “Are you mad?”
“Completely,” Lady Minerva agreed.
Priscilla could only smile. “I cannot argue with you. But I find I enjoy my new madness far more than my former so-called sanity.”
Lady Minerva snorted, but Richmont stiffened. Before she knew what he was about, he seized her arms and hauled her closer, breath hot against her face. “Do not mock me! You had no right to refuse my suit. You made me the laughing stock of London.”
Priscilla refused to cringe away from the anger that tainted his words, twisted his face.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Minerva said. “I think you’re doing an excellent job of making people laugh at you all on your own.”
Richmont’s fingers tightened, and despite herself, Priscilla winced.
“Let her go.” Nathan’s voice was as hard as Richmont’s grip as he stepped to their sides.
“I should,” her former suitor sneered. “But first I want her to grovel. You will apologize for your treatment of me, before all these fine people. Tell them you were so foolish as to throw me over for some obscure duke who doesn’t even have the social wherewithal to attend his own party.”
She could have apologized. She knew how to appear heartbroken, remorseful. She could have made just the sort of spectacle he seemed to crave. But she knew Jamie must be close, and she was certain Nathan would never allow her to be hurt.
“But I didn’t throw you over for a duke,” she told her captor. “I threw you over for his personal secretary.”
Richmont’s eyes goggled, and for a moment, she thought he might have an apoplectic fit.
“There, you see?” Now Emily’s voice pierced the hubbub around them. “Homicidal tendencies, just as I said.”
As if he knew trouble was coming, Richmont released his hold on Priscilla and stepped back. “All part of the masquerade. No harm done.”
Easy for him to say. Priscilla was sure her arms would be bruised tomorrow. She rubbed them now as Nathan closed the distance between them.
“But great harm attempted,” Emily insisted. She turned to Jamie, who stepped up beside her, eyes narrowed. In his plain brown jacket and trousers, he stood out among the finery of the other guests, solid, comforting.
Emily nodded to Richmont, who stood with his head high as if daring her to blacken his name. “This man orchestrated the blackmail of two young ladies of the ton and attempted murder on one of them and His Grace the Duke of Rottenford.”
Her strident tone was beginning to draw a crowd, as more and more of His Grace’s guests stopped their pursuits and wandered closer. As if unaware of them, Emily put her hand on Jamie’s arm and gazed up at him. “I’ve been wanting to say this since the night of our debut ball. Arrest him, my love!”
Gasps rang out all around, but whether at her command or her declaration, Priscilla wasn’t sure. Mr. Cropper covered her hand with his a moment, smile turning up as he gazed at her, and all at once, Priscilla could see why her friend was so besotted.
But his
marvelous smile vanished as he turned to face Richmont. “In the name of the King, Desmond Richmont, I arrest you for blackmail and attempted murder.”
Richmont eyed him, lip curling. “You’ll have to catch me first.” He grasped Priscilla by the shoulders and shoved her into Jamie.
She had more grace than that! She broke away immediately, turning, but already he was halfway to the stairs, the crowd parting before him as he brandished his sword. Nathan and Jamie took off in pursuit, but Richmont’s fears lent him speed. Was she never to be rid of him?
Suddenly, he stumbled, went down on one knee, sword clattering to the floor and sliding out of reach. Nathan and Jamie converged on him and wrestled him away from it. The crowd applauded as if they thought it was all part of the entertainment. Over Nathan’s shoulder, Daphne winked at Priscilla.
“It seems the fair Diana knows the value of a well-placed foot,” Emily said with a grim smile.
“And Lady Death the value of a well-placed word,” Priscilla countered, catching her breath. “Your father will hear of this.”
“If someone can catch him between meetings,” Emily replied, watching as Jamie remanded Richmont into the custody of two burly footmen.
Lady Minerva closed the distance between them. “If you take up with that Runner,” she warned, “our deal is off.” She picked up her skirts and stalked away.
Emily sighed, but brightened as Jamie approached them. For the first time in her life, Priscilla felt invisible, for his gaze was all for her friend.
“You’re taking a chance,” he murmured. “But I promise you won’t regret it.” He clasped her hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “I’ll be by tomorrow to speak to your father.”
“Oh, Emily,” Priscilla said as he released her and strode off to haul Richmont to the magistrates. “Does he have a chance of even locating your father?”
“He will persevere,” she replied, eyes shining. “He’s a Runner.”
“Look!” someone cried. “It’s nearly midnight!”
All heads turned to the clock as both hands reached the top. Voices quieted; the music stilled. The silver chimes struck the hour. All around Priscilla, ladies revealed their faces, gentlemen pulled off masks. The air was filled with exclamations, laughter.
