The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  “I believe you’re exaggerating." She paused. "And as it turns out, I wasn’t at risk. You were watching me.”

  “I wasn’t watching you.”

  Surprise registered on her face. “Then how did you find out I went to Compton’s?”

  He wasn't about to tell her Rand was having her followed. “How I found out isn’t important. What matters is your wellbeing and I don’t know how to go about protecting you when I don’t know what I’m protecting you from.”

  She closed her book and set it on the small table next to her. Then she looked up at him with a guarded expression on her face and folded her hands in her lap. “There’s no need to protect me. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine.”

  “You’re wrong about that, love. Anything that affects you, affects me. That’s how it is when you love someone.”

  “Then I apologize for the worry I caused you.” She hesitated. “I owed someone money. I was simply paying them back.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who did you owe money to?”

  “I’m not certain." She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. "I was rather reckless at a card party and lost a bit of money. Someone bought my IOU’s and demanded payment. I was instructed to drop the money off with the gentleman who worked at Compton’s.”

  It was a struggle to keep his expression impassive. “And this is why you visited your solicitor?”

  She nodded. “I had to request an advance on my quarterly allowance.”

  “You know if you need money, you can always come to me.”

  “No. As I said, it isn’t your problem.” Her hands unfolded and she began plucking at the embroidery on her muslin skirt. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. You must realize that if we were to marry, my debts would become yours. I could bring you to financial ruin.” She looked away. “I won’t do that to you.”

  His mouth twitched. “I appreciate your concern for my financial welfare. What game do you favor?”

  She continued to worry at the muslin fabric. “Oh, anything to do with cards or dice will keep me entertained.”

  “Come now. Every gamer has a favorite. I prefer Whist over Faro. It’s a game of skill, rather than luck. Shall we play a hand? Perhaps, I could help you with your strategy.” He smiled but there was no humor behind it. “In time, you could help fill my pockets rather than deplete them. We could become a duo to be reckoned with.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned forward. “Priscilla, my love, I must tell you something.”

  She moistened her lips. Other than the rise and fall of her chest, she remained perfectly still.

  “You are positively the worst liar I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of drivel you fed your solicitor, but I’m not buying it.”

  She glared. “I didn’t feed it to him. If you must know, he fed it to himself. It was much better than anything I could think to tell him.”

  If he hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed. “Damn it! I am worried to death about you.”

  “You needn’t worry any longer. I’ve managed to put things right.”

  “Wonderful." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I am so happy to know that all your troubles are behind you. I can now pretend that the past week never happened and we will go on as before. Be ready at eight. I will escort you to dinner tonight, along with Aunt and Cecelia, and then we’ll go on to the theater from there. Mrs. Hutton is more than welcome to come along if she wishes to do so. We should have a delightful time.”

  “No.”

  “No?" He fought to keep his anger in place. "You must explain this reluctance, Miss Hawthorn. You’ve claimed to love me so I’ll assume it isn’t my company that you object to. Is it my aunt? If so, I have no qualms about hiding one of her little rats in the cellar again. It works quite well at keeping her out of the way.”

  “Of course, it isn’t your aunt. Don't be ridiculous. And I do want to see you, but it must be in private.”

  His temper flared unchecked. “So you’ll let me plow your belly in a rolling carriage, but you won’t be seen with me in public?”

  She visibly recoiled at his remark. “Don’t be crude.”

  He raked his hands through his hair. “Christ!” he muttered. “One of us belongs in Bedlam.” He pushed himself away from the chair and started toward the door. “I’m just not certain which one.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I’m plan to wait in your drawing room until Mrs. Hutton arrives. I will inform her that you have been completely and thoroughly compromised. After that, I will post the banns and we will be married in three weeks time. The announcement of our impending nuptials shall be in tomorrow’s paper, so do prepare yourself for the deluge of well-wishers that will come your way.”

  “No! You can’t” She leapt from her chair and ran to the door in an attempt to block his way.

  He couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t be absurd. I’m more than twice your size. I will simply pick you up and move you out of the way.”

  Her shoulders fell in defeat. She stared at the floor a long moment. When she looked up her eyes were dry, but the anguish on her face was heart-wrenching.

  His anger dissolved. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and reassure her that everything would be fine. “This can’t continue. Tell me, love. Just tell me what this is about and we’ll decide what to do next.”

  She sniffed and nodded slowly.

  “Come and sit down.” He put his arm around her and led her over to the settee. “What has you so distressed?” he asked as he settled in beside her.

  “I promised I would tell no one," she said in a rush. "And I haven’t, but someone has found out and now everything has gone wrong.”

  He reached over and took her hand. . “What did you promise?”

  “I promised Patrick I wouldn’t tell anyone. There was no need to tell anyone. I found out during our engagement party.” She paused, closed her eyes and took in a long breath as if she were summoning the strength to continue. “It was a lavish affair, far more lavish than I wanted, and it seemed as if half of London was invited. Our townhouse wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone, so my stepfather leased a home a few streets over just for the party. It was very sweet of him, but as it turned out, a great waste of his coffers.”

  He gazed at her and waited.

  “Everyone knew of it, but our engagement was to be formally announced that night. I was nervous and a little overwhelmed by the attention I was receiving. I left the ballroom to find a few minutes for myself. There was a small parlor at the back of the house that we weren’t using so I decided to go there.” She fell silent for a few moments. “I’ve never known whether that was the best decision I’ve ever made, or the worst.

  “I opened the door and walked in on Patrick and another man—a servant, I suppose, as he wore the livery of the service my stepfather hired.” She swallowed. Embarrassment brought a blush to her cheeks. “They were fully clothed, but they were kissing one another quite passionately. Had I been a few minutes later, I suppose it would have been much worse.” She fell silent once again.

  Despite the impact this would have had upon her life, it didn’t explain her recent behavior. He gently squeezed her hand, prompting her to continue.

  She looked up at him. Her chest rose and fell as she took several long breaths. “I’m not as sheltered as you might think," she said. "I know there are men who prefer other men." Her hand fisted beneath his. “Patrick and I had known each other since we were children and I hadn’t any notion. I thought I knew him so well, yet it turned out that I didn’t know him at all.

  He squeezed her hand again. "I'm not Patrick, love. You can trust me."

  “At first, I wanted to call off the engagement, then and there, but Patrick was mortified by the idea. He was right. To break our engagement at our engagement party—I don’t know that we ever could have lived down the scandal. He said if I would wait a month before calling off the engagement, he would ma
ke things right. I didn’t see how he possibly could, but I agreed to wait.”

  Understanding dawned on the viscount. “He bought his colors and went off to war before that month was up, didn’t he?”

  She pressed her lips together in a hard line and nodded. “Several months later, he was dead. He left here with the intent of never returning. There are times when I feel as if I sent him to his death.”

  “Don’t.” The word came out sharper than he had intended. “You can’t blame yourself. To have married him would have been untenable.”

  “It would kill his father to know the truth." A single tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away with her fingertip. "I went to visit them last month and he’s not well. They didn’t even come to London for the season this year. He mustn't find out.”

  Stratton considered the gist of what she had told him, but her explanation left too many questions unanswered. “Tell me why you needed the money, love. Are you being blackmailed?”

  She slowly nodded. “I’ve received two notes. The first threatened to expose Patrick’s past, if I continued to see you. The second was a demand for money. A hundred pounds. Not a fortune, but enough that I needed an advance.”

  "Did you keep the letters?"

  She shook her head. "I couldn't risk anyone finding them."

  He brought his hand to her face, the skin soft and smooth beneath his fingertips. “This won’t stop, love. Whoever is doing this won’t go away just because you’ve given them a hundred pounds. They’re certain to ask for more.”

  “I can’t let Patrick’s family be destroyed by this." She sniffed. "It isn’t their fault.”

  “It isn’t yours, either,” he reminded her. “The first thing we have to do is determine who’s blackmailing you. Do you have any notion at all who it might be?”

  She shook her head.

  “I know you don’t want to relive the circumstances of that last encounter, but I must ask about the man you found Patrick with. Would you recognize him?”

  “I don't think so. I was so shocked. All I remember was the livery.”

  “What do you know of Patrick’s friends?”

  Priscilla frowned as she thought. “Other than they were constantly borrowing money from him, very little. He had to ask his father for funds to tide him over on more than one occasion.” She paused. “Patrick and I had a terrible row about it. That last year, we were forever arguing over something or another.”

  “Do you remember their names?” he pressed.

  She named a few and shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

  The young men she listed had done an impressive job of kicking up their heels in the gaming hells and brothels, but Stratton couldn’t remember anything about them that would make them a likely candidate as a blackmailer. “Let me know the moment you receive the next letter.”

  “You’re certain they’ll demand more money?”

  “As long as you meet their demands, there’s no reason to stop.”

  She looked up at him. “The money I can understand, but what was the point of keeping us apart?”

  He gazed at her knowing she would likely not care for his answer. “You have no male figure to look out for you, Priscilla. As your suitor, you would be likely to come to me with your problems. They wouldn’t want me involved because I won’t stop until this matter is resolved and I promise you, it will be resolved."

  "But how?"

  "For the moment, we sit tight until you receive another letter. It's important that they believe you're cooperating."

  She thought a moment. “It still isn’t wise for us to see one another.”

  As much as he wanted to argue the point, he couldn’t. “Not as suitors. We’ve been linked together, though not to the extent that it can’t be undone by tossing it about that you’ve decided against a match between us.”

  “I’ve told Lord Mallory as much.”

  "I imagine he will have the news spread throughout London in just a few days time." He scowled. The man was almost as big a nuisance as Lord Bertram. “Unfortunately, that means he’ll be sniffing around your heels again.”

  “No, I told him in no uncertain terms that he and I would not suit either and as he left in a huff. I’m confident he believed me.”

  “I hope so.”

  Priscilla managed to smile. “I would never marry anyone with such outlandish taste in clothing.”

  “You would clash terribly, wouldn’t you?” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Meet me in the garden tonight?”

  Much of the worry seemed to fall from her expression. "Don't be late."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday afternoon tea with Lady Fitzberry was proving to be more enjoyable than she had expected. Priscilla had discovered, with much relief, that she could quite effectively reduce Lady Fitzberry’s incessant chatter to a low drone. The second floor drawing room of the Stratton household was a very pleasant place to be. While the room was large and elegantly appointed, it was also cheerful. Thick Aubusson rugs covered most of the polished mahogany floor. A pianoforte sat in the center with sitting areas on either side. The delicate Chippendale chairs and settees were upholstered with slightly faded royal blues and burgundy brocades. The blue velvet drapes had been pulled and the room was flooded with sunlight.

  She decided that Lady Stratton must have better taste than her sister, who was presently garbed in bright yellow and black striped satin. Royally presiding before the tea service as she attended to her guests, Priscilla thought she resembled a very large bumble bee. The image was a little more difficult to ignore than the conversation and Priscilla pressed her lips together, squelching laughter.

  She felt a slight nudge from Olivia who seemed to be having much the same problem. Priscilla decided that if she didn’t want to make a fool of herself by falling into a fit of laughter, it would be wise to focus on the other guests. Cecelia’s two closest friends, Miss Jennifer Rutledge and Lady Elizabeth Horton were there, accompanied by Elizabeth’s mother, the Countess of Brenton. The three girls had done a fair amount of giggling until a stern look from Elizabeth’s mother settled them down. Lady Fitzberry had invited also Mrs. Gibbons, Lady Murray and Lady Murray’s daughter who much to her mother’s dismay preferred breeding bloodhounds to marriage and had been quite happily residing on the shelf for years.

  The last guest to arrive was Lady Williams, whom Priscilla remembered meeting in the past, largely because she had married a man at least fifty year her senior. Though such a marriage was not unheard of, she couldn’t imagine ever agreeing to such a union. Recently emerged from half-mourning, the countess had donned in a green and gold muslin gown and a gold velvet hat adorned with maroon and brown feathers. Even with her hair looped into a conservative knot at her neck, there was something very seductive about her.

  Though it wasn’t her nature to dislike someone before she got to know them, Priscilla decided she didn’t much care for Lady Williams. There was an odd tension between them that she couldn’t quite explain. Several times that afternoon she had caught Lady Williams looking at her, causing Priscilla to check the front of her gown to see if she had dribbled strawberry preserves. At present, Lady Williams was bemoaning the inadequacies of her servants.

  “I would very much like to dismiss the lot of them, but it’s so difficult to find good replacements during the season. I’ve been dreadfully distressed over the matter. When Lord Williams was alive we had an excellent staff. Why one never even knew that they were about. They knew their place.”

  Lady Murray peered over her wire rimmed spectacles and commented in a conspiratorial fashion, “I heard Lord Sheraton has lost a number of servants to better positions. He’s a terrible skinflint. You might be able to entice a few of them away from him.” She put her fingertips to her mouth and made a halfhearted attempt to look ashamed of herself. “I shouldn’t have said that but I simply can’t imagine facing the season without a competent staff.”

  “It’s
very kind of you to bring that to my attention.” Lady Williams gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders and smiled. “I shall consider it, though given the complications of changing staff, it might simply be best if I bear with them for the time being.”

  Lady Fitzberry set down her tea cup and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Well, I must say that the servants here are excellent.” She frowned. “Possibly with the exception of Eugie's--I mean--Lord Stratton’s valet who grumbles constantly about my precious little dogs. Of course, my darlings do shed a bit, but that’s to be expected as they have such luxurious coats. We do keep them brushed. One hundred strokes a day. But one would think the man spent all his time brushing my nephew’s jackets the way he carries on.”

  Priscilla heard Cecelia mutter, “He does.”

  Mirabella smiled at her niece. “What was that, dear?”

  Cecelia cleared her throat. “Just a little tickle in my throat.”

  “Are you all right?” A slight frown creased Mirabella forehead. “It wouldn’t be the ah…” She glanced over at Mrs. Gibbons who was sporting several curly red feathers in her hat and then at Lady Williams. “You know.”

  “Oh no,” Cecelia broke in quickly. “It was only a crumb. From the biscuit.” She took a swallow of tea and smiled.

  “Are you certain?” Mirabella persisted. “It would be dreadful if you were coming down with something. Why the season has just begun.”

  “I’m certain, Aunt Mirabella. Really.”

  “It’s only that you young people go at such a pace with the balls and routs and soirees, the social calls and all the other various functions.” Mirabella's hand fluttered as she rambled on. “But then the young have such energy. I was the same way. It’s remarkable, isn’t it, how they manage such hectic schedules." She stopped to take in a breath. "However, my dear nephew is taking no chances. He’s very mindful of Cecelia’s wellbeing. He refuses to let her overdo. No dancing until dawn for this one. Why he rounds us up and has us home by two at the latest. He takes such an interest his sister and even insists on approving all her gowns.” Then she added, “With my help, of course. He relies heavily on my judgment.”