Courting Chaos (Dunaway's Daughters Book 2)

by Lynne Barron

  Mr. Withington’s ballroom was blatantly ostentatious, and the décor outrageously gaudy, apart from the subtle flashes of red and black that lent the entire space an air of elegance and sophistication.

  “Are those angels depicted in the mural above?” Remington posed the question to no one in particular.

  “Hmm, just so,” Arthur Maxwell mumbled distractedly.

  Phin tilted his head to take in the ceiling three stories above them. “Cupid and his cohorts.”

  A dozen Erotes flitted, frolicked and flew across the domed ceiling. Not the cute, nappy-bottomed, chubby-cheeked variety of Erotes one customarily saw depicted in paintings, but muscular winged warriors in their prime. And every one of them was armed with a bow and naked but for their gold wings.

  “The one on the far right bears a striking resemblance to Withington’s butler,” Remington remarked.

  “Ah, must be Hermaphroditus,” Phin replied by way of agreement.

  “Beg pardon?” Maxwell murmured, tapping his riding crop against his thigh.

  “I believe our friend is referring to Withington’s odd assortment of servants,” Remington replied with a chuckle.

  “Hmm, how’s that?” Maxwell asked, though clearly he was not paying the least attention to the conversation.

  “Each servant is prettier than the next,” Remington explained patiently. “And there doesn’t appear to be a female among them.”

  “Yes, quite so,” Maxwell muttered.

  “I say, Max, what’s with you this evening?” Remington asked. “You’ve barely spoken three words, and none of them equine related.”

  “Equine related?” Maxwell repeated. “Yes, well, as to that...”

  While Remington politely waited for the distracted man to complete his thought, Phin fidgeted, fussed with his cravat and looked around the ballroom. A servant came around with a tray of punch in gold cups and was waved away. The music rose to a flourishing, though excruciatingly discordant, crescendo. Maxwell used the tip of his riding crop to push back a lock of hair from his forehead and left his thought unfinished.

  “As to your lack of words, equine related or otherwise?” Remington finally prompted.

  “I’ve been presented with… No, that isn’t quite right.” Maxwell flicked his crop through the air as if to erase the words. “I’ve been gifted with an opportunity, and I’ve just now decided to accept it.”

  “What sort of opportunity?” Remington asked.

  “The sort of opportunity a man in my position only dreams of receiving,” Maxwell replied. “I’ve been given a living.”

  “Good God, man, are you to become a clergyman?” Remington asked. “Not that there is anything wrong with being a clergyman. I’ve simply never imagined you living an abstentious, pious life.”

  Maxwell waved his crop about once more, nearly clipping Phin’s jaw. “I say, Remington, might I make use of your carriage in an hour or two?”

  “Certainly,” Remington agreed. “So long as you send it back for us when you reach your destination.”

  “Yes, well, as to that…”

  “As to that?” Remington repeated, as patient as ever.

  “Lady Malleville looks as if she’s ready to drop her foal any minute,” Maxwell said, adroitly turning the topic as he pointed to the top of the stairs with his riding crop. Candlelight spilled over the baroness’s cropped, tawny curls, limned her form and accentuated her round belly as she turned slightly to speak with a silver-haired woman adorned in yards and yards of lilac satin, lace and ruffles. “By gad, is that Alabaster Sinclair with her?”

  “I believe it is,” Remington replied. “My hopes for an entertaining evening have risen by leaps and bounds.”

  “Fine looking woman and jolly good fun, too,” Maxwell said, his voice loud enough to carry to those ladies and gentlemen nearest to them. “Some might say Miss Sinclair ought to have been put out to pasture some twenty years ago, but the old girl’s still up for a brisk trot, last I heard. And good thing, too, else how would she earn her board and feed?”

  “Clearly your spirits have been restored,” Remington said with a chuckle. “But you might want to be a bit tight-fisted with your equine metaphors, lest you spend them all before supper.”

  “I’ve plenty more,” Maxwell replied. “And as I’ll only be here a short while, I’d best make use of them while I can.”

  “You might consider saving some for a later date.”

  “And have it get about Town I’m parsimonious?”

  “Heaven forbid rumors of your frugality should make the rounds.”

  As Maxwell and Remington debated the virtues of generously doling out one’s witticisms as opposed to a more miserly approach, Phin scanned the crowd gathered on the gallery on either side of the grand staircase.

  On the right, the Duke and Duchess of Montclaire stood side by side, the Marquess of Marchant wedged between his father and the Duke of Palfour. Beside them was Palfour’s duchess, along with their son, the Earl of Graystone, and two daughters whose names and titles escaped Phin at present.

  The elderly Duke of Cheltenham—decked out in full court regalia complete with powdered wig, velvet tailcoat, clocked stockings and red-heeled slippers—leaned over the bannister to peer down at the crowd. Beside him, the Duchess of Cheltenham, a girl of barely eighteen, was engaged in animated conversation with the gangly-limbed, freckle-faced Viscount Aberdeen, the Earl of Waterton and Gwendolyn Aberdeen, mother to Lady Malleville.

  More guests lined the gallery to the left of the staircase. Oddly enough, Phin recognized only Lord Malleville in their midst. Of course, Malleville was hard to miss, with his towering height, craggy features and auburn hair tumbling almost to his shoulders. His lordship was surrounded by half a dozen men wearing kilts and twice as many ladies, both young and old, draped in extravagant silk, lace and velvet gowns.

  “Clan Fitzroy,” Remington murmured. “I’d heard they made the journey from Scotland for the occasion.”

  “Is there an occasion, then?” Phin asked. “Beyond the desire of an obscenely wealthy gentleman to spend an ungodly sum solely to show off for his peers?”

  “Rumor has it there is to be an announcement of some sort,” Remington answered.

  “Perhaps Withington has found a promising filly,” Maxwell mused.

  “The man must be eighty if he’s a day,” Remington said.

  “Old stallions are never retired, only put out to stud.”

  “I’m not entirely certain Withington can be classified as a stallion, but rather perhaps as a gelding.”

  “There’s no point in putting a gelding through those particular paces, so why bother with a wife?”

  As his friends tossed out equine quips at Withington’s expense, Phin paid them little attention, what with the majority of his accorded to the Earl of Dunaway and his multitude of daughters, sans Lady Malleville, huddled together in all their golden glory at the bottom of the stairs.

  It seemed to Phin as if they were the point of an exclamation mark created by all those notable aristocrats above. It was an odd notion. So odd that Phin’s scalp prickled.

  Before he could ponder what it meant, the orchestra wound down the tune they were struggling to play, ending on a flat note that echoed around the room. Mr. Withington’s butler appeared at the top of the stairs. Staring down his nose, he waited for the hoard below to quiet.

  Phin’s anxiety increased when he looked at Marchant, stylishly turned out in a gray tailcoat and white breeches, gold hair perfectly combed and pomaded, and beaming a smile so wide his teeth gleamed as he turned toward the hall behind all those notable guests. Dragging his gaze away, Phin watched Lady Malleville clasp Alabaster Sinclair’s hand before they, too, turned to look.

  Then they were all twisting, spinning, rotating and swiveling. Like marionettes on a puppeteer’s strings. All those dukes, earls, viscounts and barons. All their duchesses, countesses and baronesses. The lot of them had journeyed from near and far, breached borders, enm
ity and rivalries to gather together with the throng of titled, wealthy and well-connected members of the ton milling about the ballroom proper.

  The only persons missing were their peculiar, reclusive host and the woman who’d been quietly walking among them for years, hidden behind outrageous bonnets and ridiculous gowns, concealed by a fairy tale only loosely based upon the true story of her origins, and shielded from prying eyes by the life she’d fashioned for herself in the shabby confines of a working-class neighborhood.

  A hush fell over the assemblage, the silence almost deafening.

  A shiny bald head came into view on the gallery, pale eyes nearly hidden in a round, doughy face reminiscent of a cherub, complete with flushed cheeks, pretty red, bowed lips and a dimpled chin. And on his the tip of his nose sprouted the largest mole Phin had ever seen. One might even be forgiven for mistaking the growth for a wart the size of Wales.

  Phin barked out a laugh, the sound slicing through the near silence of the ballroom and turning numerous heads his way for a scant moment before all attention returned to the upper gallery.

  “Mr. Humphrey Withington,” the butler intoned with all the pomp and ceremony typically accorded to visiting foreign dignitaries.

  Withington waddled to the edge of the upper landing on legs that were as thick at the thigh as they were skinny at the ankle. He possessed no neck, his head resting comfortably on his behemoth, sloped shoulders. His belly began just beneath three chins and ended somewhere south of his waist. If he’d had a waist, which he decidedly did not.

  Quite simply put, the man was round. Round and resplendently attired in white. White velvet tailcoat over white brocade waistcoat, topped with a crisp white cravat. White silk breeches and stockings. A veritable explosion of white lace erupted from his sleeves, falling over white gloves. Gold buttons glittered on his chest and a red gem winked at his ear, a ruby or perhaps a garnet to match the jewels threaded though the balustrade and banister. His slippers were high of heel and pointed of toe. White with gold buckles.

  “Welcome to Wherewithal House, friends and foes.” Withington’s voice was surprisingly soft and exceedingly effeminate. Dulcet tones woven with just a hint of sultry huskiness. It was the sort of voice debutantes and courtesans alike strove to emulate.

  It was downright disconcerting emerging from a man of his stature.

  “I say, have you ever seen a man so corpulent?” Maxwell asked.

  “Shh,” Phin hissed, for Withington was speaking again, and he did not want to miss a word.

  “You’re likely wondering what auspicious occasion has prompted me to open my beloved home to one and all.”

  Heads nodded all around the ballroom, but no one spoke.

  Phin found himself moving without having made a conscious decision to do so. Weaving through the crowd, circling and sidling around ladies and gentlemen clustered in groups, he stopped just behind Dunaway and his daughters.

  “I’ll not keep you in suspense,” Withington continued, curling his arms beneath his belly. Amazingly, his hands met, and he clasped his fingers. “It may come as a surprise to many of you, but I have not always adhered to Society’s strict notions of the proper conduct of a gentleman.”

  A low murmur swept from one end of the ballroom to the other.

  “A number of years ago I began to dabble in that most dastardly of vices: trade.” Withington flashed a smile, guileless and rather cherubic. “Beginning with the acquisition of shares in Winters Ship Works, followed by a partnership in Southwark Armaments, interests in textile mills in Blackfriars and Maidstone, a railway company in Leeds, and finally culminating in the creation of the British Consolidated Mining Corporation.”

  The murmur of the crowd rose to a dull roar.

  “Is he saying he is Mr. King?” Lady Annalise’s voice carried above the din.

  “Well, at least you’ll be surrounded by handsome footmen,” Lady Madeline replied with a chortle of laughter.

  “No, it cannot be,” Lady Annalise exclaimed, turning on Lord Dunaway. “You would not be so cruel, Papa.”

  “Hush, pet,” Lord Dunaway muttered, taking hold of his daughter’s hand.

  “How could you?” Lady Annalise yanked her hand free of Dunaway’s clasp and spun around, a wild look flashing in her eyes when her gaze landed upon Phin.

  No, not upon Phin, but rather upon the man who stood to his right, riding crop tapping madly against his thigh.

  There was a story there, though not one likely to end well, given Maxwell’s near penury and the lady’s lack of a dowry. But Phin could not concern himself with his friend’s future just now, for Withington was continuing with his astonishing revelations.

  “Alas, while I have amassed a great fortune, I have neglected to choose a wife and sire a son.” With these words, the comically rouged, rotund man turned slightly and waved one white-gloved, be-ringed hand behind him.

  Ladies and gentlemen shifted about, rising to their toes and craning their necks in an effort to see whom Withington beckoned.

  With sudden clarity, so sharp and brilliant he felt dizzy with the knowledge, Phin understood precisely who would step out of the shadows and into the light cast by hundreds of flames flickering around the ballroom.

  Why wait for a spark when one can set tinder to kindling and control the blaze oneself?

  Even knowing what was to come, suspecting the portent and anticipating the resulting catastrophe, Phin was shocked when Harry appeared at Withington’s side.

  He wasn’t the only one, judging by the collective gasp that rose from the guests only to be followed by the buzz of dozens of conversations whispered behind hands and fans.

  Gone was the woman forever hiding behind beribboned, bowed and bejeweled bonnets and fanciful, flamboyantly festooned gowns.

  In her place stood a sensual woman sheathed in scarlet silk that revealed far more than it concealed. The bodice was shockingly low-cut and cinched just below the bosom with a thin band of black ribbon tied in a bow, the ends trailing down to the floor. Every curve of Harry’s slender form was displayed, from the swells of her slight breasts to the dip of her narrow waist to the faint flair of her hips. From there, the gown’s skirts flared out to shift and sway around her legs, clinging and parting to reveal an underskirt of ebony lace. Scraps of silk meant to serve as sleeves rested on the slopes of her pale shoulders, as if poised to slide down her arms at any moment.

  Harry raised one black-gloved hand to fiddle with a pair of sticks tucked into the loose chignon at her crown. Freed from the constraints of the tightly braided cornet she customarily wore atop her head, her hair appeared paler, nearly white against the scarlet of her gown. Wispy, wayward tendrils drifted along her temples, curled around the long column of her neck and fell over her shoulders.

  Adorned in a gown designed to give the impression it might at any moment slither down her svelte form to pool in a puddle at her feet, and with her tresses arranged in artful disarray, she might have stepped right out of the portrait hanging on the wall in the Red Gallery.

  The resemblance, blatant as it was, set tinder to kindling, sparking dozens of whispered conversations around the ballroom, all of them sizzling with the certainty that the beautiful woman could only be the granddaughter of Bathsheba Sinclair and the former Duke of Montclaire, by way of their only child, Miss Arabella Radcliff.

  Fueled by the assembled guests’ memories and imaginations, a conflagration of questions, suppositions and predictions regarding her paternity swept through the ballroom.

  Harry controlled the blaze with no more than the mocking smile twisting her lips and the sparkle in her eyes as she surveyed the throng gathered in the ballroom below as if she were vastly amused by the spectacle Withington had created. Or perhaps entertained by the ease with which he directed the players in the roles they’d unknowingly been assigned in the unfolding drama.

  Withington took possession of Harry’s hand in a proprietary fashion.

  “Good gracious,” Lady Annalise wh
ispered. “Is Harry to marry him in my stead, then?”

  Lady Southerby, Dunaway’s eldest daughter by his countess, let loose a gurgle of laughter. “Lilith said Harry would go so far as to steal her sister’s intended in order to thwart your machinations, Papa. And it seems she was right.”

  Steal her sister’s intended?

  “Hush, dove,” Dunaway ordered sharply, looking around to assure that no one had overheard the remark.

  The earl’s gaze collided with Phin’s, his green eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing in anger. Or perhaps warning.

  Phin nodded in acknowledgment of the warning, and the secret, and perhaps even in respect. After all, the man was Harry’s father, which to Phin’s way of thinking that was no small accomplishment.

  It was a night of revelations, each one more spectacular than the last. Though, once the initial shock wore off, Phin realized that, apart from Harry’s imminent betrothal to the corpulent octogenarian, none of those revelations was particularly surprising.

  Of course the night was not yet over.

  Nor was Withington finished with his revelations.

  “Unlike those of you shackled to titles and what have you, neither my fortune nor my property are entailed, encumbered or otherwise subject to arcane restrictions regarding the displacement of it when I pass from this life to the next. As such, I’ve no inducement, nor the slightest desire, to wed and bed some poor girl in hopes of siring a son.”

  This statement was met with a few outraged hisses, a number of glances aimed at the Duke of Cheltenham and his cursedly young duchess, and a good bit of laughter.

  Withington grinned, rocked back on his high heels and rocked forward again, patiently waiting until the din subsided before continuing. “What need have I for a son, when I’ve this wondrous young lady to ensure that my legacy continues on in perpetuity?”

  “Can she be his daughter?” An elderly woman’s cackling voice rose to ricochet around the ballroom, posing the very question uppermost in everyone’s minds, before quickly providing the answer with such certainty that Phin might well have believed it himself, but for the single glance he’d shared with Dunaway. “She can only be Withington’s daughter by Miss Arabella Radcliff.”