Jane kept up a steady stream of introductions to any unsuspecting young male who carelessly wandered too close. Catherine appreciated her efforts and ought to be grateful for the attention. Surely social functions would become easier now that she had been introduced to so many people, and her chances of finding a suitor had increased exponentially.
However, she had hoped to find a moment to speak discretely with the duke about the journal. But every time she finished a dance someone was waiting to request the next. After parting from Lord Tadley, she ventured to the refreshment table and selected a glass of lemonade. She turned to watch the dancers and nearly collided with the duke, who reached out a hand to steady her glass. He was lucky she hadn’t spilled lemonade all over him, which was what he deserved for sneaking up on her.
After assessing her hold on the glass, he removed his hand. Her fingers tingled where his had touched. “Miss Malboeuf, I trust you are enjoying yourself this evening.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a normal tone, then whispered, “up until this moment.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I imagine you are feeling more confident about your ability to win our wager now that your friend has introduced you to every available gentleman at the ball.”
“I have always been confident of my ability to win,” she said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
He widened his stance. “Do you think it was wise to divulge our wager?”
She spun her head toward him. “I have told no one of our wager.”
“Ah, then Lady Jane is simply acting of her own accord.” He nodded to a passing acquaintance.
“Naturally she noted the need for me to be introduced before I could partake of the main activity for the evening. Surely you remember that one must be formally introduced before requesting a dance.” She placed her glass on a tray and crossed her arms. “The more pertinent question is why you have such a lack of confidence in my ability to attract suitors.”
He raised a brow. “Have you forgotten the circumstances under which we met?” He looked down. “I can only assume you are wearing slippers under your gown.”
She raised her nose and turned away from him, her gaze focused on the dancers. “If we were more than business associates, I should be hurt by your unkindness.”
“Miss Malboeuf, I will admit that you are quite captivating and proper this evening, but knowing what I know about you, I do not believe that you will be able to keep your less civilized side hidden for the length of the season.”
At first her heart leapt at his words, but as he continued to speak, she felt as if she had been doused with a bucket of cold, slimy water. “This conversation has become quite unproductive.” After a few moments of silence during which he failed to fill the conversational void, she brought up the journal. “Though it pains me to admit it, I may require your assistance with the journal.”
He inclined his head. “I am at your service.”
“Would it be possible to speak in a more private location?”
He glanced about the ballroom. “Not here. I will call on you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Pompous, overbearing man. She refrained from stomping her foot. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Their conversation made her more determined than ever to win the bet. She would get at least one offer of marriage.
Chapter Seven
Nick stood indecisively on his front stoop. The unusually warm, sunny weather continued, and he had thought to walk to Hartley House. However, Miss Malboeuf had requested a more private place to discuss the journal, and he was certain Lady Hartley would not leave her alone with him in their parlor. It made more sense to take his curricle so they could go for a ride in the park. He had never quite understood the rules that society had established for unmarried ladies, but for some reason or other, it was permissible for them to be alone in an open carriage.
He turned back and opened the front door, startling his butler. “Phillips, I have changed my mind. Please have my curricle readied immediately.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Have them meet me in the front.” He pulled the door closed and ambled toward the street. A strange urge to whistle overcame him. It must have been due to the fine weather. It certainly was not due to his imminent meeting with Miss Malboeuf—she had requested the meeting and he was politely obliging. Of course he would not look forward to bickering with her.
Gravel crunched as his curricle came into view. He patted each of his bay geldings, climbed up, and took the reins from the groom. Nodding as he passed acquaintances on their way to Hyde Park, he thought back to the journal entries he had read. Depending on what Miss Malboeuf wished to discuss, they might be in for a very awkward conversation. He smiled, imagining the blush on her cheeks.
A footman rushed out to hold his horses when they clattered to a halt in front of the Hartley residence a short time later. “I shan’t be long. I intend to convince one of the ladies of the house to join me in the park.”
Entering through the open front door, he handed his hat and cloak to the butler, surprised to hear so many male voices carrying from the parlor. Apparently, he was not their only visitor. While the butler announced him, he took the opportunity to catalogue the other gentlemen. Lord Cavanaugh. No surprise there. Dagenham and Sherington. They all appeared to be visiting Lady Jane, which meant it shouldn’t be difficult to get permission to take Miss Malboeuf for a ride in his curricle.
There were an exceptionally large number of bouquets in the room. He frowned inwardly. He hadn’t thought to bring one for Miss Malboeuf, as he wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. Theirs was strictly a business relationship, although no one else knew that. Hmph. They must content themselves with thinking that he was discussing Walsley with her and nothing more. Though he was a bit curious about whether any of the bouquets were intended for Miss Malboeuf.
“Lady Hartley, Lady Jane, Miss Malboeuf.” He nodded to each of the ladies. “Gentlemen,” he said to the room in general.
“Your Grace, do come in.” Lady Hartley waved her hand toward a chair. “We were enjoying the story of one of Lord Cavanaugh’s hunting exploits.”
Her politely neutral expression made enjoying seem a gross exaggeration. “If you don’t mind, I would like to ask permission for Miss Malboeuf to join me for a ride in my curricle. It is a fine day to visit Hyde Park.”
“What a splendid suggestion,” said Lady Hartley. She turned to Miss Malboeuf. “Are you amenable, Catherine?”
She stood. “I am. Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.” She touched her hand to her side. “Please allow me a moment to fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
He found it odd that she didn’t simply send a maid, but no one in the parlor was impolite enough to comment. The possibility that Miss Malboeuf did not have many servants at home to fetch things for her could not be dismissed. On second thought, it was also likely she simply wished to fetch the journal.
Apparently she was quite nimble as she returned more quickly than he could have anticipated. Following her into the corridor, he turned back to excuse himself to Lady Hartley, but she was already engaged in conversation. Of course, she would have no worries about her charge being in the care of a duke, about to be seen with him by most of London society. It could do nothing but help Miss Malboeuf’s cause, though he was not worried on that count. She would not be able to hide her true nature from anyone for long. The butler handed Miss Malboeuf her cloak and they proceeded out the front door.
He handed Miss Malboeuf into the curricle and climbed in beside her. “There were a great many bouquets in your parlor. You must have made a favorable impression at the ball last night.”
Her smile faded. “I’m afraid the majority of flowers were for Jane. However, I remain hopeful of my prospects.” She sighed. “I’m well aware of your opinions on the matter, so there is no need for us to revisit the subject. The purpose of your visit today is to discuss the journal.”
“I have been unable to find any useful clues as to the location of the tiara.” She looked up and adjusted the brim of her bonnet. “You have read the journal?”
“I admitted as much in Derbyshire.” Pulling on the left rein, he steered the team to avoid the pedestrians spilling into the street.
She leaned back against the seat. “Do you recall any clues about the location of the tiara or where it may have come from?”
Upon spotting an open patch of road, he clucked to the horses and urged them into a trot. The sooner they arrived at the park, the better. His curiosity was getting the better of him. Reason be damned, he had to know how much of the journal she had read. Biting back a grin, he asked, “Have you read the entire journal, Miss Malboeuf?”
Her cheeks filled with color. “I have not.”
He was at a loss to determine whether she was embarrassed because she hadn’t finished reading the journal, or because she had but didn’t want to admit it. “If you had, you would understand my inability to remember small details about the tiara. The rest of the journal was far too…ah…diverting.”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the flush in her cheeks grew darker. “Miss Malboeuf?”
She pursed her lips. “Very well. I have read the journal, but I do not wish to discuss the…my great-grandmother’s—”
“Transgressions?” he supplied, saving her the need to put a name to her great-grandmother’s activities.
After removing the journal from what appeared to be a secret hiding place in the folds of her gown, she opened it and turned several pages before placing her finger on a particular line of text. “We know my great-grandfather did not give her the tiara, but I have been unable to determine who did. It is made entirely of pink diamonds and was rumored to have once belonged to Empress Elizabeth of Russia. Here.” She pointed to a paragraph. “‘Not only has Walsley discovered the identity of my beau, but he is demanding that I give him the tiara. He plans to sell it, but I will never surrender it to him. It has been hidden.’”
Catherine met his eyes. “When my mother lived at Walsley, there was a painting of my great-grandmother wearing the tiara that hung in the drawing room. Have you ever seen it?”
Nick shook his head. “No. There was very little left in the house when I purchased it. I showed you the few pieces that have survived from the time your family owned the house.”
Pulling back on the reins, he slowed the horses to a walk as they neared the entrance to the park. “Didn’t she leave clues in the journal about where she hid the tiara?”
Catherine paged through the journal. “Yes, there is a sort of riddle here, but it doesn’t make sense to me. ‘Begin where warmth abounds. Very close, yet worlds away, it is no place for the meek.’”
He tilted his head toward her. “Where warmth abounds. Perhaps the painting hung over the fireplace in the drawing room.”
“You don’t think she hid the tiara behind the painting?”
“Not unless it would have fit between the canvas and the backing. It seems more likely that she left a clue on the back of the painting that led to the hiding place. Or yet another clue.”
She shot him a smile. “You seem to have a knack for treasure hunting.”
“I can assure you that I do not. But if she was trying to keep her husband from getting the tiara, it makes sense that there would be multiple clues.”
Catherine sighed. “I don’t suppose it will be possible to find the clues now that everything has been removed from the house. For now, I think we should focus on determining who gave her the tiara.”
“Does your family not have any of her personal letters or other papers that might help identify her…inamorato?”
She shook her head. “No, the cousin who inherited the title insisted that everything in the house belonged to him. He did not allow them to remove anything from the house except their clothing.”
Once the horses were settled into a slow walk amidst the sunny afternoon chaos of Hyde Park, he glanced toward her. She kept her eyes trained on the journal, still skimming for information. He ought not to have let her take the journal. It wasn’t appropriate reading material for an innocent. “If you like, I will reread the journal and make note of all of your great-grandmother’s…acquaintances so we can narrow down the possibilities.”
She clasped the journal to her chest. “Good heavens, no. I shall do it.”
“Why?”
“I would never be able to look you in the eye again knowing that you had read about her…exploits.”
“Catherine.” She cast a startled glance at him. Stifling the laughter threatening to erupt, he said, “I’ve already read the journal. There is nothing in there with which I am not already familiar.”
Casting her eyes downward, she said, “Well, there is much with which I am unfamiliar.”
Laughter burst forth from him, refusing to be contained. “Well I certainly hope so. It is not appropriate reading material for you. Give it back to me, and I will make a list of everyone mentioned in the journal. We must be thorough.” Casting his eyes toward the spire of a church in the distance, he attempted to dispel the images of Catherine reenacting her great grandmother’s escapades with him. His imagination was very thorough. Too thorough.
Carefully avoiding eye contact with him, she shook her head. “No. She was my great-grandmother, my relative. I will do it.”
Knowing he would not be able to convince her to surrender the journal to him, he gave up. Her parents ought to have named her obstinate. “Perhaps you could skim the journal and record the names and how they correspond to the dates in which she mentions the tiara. It isn’t necessary for you to reread everything.”
“I suppose that method could prove fruitful.” Drawing her lower lip into her mouth, she studied the open page of the journal. Her eyes widened. “See here.” She pointed to the page. “She reminded Great-Grandfather about the dinner party they were holding that night. Several foreign diplomats, as well as many members of the House of Lords, were to be present. After grandfather left the room, she wrote, ‘What new surprises will my lover have for me tonight?’”
He leaned closer, their shoulders touching as she skimmed the page. Squelching his urge to run the tips of his fingers down her neck to her—he shook his head and attempted to listen to her words.
“‘I long for the sweet torture of his touch, for the pleasure he brings me.’”
To complete his torture, she continued reading, oblivious to his discomfort.
“‘My pulse races as I remember the warm touch of his hands. I throb with unmet desire, craving his…’” erhm “‘…practiced attention.’ I’m not sure what this means…”
Listening to her read the journal was a bad idea, unless he decided to add bursting into flames to his list of things to do.
Her voice trailed off and she shifted uneasily on the seat, her face mirroring the color of a ripe beet. No doubt she didn’t understand what most of the passage meant, or she never would have read it out loud. She slipped her tongue out to wet her lips, and Nick found himself throbbing with need. He searched for something, anything appropriate to say.
“Do you think—”
“No,” he ground out. He would not, could not explain that passage to her.
“But—”
“Your Grace.” A singsong voice came from the left, causing him to cringe internally. He had wished for an escape from his awkward situation, but this was not the form of salvation he
would have chosen. Lady Farthingham had never given up hope that one of her six daughters would be the one to convince him to marry. It was just his luck that she was in the park. He was not in the right frame of mind to humor her.
“Lady Farthingham.” He tipped his hat but did not stop the horses.
She quickened her pace to stay abreast of the curricle. “Your Grace. How lovely to see you back in town. My youngest is to make her debut this season,” she said, waving toward the girl who followed behind her.
A small giggle escaped from Catherine and he shot her a quick glare before responding to Lady Farthingham. “How pleasant for you.” The woman had somehow managed to marry off all of her other undistinguished offspring. He did not envy their spouses.
“Who is that with you, Your Grace?” she said breathlessly, struggling to hold her position alongside the curricle. Her daughter barely managed to maintain her footing as her mother dragged her along. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
Sighing, he pulled the horses to a halt. “Lady Farthingham, this is Miss Malboeuf, a friend of the family visiting from New Orleans. Miss Malboeuf, this is Lady Farthingham.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lady,” said Catherine sedately.
Lady Farthingham’s brow crinkled. “Malboeuf. Why does that name sound familiar? Do I know your father?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my lady.” Catherine’s brows drew together as she carefully chose her words. “You may know my mother. She is a member of the Walsley family.”
“Walsley? As in Walsley Manor?” Her mouth hung open in surprise, a most unbecoming look for her.
“Yes, my lady. Now if you will excuse us, I have an appointment.” Clucking to the horses, he slapped the reins against their backsides and waved to Lady Farthingham as they sped away.
Catherine raised her brows at him. “Is there anyone you do like?”
He frowned. “My mother. My cousin, Justin. And his wife.”
“Anyone you aren’t related to?”
While pretending to consider her question, he instead tried to determine at what point he began to think of her as Catherine rather than Miss Malboeuf. He searched the stretch of Rotten Row ahead and found a relatively private place to stop the curricle.
How to Beguile a Duke (Entangled Scandalous) Page 10
