“The lady has been shot. Please move out of my way,” Daniel said, his tone rough with the frustration of being delayed.
“Show me,” the lady demanded.
Who the devil was this rude and thoughtless person?
“Why don’t you join us inside?” the duchess suggested. Daniel quietly admired her calm. If it had been up to him, he’d have tossed the impertinent lady aside and been on his way. Did she not understand the urgency?
Eyes meeting Daniel’s in a hard glare, the lady nodded and stepped back, allowing him entry. Anger flaring as he strode across the ballroom floor, he looked forward to giving the woman a proper set down. How dare she put Lady Nuit’s life at further risk by detaining them?
Climbing the steps leading up to the foyer, Daniel was met by Kingsborough, who was looking a bit out of sorts, suggesting that he’d had little success in locating the shooter.
“This way,” he said as he led Daniel down a corridor and into a parlor that had been furnished in various shades of green. “You can set her down over there, Neville. I’ve sent for a doctor, but in the meantime . . .” He hesitated a moment. “Is she alive?”
Daniel felt his throat tighten as he placed Lady Nuit on one of the silk sofas. Unable to speak, he just nodded.
“It appears so,” Winston said.
The dowager duchess, who’d followed Daniel over to the sofa, gently urged him out of the way. She then began pulling Lady Nuit’s sleeve down over her shoulder. “The least we can do is try to clean this,” she explained. “Would you please give me some brandy and another cravat? This one’s soaked through.”
Eager to assist, Daniel hastily undid his cravat while Kingsborough poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it on the table next to where the duchess knelt. He then held out his hand toward Daniel, who dropped the long piece of linen into it. The duke handed it to his mother, who dipped the length of fabric into the glass and pressed it against Lady Nuit’s open wound. “I thought she was—” the duke said, sounding confused.
“Quite,” the plump lady snapped, cutting him off. “Apparently she pulled the wool over all of our eyes.”
For a moment it looked as if the duke might argue the point, but then his features softened as he addressed both the plump lady and her husband. “Unfortunately, I have no idea who did this. It appears the culprit fled the premises before I could apprehend him, but I have sent for the constable, so hopefully the matter will soon be resolved. In the meantime, I take full responsibility for the incident and hope that you will accept my sincerest apologies.”
The couple gave a curt nod and the duke turned to everyone else, saying, “I ought to go explain the situation to our guests, but I’ll be back soon. Can you manage until I return?”
“We’ll be fine,” the duchess assured him, upon which he exited the room.
Daniel stood rooted to the floor, his gaze moving first to Lady Nuit’s shoulder, the wound there flashing angrily in and out of view as the duchess dabbed away at it, and then to the bitter expressions of the lady and gentleman, whom he did not recognize. The only reason he could think of to explain why they’d questioned him, and why the duchess had suggested they follow, was that they were Lady Nuit’s parents or related to her in some other way. But if that was the case, then why would they have been invited to the ball without her? It didn’t make any sense . . . unless, of course, what she’d told him was true. He considered the plump lady’s words with a frown.
Intent on finding answers, he stepped toward the couple and bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, aware of the sharp scrutiny that befell him the instant he did so. “I am Mr. Neville.” Attempting a slight smile, he waited warily for any sign of recognition his name might bring. None, as far as he could tell. They were just as unaware of his identity as he was of theirs.
“Lord Grifton,” the stout man responded. “And this is my wife, Lady Grifton.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Daniel said, aiming for the most polite tone he could manage.
Lady Grifton, who looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit, narrowed her eyes on him like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “I can’t say that I share your sentiment,” she said. “Had it not been for you, she probably wouldn’t have gotten herself shot.”
Daniel wasn’t sure how she’d drawn that conclusion. “We were just dancing,” he explained, determined not to be cowed by her. “I don’t see how—”
“Then it is entirely your fault, Mr. Neville. You, sir, clearly led her into the line of fire,” Lady Grifton hissed. She turned to her husband. “I cannot wait to have a few choice words with her when she comes to.”
Daniel took a deep, steadying breath. The insinuation that Lady Nuit—correction, Lady Rebecca—had been shot because of him made him sick.
“An explanation is most certainly in order,” Lord Grifton agreed.
“Right.” Lady Grifton crossed her arms and raised her chin, her expression scornful. “And as soon as she’s recovered, she’s marrying one of those suitors. Why, it’s clear as day what she’s been playing at these past two years. Well, the game’s up. She’ll do her duty if I have to drag her to the altar myself!”
The dowager duchess raised her head, eyes wide with alarm. “Lady Grifton, I understand that you must be stunned to find Lady Rebecca here. I have to admit that it is unexpected. But please try to calm down. She needs rest and medical attention. In fact, she’s welcome to remain here until she recovers if that would be—”
“Thank you, Your Grace, that’s very generous of you, but it’s also completely out of the question,” Lady Grifton said. “We’re taking her back to Roselyn Castle with us as soon as the doctor has seen to her. She can get the same amount of rest there as she can here, and I can assure you that now that I’m aware of her scheming ways, I’ll be keeping a closer eye on her. The next time she gets into this sort of mischief, her husband will be the one to deal with it.”
Daniel gaped at her. He couldn’t believe the venom with which Lady Grifton spoke of her ward. “How can you say that?” he asked, his voice low as he fought for control. “She could have died tonight. She still might.”
Lady Grifton stepped toward him, looking not the least bit intimidated by his greater size. Staring up at him, she smiled. “I take it you’re smitten with her? Well, I suggest you get that fancy out of your head, sir.” Her eyes swept over him with distaste. “She is a lady of breeding. I would be a fool to waste her on an untitled gentleman when an earl and a duke are showing great interest in her.”
“If I may,” Lord Winston said. “I think—”
“Quite right,” Daniel clipped, sensing that it wouldn’t matter one whit to this woman that he was next in line to the Marquisate of Wolvington. At present, he was untitled, and that was apparently all that the arrogant woman cared about.
He considered her words. Lady Grifton had spoken of Lady Rebecca as scheming. Daniel quietly recalled reading about Lady Rebecca’s riding accident two years earlier. She’d taken a severe blow to the head, the papers had said, and had since been declared mad. It wasn’t as if everyone talked about her though—at least not anymore—but everyone knew of her, although Daniel had to admit that he probably knew less than most. His interest in the drama surrounding Roselyn Castle had never been great, so he’d never really given it much thought.
Was it possible that Lady Rebecca’s entire illness had been nothing but a front? And if so, then how did the shooter fit into the scenario? He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm Lady Rebecca, but on the other hand, he had to acknowledge that he knew very little about her. Perhaps she’d done something far more terrible than feign insanity—something that had resulted in someone wishing her dead.
Daniel tossed the idea aside with a shake of his head. It was ludicrous to imagine such a thing when instinct told him that she would make him an excellent match. He decided th
en and there that he would still try to win Lady Rebecca’s hand, and, being the reckless man that he was, Daniel was not about to walk away from the challenge that doing so would pose. On the contrary, he looked forward to it with great anticipation, because if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that she would rather marry him than whoever the Griftons had in mind, and now that he knew where to find her, all he had to do was think of a way in which to gain access to her.
Really, how hard could it possibly be?
Chapter 4
Heaven help her, she was in pain. While the doctor had assured her aunt and uncle that she would survive, having a lead ball extracted and getting stitched up afterward had still hurt like blazes.
“Did you at least enjoy yourself last night, my lady?” Laura asked. The maid was sitting at Rebecca’s bedside, eyes filled with concern.
Rebecca took a deep breath and exhaled it. “Yes,” she said, her eyes closing at the memory of it. She could still see Mr. Neville’s handsome face as he smiled back at her. “It was spectacular.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” Laura said. She shook her head. “I never should have agreed to let you go. Lord, you could have been killed!”
“It would still have been worth it,” Rebecca muttered, too low for Laura to hear. After returning home, she’d been locked inside her room with a promise from her aunt that the next time she ventured outside, it would be to entertain Lord Topperly and the Duke of Grover.
“You will marry one of them,” her aunt had said. “Naturally, we will decide which of them will suit you best. After everything you’ve put us through—embarrassing us by showing up at the ball the way you did—I daresay we’re looking forward to being rid of you!”
“All I wanted was the chance to find a husband of my own choosing,” Rebecca had said. “Why won’t you let me do that? Have you no desire to see me happy?”
“Happy? By God, you’re as spoiled as your mother was—always making demands. It’s her fault my brother’s dead, and yet I took you in after they both perished in that fire, even though you’re just as unlikeable as she was. You ought to be grateful that I’m even capable of finding a man who’s interested in you, given that unfortunate coloring of yours. Why, you look as if you haven’t bathed in a year, and yet I have worked a miracle, finding not one but two titled gentlemen willing to be your husband—old ones, even, whom you’ll soon outlive. If you’re smart about it, you’ll hurry up and give the one you marry a son as soon as possible to secure your own position. Now get to bed—the sooner you recover, the sooner we can get the matter settled.”
Her aunt had then left, locking the door behind her and leaving Rebecca to wonder exactly how long it would take before her aunt and uncle deemed her fit enough to meet with her suitors. No more than a week, she imagined.
With little comfort to be had in light of what her future probably held for her, Rebecca had been overjoyed to discover that Laura had managed to convince the Griftons that she’d played no part in Rebecca’s escapade. The cunning maid had actually told the Griftons that Rebecca, being of the sound mind that she was, must have switched the laudanum-laced tea that Laura was supposed to serve to pacify Rebecca when she was at her worst with Laura’s untainted cup. She’d apologized profusely to them for not keeping a better eye on Rebecca, going so far as to claim that Rebecca obviously didn’t know what was best for her and that it was obvious that the Griftons were only trying to do what was in Rebecca’s best interest. They’d swallowed the fib without further question.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that a handsome young gentleman might call on you soon?” Laura asked. “I’d hate to see you married to either of the men that the earl and countess have selected for you. Why they refuse to find someone who’s closer to you in age and whom you might actually stand a chance of happiness with, I cannot imagine.”
Rebecca groaned, her shoulder aching as she turned a little so she could better see Laura. “They probably don’t want to bother with the hassle of going to the City and dragging me from one ballroom to the next when there are already two gentlemen willing to take me off their hands here, and with no extra expense—you know how fickle they are.”
Laura nodded. “That’s true, though I still have this niggling suspicion that there’s more to it than that. They’re too insistent.” Her brow creased as she shook her head. “There’s something odd about the whole situation if you ask me.”
The thought had occurred to Rebecca before, though she’d yet to discover if there was any merit to it. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve no reason to believe that they just want to be rid of me.”
“Perhaps,” Laura agreed, though she was looking doubtful. On a deep breath, she suddenly smiled. “So, is there a young gentleman, my lady? Did you meet someone last night from whom you might expect a visit . . . or perhaps a proposal?”
A slow smile captured Rebecca’s lips as she thought of the troublemaking rake. “There is one whose company I particularly enjoyed.”
A squeal of excitement escaped Laura. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with curiosity. Removing her hand slowly, she spoke in a whisper, as if there had been others present who might overhear. “Who is he?”
“Well . . .” Rebecca dragged out the word for dramatic effect. “His name is Mr. Neville, and he is the heir to the Marquisate of Wolvington.”
Laura’s eyebrows shot up. “He must be a handsome devil—charming too, I’d imagine.”
“Why do you say that?” Rebecca asked curiously.
“Because of the way you speak his name, my lady.” When Rebecca frowned, Laura imitated the dreamy way in which she’d spoken. She chuckled as she got up from her chair and went to fetch Rebecca a cup of tea. Looking over her shoulder, she gave her mistress a knowing smile. “I believe you’re quite smitten.”
Rebecca couldn’t lie. “I must confess that I cannot stop thinking about him, although I fear marrying him is completely out of the question—he won’t suit.”
“And why is that?” Laura asked, returning to Rebecca’s bedside and handing her the warm cup.
“Because he’s a rake who will never be able to offer me the happy family life I’m seeking. You would be shocked to hear of some of the things he’s done, but even if I chose to accept his faults, I doubt that Aunt and Uncle would approve—not when there’s an earl and a duke in the running.” “But if he’s an heir—”
“You know as well as I that they won’t care about that. All they’ll see is a man who’s presently untitled and accompanied by a poor reputation.” She shook her head, feeling terribly sad that her relatives were so shallow, but they were not the only ones, as evidenced by the scowls of disapproval Mr. Neville had received from almost everyone the night before. She took a sip of her tea before sinking back against her pillow and closing her eyes. “What am I saying? I’m talking as if I expect him to call on me, which he will be unlikely to do now that he knows who I am. I’m a charlatan, Laura, and not even a very pretty one at that, which makes Mr. Neville’s interest in me so much more suspicious. No, I’ll probably end up with Topperly or . . .” She scrunched her nose. “Grover.”
Opening her eyes, she found Laura watching her. “How many times must I tell you that you’re beautiful before you believe me?”
Rebecca forced a smile. “My skin tone is darker than everyone else’s and I have black hair. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the way other girls mocked me when I was a child. They used to call me gypsy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them still do.”
“If that is the case, then they’ve no idea what a gypsy looks like. You have your mother’s Spanish blood in you, that’s all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my lady. If anything, you should embrace how different you are from everyone else. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if this is what drew Mr. Neville to you in the first place. Besides, even if he is a rake, as you
say, there’s always the possibility that he might reform,” Laura said. “The duke did.”
Rebecca sighed. “Yes, I suppose that’s true, but he also had good reason to do so. There’s a lot of responsibility resting on his shoulders. Mr. Neville, however—”
“Has no responsibility? You just said that he’s the heir to the Wolvington title. Surely he will need a wife and an heir of his own one day.”
“I’m sure he will,” Rebecca agreed. In fact, Mr. Neville had pointed out the exact same thing. But just because he gave her his name did not mean that he would give her his loyalty . . . his fidelity. She handed her now empty teacup back to Laura and settled back against her pillow with a yawn. “Forgive me, Laura, but I’m suddenly very tired. I think I’ll try to get some rest.”
“You do that, my lady, and I’ll go and cut some of those daffodils I promised you.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca sighed, her eyes closing to the sound of Laura shuffling about the room. The door opened and closed, silence settled over her, and she slowly drifted off to sleep, her last thought being of Mr. Neville’s smile as he twirled her in his arms, dancing.
Chapter 5
“Why, Lady Rebecca,” the Earl of Topperly was saying loudly as his light blue eyes slid over her figure with great appreciation, “you look exquisite today.”
One day of rest: that was all her aunt and uncle had afforded her before insisting that she ready herself for meeting her suitors. “It’s not as if you were shot in the leg,” her aunt had said as she’d picked out a gown for her to wear. “You can easily take a walk with them in the garden.”
So here she was, parading about between the flowerbeds with a relic on one arm and a fossil on the other. “Thank you, my lord, you’re most kind.”
“And may I say,” the Duke of Grover told her, his eyes gleaming as he dropped his gaze to her bosom and leaned closer to her ear, “that you look riper than ever before. Wouldn’t you agree, Topperly?”
The Scandal in Kissing an Heir Page 5
