‘Where did you learn to waltz?’ the old man asked, his chins wobbling and his face a furious red. ‘Disgraceful dance. I am shocked.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘You looked lovely. Quite lovely.’
Other men approached. Robert could smell their interest. Soon she would be surrounded. Flattered. He wanted to draw his ancient pistol and hold them at bay. Instead, he bowed to no one in particular and withdrew.
On his way across the room, he sidestepped the shepherdess. Fortunately, since Lullington had Maggie’s full attention on the dance floor, he strolled out of the ballroom unnoticed by anyone but Frederica.
The promised kiss had him hot with lust. Careless of who saw him, he ran up the stairs and slipped into her chamber.
Would she dance a set with another of her admirers before she joined him, or would she come right away? He paced around the bed and back to the fire. Five minutes passed. Then another. Damn it. It was all a tease.
The door opened. He dove for the shadows at the head of the bed.
‘R-Robert?’
Joy flooded his veins. He stepped forwards and held out his arms.
She rushed into them and put her mouth up for his kiss. And kiss her he did. Long and sweet, full of his heart and his soul. It wasn’t enough. ‘Oh, sweetling,’ he murmured against her mouth, ‘I have wanted to do that all night. You ran a terrible danger meeting me here.’
‘It is all right. No one thought anything of it.’
He led her to the chair by the window and sat with her on his lap. He kissed her again, sincerely, tenderly, fiercely.
‘R-Robert,’ she gasped, when he at last permitted her to take a breath. ‘What is the matter?’
He forced himself to speak. ‘I just had to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.’
She wound her arms around his neck. ‘Thank you. And thank you for being the first to waltz with me. I wasn’t nervous at all.’
He smiled down at her. ‘I had to see my pupil’s début.’
‘Thank you.’ She kissed his cheek.
He stroked the silky tresses floating down her back. ‘I’d risk anything for a moment alone with you. I felt so bad sending you away, but if your uncle ever found out about us, I fear what he might do to you. I can’t bear the thought of bringing you harm.’
‘I know.’ There was sadness in her voice. ‘And if my uncle finds out you’ve been meeting me, you will lose your position.’
He felt like he’d destroyed something precious, but he had no choice. ‘I don’t care about that, but our worlds are too far apart. I can’t offer you the life you deserve. We have to end this here.’
She rested her head on his chest, her sigh a balm to his heart. ‘Run away with me.’
Shock ripped through him. And longing. He almost said yes, then he imagined the kind of life he could provide, dragging her from one estate to another, never sure of a roof over their heads. ‘You’d lose everything—position, your family. I have no means to support you.’
‘I don’t care. I hate them.’
God, why was refusing her so hard? He’d never before felt as if he was cutting off his right arm when he gave a woman her congé? What was it about this one that had buried itself so deeply under his skin? ‘I care.’
‘Why don’t you just admit that you are tired of me?’ Her voice was husky with emotion, but when she gazed into his face her eyes were hard and bright. ‘If I hadn’t come to ask you teach me to dance, you would not have sought me out, would you?’
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He considered asking her to wait until he was well established and become his wife.
A wife? Had he lost his reason? He never stayed with a woman for more than a month or two. It wasn’t in his nature. No. He had to be cruel to do the right thing. ‘No. I never would have sought you out.’
She pushed away from him.
He let his arms fall away. Felt the chill as she slipped off his lap to stand before him.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘If that is what you want, then there is nothing more I can say. I wish you well, R-Robert Deveril.’ She headed for the door.
For a single mad moment, he considered telling her his story. Of unburdening himself. Oh, hell. What kind of man placed his problems on a woman’s slight shoulders? A weakling. ‘You’ll thank me one day,’ he said.
She paused with her hand on the doorknob, not looking back. ‘Will I?’
He cracked a hard laugh. ‘Probably not. Go ahead. I will follow in a moment or two.’
She turned then, her eyes drinking him in as if for the last time. ‘Take care, R-Robert.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about me. Enjoy the rest of your ball.’
‘It won’t be the same.’ On that wrenching admission, she slipped out into the hall and closed the door.
His heart felt as if someone had torn it in two and stamped on the pieces.
Chapter Eight
Five hellish minutes passed with Robert listening at the chamber door for sounds in the hallway beyond. All he could think about was getting as far away from Wynchwood as possible and drowning himself in brandy. Only a shred of sanity kept him from storming down the stairs.
Heart thudding slow, he continued to listen, angry he’d hurt her. Angry he didn’t have a choice.
Hearing nothing, he stepped into the hallway, closed the door swiftly behind him and sauntered for the staircase as if he had every right to be wandering the upper chambers.
A soft click behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Had someone seen him leave her chamber? If they had, they’d not raised an outcry. Resisting the temptation to turn and look, he continued on his way. A couple in medieval garb ascended the stairs giggling and laughing, clearly looking for privacy. The joys of a masked ball.
Nodding politely, though he doubted they saw him, Robert continued on down the wide staircase, his footsteps drowned by the noise of revelry. The guests had spilled out into the entrance hall where tables sagged beneath punch bowls and glasses. He pushed through towards the front door, narrowly missing treading on Bracewell’s lion’s tail and dodging a wildly waving tribal spear.
He caught sight of Frederica standing in the doorway to the ballroom, smiling brightly at Radthorn and a couple of his cronies. Too brightly. God, she looked lovely. Something dark rose up in his chest as John smiled down at her, his gaze fixed on her face in undivided attention. An overwhelming desire to snatch her away, to ride off with her, made him clench his fists.
He didn’t have the right to take her away from everything she knew and he’d finally convinced her he no longer wanted her. Longing hung around his neck like a chain.
He’d never stop wanting her.
With an effort, he turned away. He’d have to leave Wynchwood. He would never be able to stand in the shadows watching her, seeing her with men like Radthorn and Lullington, and not commit murder.
He stopped at a refreshment table and grabbed a bumper of brandy. It went down in one gulp, burning his gullet. Trust Wynchwood to buy cheap brandy. He needed fresh air. Needed to clear his head. Get a grip, Robert.
There were hundreds more women waiting to be plucked.
Except he didn’t want any of them. For his sins, he only wanted one.
He continued his progress to the door.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ A voice rang out above the hubbub of talking and music. ‘May I have your attention?’ Lord Wynchwood’s voice. ‘I have an announcement. Please gather in the ballroom.’
The crowd around Robert craned their necks in the direction of the voice, pressing closer, surging forwards.
Robert pushed against the tide.
‘I say,’ said a pirate. ‘You are going the wrong way.’
‘You stepped on my skirts,’ a queen said crossly, tugging at her train.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, shifting his foot.
Someone shoved him. His hat and wig slipped. He grabbed at it. Other faces turned his way, curious.
Damn.
Any moment now, his behaviour was going to garner unwanted attention. He let himself be carried along with the flow into the ballroom, slowly inching his way closer to the bank of French windows, which he’d earlier made sure were closed but not locked.
He looked up to see Frederica standing on the orchestra dais beside her uncle. She looked mutinous and worried. What the hell was going on?
Jammed between a Roman senator and a black cat and blocked by Queen Elizabeth’s enormous hoops, he wasn’t going anywhere without causing a stir. He remained still, watching Frederica, who looked more unhappy than when he’d left her upstairs, if that was possible.
Someone bumped him. He braced himself to withstand the shoves of those around him.
‘Quiet, please,’ Lord Wynchwood yelled. The buzz of conversation died away. A trickle of sweat ran down Robert’s back as the temperature in the room increased along with the level of curiosity.
‘Thank you,’ Wynchwood said. ‘It is my very great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my ward, Miss Frederica Bracewell, to my heir, Mr Simon Bracewell.’
Betrothed? All around him, people shouted their congratulations and exclaimed their surprise, while Robert felt as if a black hole had opened in front of his feet and he was falling in. His vision darkened, his heart seemed to still in his chest. Betrothed?
The cold steel of betrayal knifed through his chest, an edge so finely honed, so cold and sharp, the pain almost drove him to his knees.
Why hadn’t she told him? Had she tried, just now, and lost her nerve? Is that why she asked him to run away with her?
Was that the reason she’d come to him in the first place, as a means to escape an unwanted marriage? Would she now confess her sins? At any moment he expected to hear her inform her uncle that she was no longer chaste.
Not that she’d been chaste when she came to him, but they were not to know that.
God, she’d even offered to pay him. To sit as a model. Was that all she had wanted to pay for? Was it? Was she like every other woman in his life, simply using him? She’d certainly betrayed his trust by not telling him the truth.
He pushed blindly through the crowd, squeezing between hot bodies, his nose filled with the stink of perfumes and powdered wigs. The crowd parted with cross looks and grumbles. His stomach roiled with self-disgust. He’d allowed himself to be used.
He felt sick.
A scream rang out.
Once more silence reigned in the ballroom. The room seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved, except Robert, pressing steadily ahead, the doors filling his vision like the Holy Grail to a Templar Knight.
‘My emeralds,’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘I’ve been robbed.’
Exclamations of horror rippled around the room. People looked at each other in shock, checked their jewels, glanced at each other in suspicion.
Barely aware, and uncaring, Robert drew the curtains aside. He needed air. Something to clear his head, something to stem the tide of icy blackness rising up from his chest and threatening annihilation.
‘Stop the highwayman,’ a male voice cried out from behind him. Lullington?
A crocodile with a fat belly barred his path.
Surprised, Robert shouldered him aside and grabbed the door handle. The crocodile gripped his wrist. Anger rose up. Robert swung his fist. It connected to bone and soft flesh with a satisfying crunch. The man landed on his tail with a howl. Robert pulled open the door, only to have it slammed shut by the weight of the oriental man and an enormously fat monk.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ John Radthorn said, breathing hard beneath his conical hat. ‘No one leaves until we find the jewels.’
Jewels? Right. Someone had yelled something about stolen emeralds. He glanced around at the suspicious faces, John’s, Simon Bracewell’s, his lion head gone, Lord Wynchwood’s. ‘I don’t have your bloody jewels,’ he said. ‘But I do have an urgent appointment.’
‘Search him,’ someone said.
‘Go to hell,’ Robert growled.
John Radthorn raised a brow. ‘No one leaves this house until they are searched and unmasked.’ His voice was quiet, but full of determination.
His disguise wouldn’t hold up in front of John. Not unmasked.
He pulled his pistol from his belt. ‘Stand back, damn you. I haven’t got your jewels. I’m leaving.’
People gasped, men muttered, but as one the crowd pulled back, leaving a glittering Lullington in the empty space, with Maggie a few feet behind him. The viscount’s lip curled. ‘A highwayman. How appropriate. ’Tis my belief he is our thief.’
Bloody hell and damnation. ‘I’ve stolen nothing. I’ll let you search me. Then I’m going.’
Lullington minced forwards. ‘Perhaps he handed his ill-gotten gains off to an accomplice.’ He moved to check Robert’s pockets despite the pistol.
The man had courage. But Robert already knew that.
‘Not you,’ Robert growled and shoved the pistol in Lullington’s face.
The viscount halted with a nasty smile on his lips and recognition in his eyes.
He knew.
Robert’s heart picked up speed. He glanced around, caught Radthorn’s intense stare and nodded at him. ‘You do it. I’ve nothing to hide.’
Men in the crowd surged closer. Robert waved his pistol. ‘Who wants a ball in their head? I’ll drop the first of ye like a stone.’
‘My God,’ Wynchwood said. ‘That man works for me.’
Inwardly, Robert groaned, even as he smiled and bowed. ‘My lord. Thank you for a very pleasant evening. I would recommend a little less water in the punch.’
A half-smile kicked up John’s mouth as he moved in. Robert held his hands away from his body, watching the men crowding closer. Off to his right, still on the dais, a small figure in green-and-brown earth tones stared down at him. Her eyes were huge in her pale face.
Radthorn would find nothing and Robert would leave her to her betrothal ball. His lip curled. Once he was gone, she could announce her ruin with his blessing.
John patted the pockets in his coat, ran a hand across his waistcoat and his hips. ‘No jewels,’ he said.
‘Then why is he holding us at bay with a gun?’ Lullington lisped, waving a languid hand. ‘I suggest we call the magistrate and have him searched properly by the local constable.’
A man dressed as King Charles the First, but looking more like a spaniel, popped through the throng. ‘I am the magistrate. You,’ he said to Robert, ‘will put down your pistol and submit to a proper search of your person.’
‘That was a proper search,’ John said, his voice strained.
Robert glanced at him, saw concern in his friend’s eyes and his stomach hit the floor. John had found something.
A hiss of steel whipped his head around. It was Lullington pulling a sword from his costume’s scabbard.
He held the sword tip against Robert’s throat. ‘It is my guess the rogue’s pistol isn’t loaded.’ He showed his teeth. ‘Is it?’
‘Do ye dare to find out?’ Robert said, pressing his pistol’s muzzle against Lullington’s chest.
Several men lunged forwards.
‘One more step,’ Robert said. ‘And this man is dead.’
They stopped cold.
Lullington gave a soft laugh and pressed the blade to Robert’s throat. He felt the sting as the blade nicked his flesh. ‘Shoot, then.’
Curse him. Robert tossed the pistol aside. Loaded or not, he’d not shoot a man in cold blood.
He held his arms wide. ‘Search me again, then, if you must.’
‘Oh, I think I must,’ Lullington said softly. He raised his voice. ‘I saw him upstairs a while ago.’
Hades.
The crowd around them muttered.
Robert kept his face impassive and let Lullington pat him down. The moment the viscount announced he did not have the emeralds, he would dive through the glass. But he needed space. He needed Lullington clear of the door. He moved into the semicircle of watchers, put
ting John between him and the door. John would let him past.
Lullington slowly ran his hands down Robert’s body, his legs, his arms, checking the cuffs on his coat. Robert lifted his gaze and saw how Frederica clung to the music stand. She actually had the gall to look worried. As if she actually cared.
Or was she worried he’d give her away?
Lullington swung him around and felt through the folds of his cloak. ‘Aha,’ he cried.
Robert froze. It couldn’t be. He could not have found the jewels.
Maggie put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.
Lullington pulled forth a strand of emeralds and diamonds. Robert recognised them. Maggie had worn them often in his company.
‘A strange thing to keep in your pocket, sir,’ Lullington lisped.
‘Someone put them there,’ Robert said. ‘I did not take them.’
‘What were you doing upstairs, then?’ Lullington asked. ‘In the same wing where Lady Caldwell’s chamber is located.’
Robert clenched his fists. The bastard. He must have seen Robert in the upstairs hall and then planted the necklace in his pocket in the crowded ballroom. He recalled the bump. Robert glanced around. Every face stared back with an expression of suspicion. It was White’s all over again.
‘It is possible that the real thief hid them on this man’s person, meaning to claim them later,’ Radthorn said. The pity in his eyes made Robert feel sick, but at least John wasn’t abandoning him.
He glanced towards the podium, dreading Frederica’s reaction. She was gone. No doubt she thought him guilty.
‘Arrest him,’ Lullington said to the magistrate. ‘There is no doubt he is guilty.’ He held the necklace high to the gasps of the crowd. ‘You really should be more careful whom you employ, Lord Wynchwood.’
His sneering gaze rested on Robert. The bugger was enjoying himself. Robert eyed the door two steps away. A fist in the viscount’s gut might make him a little less smug and give him enough time to escape.
‘Someone fetch a rope,’ the magistrate said. A footman scurried off. People turned to watch him go.
Lullington handed the necklace to Maggie, whose pallor had taken on a greenish cast.
The momentary distraction was all Robert needed. He leaped for the door handle, wrenched the door open. Lullington grabbed at his cloak and yanked. Robert tore the damned thing free. Too late. Three men leaped on his back. He hit the ground chest first. The air rushed out of his lungs as all three men sat on his back.
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