by Alec, Joyce
Peter, who was not at all interested in Miss Lambert or in why her mother had chosen to push her into the arms of a rogue, could not help but roll his eyes.
“You see?” Lord Blackridge insisted. “There will be no one to so much as glance at you now that this gossip has taken hold.”
Sighing inwardly and telling himself that in fact, he would quite like a drink, Peter shrugged and turned towards White’s. “I suppose I could do so,” he replied slowly. “But if I choose to leave, for whatever reason, then you shall have nothing to say about the matter.”
Grinning, Lord Blackridge hurried towards White’s as though he were a child eager for some special treat. “Of course I shall not,” he replied drolly. “Come now. I am certain you will find a great deal of enjoyment within.”
* * *
Much to Peter’s relief, it seemed that Lord Blackridge had been correct. No other gentleman came near him, aside from a few of his acquaintances greeting him, and Peter soon found himself relaxing in a chair in a quiet corner of the establishment with a large brandy in his hand. He allowed his gaze to rove over the crowd of gentlemen, wondering why Lord Whitfield had thought that Peter would find such trouble here. Perhaps it had been as Blackridge had said. Other rumors and pieces of gossip had become much more interesting to the gossip mongers and therefore, he was free to go about his business without interruption.
“Got a pretty little thing now, do you not?”
Peter knew that it was not his business to eavesdrop, but the three gentlemen seated to his left were not making any effort to keep their voices low.
“I do, as it happens,” said a second gentleman. “Intend to keep this one too, I think.”
The third laughed raucously, as though this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.
“I do!” the second man protested, sounding offended. “She means a good deal to me.”
“And it helps that her father is exceedingly rich and is likely to bestow a large dowry upon her,” the first gentleman said dryly. “Is that not so, Carrington?”
Lord Carrington muttered something under his breath whilst the other two gentlemen laughed aloud. Peter winced, feeling sorry for Lord Carrington, who was clearly caught up with the young lady in his own way—although whether it was on her own merits or due to the wealth and prestige that she brought with her, he could not say.
“I intend to buy her a beautiful set of pearls,” Lord Carrington announced, sounding as though he had just hit upon the idea. “I shall bestow them upon her and make sure to let her know the depths of my affections.”
“My goodness, that does sound rather serious,” said the first gentleman, his tone still teasing. “And it shall cost you a great deal of money, I am quite certain of that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Lord Carrington draw himself up.
“It does not matter the cost,” he replied primly. “I shall spend whatever I wish on my lady, if I am to prove to her the depths of my affection.”
The third gentleman chuckled. “Then you must call upon Mr. Huntly.”
Lord Carrington hesitated. “And who is Mr. Huntly?”
“He is nothing more than a simple tradesman,” the third gentleman replied with a slight sniff. “Although the creations he produces are quite remarkable, he will charge you a good deal for one of his pieces. Lives fairly well now, from what I understand. One of his wooden boxes would make the perfect presentation for these pearls you intend to buy.”
Peter shot out of his seat almost at once, his brandy sloshing over the side of the glass as he slammed it down, hard. He stared, wide-eyed, at the three gentlemen, who were all looking at him with the most peculiar expressions on their face.
“This Mr. Huntly,” Peter said at once, not caring that he was showing that he had been listening to their conversation. “Where might I find him?”
The second gentleman frowned, his eyes a little angry as he sniffed with disdain. “And why, might I ask, should you wish to know that, sir?”
“I must know,” Peter insisted quickly, racking his brains to find a suitable excuse. “It is only that I am to propose to my dear Miss Grey and have been searching for the perfect gift to go along with my words of affection. I have, as Lord Carrington has done, purchased something valuable, but I felt the presentation was lacking somewhat.” He tried to smile, despite the hammering of his heart. “This may be precisely what I am looking for.”
The first man glanced at the other two before addressing Peter. “You are Lord Marchmont,” he said, to which Peter nodded. “And you are to propose to Miss Grey, then?”
“I am,” Peter said hurriedly, catching Lord Blackridge’s eye as he began to meander towards Peter from where he had been standing, talking to another acquaintance.
“Then I should be delighted to help you!” said the second gentleman, grinning as though Peter had given him some sort of wonderful gift. “Mr. Huntly is located near the docks. He has a decent establishment, although why he does not move into a better part of London I cannot tell. He makes a good deal of money from what he sells; I am quite certain of it.”
Nodding swiftly and quite certain that he was appearing a little frantic, Peter asked a few more questions in order to find out the exact location of this Mr. Huntly, seeing Lord Blackridge’s eyes widen as he came nearer and overheard what was being discussed.
“I thank you,” Peter said, bowing quickly as Lord Carrington nodded. “You have been very kind. Allow me to purchase you all a drink.”
The second gentleman chuckled. “Thank you, Lord Marchmont,” he said, getting up. “And may I be one of the first to offer you my congratulations.”
Peter stared at the gentleman’s outstretched hand blankly, not quite understanding what he meant.
“On your upcoming betrothal,” the gentleman said with a slight frown. “You have not forgotten that you are to propose to Miss Grey, have you?” He grinned again and Peter, trying to laugh, grasped his hand firmly and shook it. He had indeed forgotten that the premise of his explanation for seeking out Mr. Huntly was that he was to propose to Miss Grey, but did not want the fellow to know that.
“But of course,” he said, letting go of the man’s hand. “Although she has not accepted me as yet!”
“I am certain she will,” Lord Blackridge interrupted, jerking his head towards the door. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen, I will accompany Lord Marchmont in his search for Mr. Huntly.” He sighed heavily as though it had been a great burden to him to be in Peter’s company thus far. “At least now I shall have an end to the constant concern that he shall not be able to find the perfect gift for his lady.”
The three gentlemen laughed and bid Peter and Lord Blackridge farewell. Peter remembered to order and pay for three drinks for the gentlemen before he left and then hurried out into the afternoon sunshine with a sense of growing anticipation within him.
“It has to be this Mr. Huntly,” he said as Lord Blackridge made to hail a hackney. “There can be no other.”
“I think you are right,” Lord Blackridge replied as a hackney stopped. “Although you do realize that you must now do as you have said and propose to Miss Grey?”
Peter climbed into the carriage, his brow furrowing as he did so. “I—I had not thought of such a thing.”
“Those gentlemen will have that news all around White’s within the hour,” Lord Blackridge said darkly. “And thereafter, the beau monde will continue to pass it from person to person until Miss Grey herself hears of it! You had best inform her before that occurs so that she is not taken by surprise with the news.”
Peter nodded slowly, feeling a tight ball of tension settle in his stomach. “I understand,” he muttered, feeling both excitement at discovering Mr. Huntly and anxiety over what he had just said about Miss Grey. “I shall try and speak to her this evening if I can, although we were not due to meet again until tomorrow evening at Lord and Lady Patterson’s ball.” He tried to settle his mind but felt as though his sk
in had just been pricked all over by a thousand needles, his hands clasping and unclasping in his lap.
“Do you think that this Huntly will be able to give us the information you are so desperately seeking?” Lord Blackridge asked, obviously aware that Peter was more than a little hopeful. “What if he knows nothing?”
“I must believe that he knows something,” Peter replied, his mind returning to his brother. “I must know who is attempting to threaten Edward and this is my only opportunity to do so. If nothing comes from this, then what have I left?”
Lord Blackridge shrugged. “You have the handkerchief and the name Wilson.”
“That is even more obscure!” Peter protested, flinging up his hands in frustration. “The handkerchief could belong to anyone. It may even have been picked up from the ground or the ballroom floor and pressed to my head, which gives it no significance whatsoever.” He shook his head. “No, this is my only hope, Blackridge. If this comes to naught, then I shall have no other choice but to give up my quest.”
“And marry Miss Grey,” Lord Blackridge added, lifting one eyebrow in what was a knowing look. “Is that what you mean to say?”
Peter closed his eyes momentarily. “I think I intend to marry her regardless,” he replied honestly. “Although I hope that I can speak to her before the rumors reach her ears.”
Lord Blackridge chuckled, although Peter did not find anything of amusement in what he had said. Clenching his hands tightly together, he silently prayed that he would have both the time and the courage to speak to Miss Grey about his proposal of marriage long before the whispers came to her ears—and, deep in his heart, he found himself hoping desperately that she would say yes.
12
Ophelia had not heard from Lord Marchmont aside from a short note that had been sent to her earlier that day, stating that he had something of the utmost urgency to speak to her about and requesting that she seek him out the very moment she arrived at Lord Patterson’s ball. She had not quite known what to make of this note, but had felt her anticipation at the thought of seeing him again rising steadily within her as the carriage took both herself and her aunt to Lord Patterson’s home.
She smiled softly to herself as she looked out of the window and onto the dark London streets. The last time she had been alone with Lord Marchmont, he had practically taken her in his arms and, had they not been interrupted, she was certain that he would have kissed her. Most likely, she would have leaned into him and accepted it without hesitation, for in her heart, Ophelia knew that this was what she desired above all else. It was a marked change from her first impression of Lord Marchmont, and in a strange way, she was quite pleased that the note had been given to him for it had brought them both back together again. Had it not occurred, then she would have never known the depths of Lord Marchmont’s character. Nor would she have become aware of her own faults, which, of late, she had been doing her best to overcome. Lord Marchmont brought out the best in her and she wanted to know him better still.
A slight shiver ran down her frame as she considered what he might be wishing to speak to her about. Was he going to propose marriage? Of course, that was to be expected since it had been decisively written in the note Lord Marchmont had received, but if all was discovered and brought to light, would he still have reason enough to propose? And would she have reason enough to accept him?
Tossing her head so that her brown ringlets bounced, Ophelia told herself to stop being ridiculous. Most likely, Lord Marchmont had found something of interest regarding what had happened to him, and that would truly be of great importance. To know who had done this, who had threatened his brother and the reasons behind the need for Lord Marchmont and herself to wed would bring Lord Marchmont great relief, she knew. Biting her lip, Ophelia wondered silently if Lord Marchmont had heard from his brother. Mayhap that was what the news was. Mayhap he was going to tell her that his brother was quite safe and that there was nothing more that they needed to concern themselves with. It had been nothing more than a ruse, he would say. Their courtship could come to an end.
“Ophelia?”
Starting in surprise, Ophelia turned to see her aunt giving her a quizzical look. The carriage, she realized, had come to a stop and the door was already open, waiting for them both to climb out.
“Sorry, Aunt,” Ophelia muttered, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “I was simply lost in thought for a time.”
Lady Sharrow smiled. “I can see,” she replied, giving Ophelia a knowing look. “Lord Marchmont is to meet you here this evening?”
“Yes, he is,” Ophelia replied calmly. “Do go first, Aunt. I shall wait.”
Lady Sharrow chuckled, obviously aware that Ophelia was doing her best to cover her emotions and feelings by urging her from the carriage first. However, she did as Ophelia had asked and, within a few minutes, the two ladies were ascending the steps into Lord and Lady Patterson’s home.
“Just so that you are aware, Ophelia,” Lady Sharrow murmured, once they had greeted their hosts. “Your uncle has already approved of Lord Marchmont by post.”
Ophelia threw her aunt a calculating glance. “I have not yet had any suggestion that Lord Marchmont is thinking of betrothal.”
Her aunt waved a hand as though Ophelia were being ridiculous. “Regardless of what you might think, I expect an engagement very soon. You cannot pretend that you are not affected by the gentleman. Even I can see it in your eyes whenever he is in the room, or even, indeed, when you are thinking of him.” She chuckled and patted Ophelia’s arm. “You have no need to consider refusing him for fear that Lord Sharrow will reject him, Ophelia. That is all I am saying.”
Ophelia found that she had no ready answer, her cheeks blossoming with color as she walked into the ballroom alongside her aunt. To know that even her aunt had noticed her regard for Lord Marchmont was a revelation and, in some small way, Ophelia felt glad that her aunt had written to Lord Sharrow in order to seek his approval. She could not guess whether this was what Lord Marchmont had in mind to speak to her of, but if he was to propose, then she would know that the choice would be entirely her own.
“Ah, there is Miss Smallwood,” her aunt said, tugging Ophelia from her thoughts once more. “Do enjoy yourself this evening, my dear.”
Ophelia smiled tightly, nodded, and promised that she would, before turning her steps towards Miss Smallwood.
“I am very glad to see you this evening, Louisa,” Ophelia said at once. “Lord Marchmont has asked me to seek him out almost the moment I set foot into Lord Patterson’s home, but as yet, I have not been able to see him.”
Miss Smallwood’s eyes were bright, a smile on her face as she looked at Ophelia expectantly. “What does he wish to speak to you about?” she asked, with the same knowing look on her face that Lady Sharrow had worn only moments before.
Ophelia tried to laugh but it came out as a wheeze, her chest suddenly tight. “I am certain it is to do with the note and his brother,” she said, her voice a little weaker than she had expected. “But regardless, I have not seen him. Might you walk with me for a time?”
Miss Smallwood nodded and they began to meander through the crowd, only stopping now and again to greet familiar faces.
“Miss Grey?”
Stunned that someone would have the audacity to tap her on the shoulder, Ophelia swung around with the intention of delivering a harsh set-down, only to see a tall, fair-haired gentleman practically leaning over her.
“Earl of Ancrum,” he stated, without so much as a by-your-leave. “You are Miss Grey, yes?”
Ophelia blinked for a moment, trying to gather her composure. “I beg your pardon, my lord?” she asked, her voice filled with warning. “We have not yet been acquainted, I think.”
Lord Ancrum was now looking at her with something akin to frustration, although what he was angry about, Ophelia could not imagine.
“You are Miss Grey, are you not?” Lord Ancrum asked again, his brow lowering and his sharp grey eyes pinned t
o her. “Tell me. I must know at once.”
Ophelia glanced at Miss Smallwood but saw that she was staring into the face of Lord Ancrum, her eyes rounded with fright. Miss Smallwood, whilst she had begun to speak up a little louder and had slowly begun to grow in confidence, was clearly still intimidated by gentlemen such as this.
“I am Miss Grey, yes,” Ophelia replied, keeping her voice low and looking directly into Lord Ancrum’s fierce expression. “Although what you think you are doing by behaving in such a manner towards me, I cannot understand.” She tilted her chin upwards, not caring in the least that he was an earl and, therefore, higher in status than she. Title and fortune did not make behavior such as this acceptable.
“I must speak to you at once,” Lord Ancrum growled, reaching out to grasp her hand. “Come, Miss Grey.”
She stepped back, his hand missing her completely. “I hardly think that would be wise, Lord Ancrum,” she retorted, a little angry that he had thought that she would simply go with him without hesitation. A sliver of fear entered her mind but Ophelia thrust it away as quickly as she could. She would not allow herself to be intimidated.
“It is urgent,” Lord Ancrum said, his face beginning to darken with apparent anger that she would not do as he asked. “It is imperative that I talk to you without delay.”
“Then you may do so here,” Ophelia replied clearly, “where I can be seen by all the other guests and overheard by my friend, Miss Smallwood, who, I can assure you, is the very epitome of discretion.” Determinedly, she set her jaw and let her lips pull taut. “Now, what is it that is so urgent, Lord Ancrum?”
He glared at her, his anger and frustration mounting although it still came without any explanation whatsoever. Ophelia did not look away nor did she recant, as she was certain he expected her to do. She was not about to become recalcitrant, however, making sure to keep her composure steady and her expression calm. The last thing she needed was for any of the beau monde to notice her conversation with Lord Ancrum, which meant that she had to remain as calm as possible.
