Alexandra splayed her fingers on her lap. “What if we come up empty-handed?”
“We’re not thinking like that.” Cecelia quieted her with the lift of a single black glove. “We must.” She marched to the door and laid her hand on the knob. “Afterward, we’ll meet back here and plan our next move before Redmayne reveals Francesca as his betrothed at midnight.”
“What about Alexander?” Francesca asked.
“Alexander has borne the financial brunt of this blackmail for much too long. We have enough in our accounts to cover the cost until we can figure out a long-term solution.”
“I forbid it!” Driven to her feet by outrage, Alexandra hurried to Cecelia. “I can’t let you do that. I’m the one who should pay for what happened to de Marchand. I’m the one who kil—”
Cecelia opened the door, cutting off the words no one had ever actually spoken.
Alexandra found herself enfolded in Cecelia’s arms as she whispered in her ear. “Any one of us would have done what you did. Let us help you.”
Francesca rested her hand on Alexandra’s shoulder. “All of us have secrets, you remember. We’re in this together.”
Touched, Alexandra nodded, her heart still railing against it.
Cecelia turned to Francesca, her features beset by gravitas. “If we find evidence that exonerates Redmayne, you might want to consider going through with the wedding.”
“Why in the devil would I do that?” Francesca protested. “I’d rather be stretched on the rack than actually marry him.”
“Because … should Alexander’s blackmailer become spiteful, or the money not get there in time, the protection of the Terror of Torcliff as your husband could save all our necks from the gallows.”
* * *
Piers stood back from the balustrade above Castle Redmayne’s ballroom and observed the swirls and eddies of nobility below him as they waltzed in time to “The Blue Danube.”
The candles flickered in black iron chandeliers cast by a blacksmith some centuries ago. Dancing shadows drifted over bejeweled masks, lending the revelers an almost macabre appearance. An overabundance of diamonds and gems caught the candlelight, draped and dangling from elegant throats and wrists. Piers unfocused his gaze, divining constellations in their lustrous gleam.
God’s blood, how he disliked these people. And none of them cared for him.
He was born a powerful man, so when he called them, they came.
It took all his will to appear unperturbed. Unaffected.
Yearning for the open plains of Africa or the dense jungles of the Amazon seized him. At least in such places, where plants and insects were just as deadly as the vipers and predators, he knew his place. He easily identified his enemies. He understood his power.
He’d earned it by right of strength and ferocity.
Here was a different terrain, one every bit as chaotic and treacherous as any he’d conquered abroad.
But these beasts were not so simple. Their hunting grounds, unfamiliar. He’d done nothing but slide into the world with the correct pedigree, and everyone below him either loved him or loathed him for it.
None of it made sense. The creatures swathed in finery spoke out of both sides of their mouths. When lions would roar and charge, they purred, then gutted you once you’d let down your guard.
He’d found among the animal kingdoms something he’d not realized he’d been searching for. An honesty, a simplicity, the like of which he’d never encountered in the human domain.
Such complicated creatures humanity had become. Swathed in the artifice of civilization …
A black bit of taffeta and muslin broke into his view, and Piers had to bite back a snarl.
Rose Brightwell. A dark beauty with a black heart and the charms of a snake. He’d been in her thrall for so long. Long enough to forget she was Rose Brightwell no longer.
Now she claimed Atherton as her surname, which was what she’d wanted all along, wasn’t it?
Only his name. His title. Nothing else.
And he’d be damned before she became a duchess.
“Did ye love her?” The brogue was as deep and rich as the Scotch he’d just swallowed.
Piers tensed. Only one man had perfected the ability to approach him without detection. And no matter how Piers honed his instinct as both a hunter and possible target, he’d never bested his half brother, Sir Cassius Ramsay, in the art of subterfuge.
Even when they stood side by side, as they did now, no one would assume they were family. Ramsay was archangel gold to Piers’s demon darkness. He’d not a lambent hair out of place, nor a whisker unshaved. As ever, Ramsay was perfectly starched, steadfast, and in Piers’s opinion, rather stuffy.
“Your Worship,” he muttered.
“Yer Grace.” They always greeted each other like this, formally, with barely concealed comradery, and halfhearted contempt.
Theirs was a complicated affection.
“Did ye love Rose?” Ramsay repeated, joining him to gaze down at the colorful chaos below them.
“I must have,” Piers mused. “Else why would I hate her so bitterly now?”
Ramsay made a noncommittal sound, and sipped from a champagne glass that, in hands the size of his, appeared to be from a little girl’s play set.
It would be the only drink he allowed himself. His one concession that he attended a grand ball instead of the gallows. Even his mask was dreary, an unadorned black silk band with slits for the eyes, tied in the back like some sort of highwayman. A paragon of self-containment, that was the Honorable Lord Chief Justice of the High Court Sir Cassius Ramsay.
“I imagine all this is for her,” Ramsay said, pointedly not looking at Rose Brightwell.
“All of what?” Piers wished his mask didn’t conceal his scowl.
His brother nodded toward the room at large. “All this pomp and drama and mystery. The unveiling of yer future duchess, et cetera. It’s quite unlike ye.”
What was it about an observant insight that made a man yearn for a drink? “I’ve a new reputation to uphold, or hadn’t you heard?” he said flippantly. “Doesn’t this seem worthy of the Terror of Torcliff?”
Ramsay snorted. “These people are as absurd as the moniker they’ve christened ye with.”
“On that, dear brother, we can agree.” Piers glanced at Ramsay through narrowed eyes, conducting an assessment of his own. “Yet you slither among these people as though they were your own. You should have been a duke, not I.”
“The thought has crossed my mind.” Ramsay lifted a wide shoulder in an insouciant shrug. “Necessity dictates I navigate their world. But only so that I may mitigate their barbarity.”
Piers smothered his surprise at the note of disdain his brother had allowed into his voice. He’d always assumed Ramsay enjoyed the way he’d infiltrated the ton. Not by way of birth, but by a prestige and presence, not to mention wealth, that they couldn’t ignore.
As an erstwhile duke, Piers had never looked up to his elder brother in any way but literally, as the bastard was all of three inches taller and outweighed him by a spare half-stone.
Perhaps Ramsay should have been the duke; he’d the temperament for it. All steely resolve and unimpeachable morals.
Or, should he have been the huntsman? He’d the stature for it. The ferocity. The iron will and apparent fortitude for suffering. His Scottish father had given him the rough-hewn build of his Highland ancestors, and their mother had imparted all the British imperious pretension his great, loutish body could convey.
“If I’m honest, I’m surprised you came,” Piers murmured. “It’s not even an election year. Why should both of us have to suffer through something so tedious?”
“I’m as breathless as the rest of the empire to meet yer bride.” Ramsay slid him a droll look from blue eyes identical to his. “Besides, I should be seen with strong family ties.” He clapped Piers on the back with a solid hand, and Piers wondered if he did it for his benefit, or for that of the ton. Their eyes
were like a thousand tiny lances pricking him with dubious regard.
“Which family?” Piers sneered. “Your disfigured, ne’er-do-well younger brother, or our cousin who allowed himself to be seduced by my former fiancée while I was on my deathbed?”
The ghost of a wry smile haunted his brother’s lips before vanishing, and Piers tried to remember the last time he’d ever seen Ramsay smile.
Maybe never, come to think of it.
“I’m sorry she turned out to be like our mother.” Ramsay drank again, his features turning to stone as he gazed out toward the woman Piers had been avoiding all night.
“Case.” The nickname fell from Piers’s lips as easily as it had when they were boys. “I’m fairly certain someone attempted to murder my fiancée yesterday.”
That earned him the full brunt of Lord Ramsay’s regard. Was it any wonder criminals and nobles, alike, trembled before him? It wasn’t just his size, stature, and power that intimidated, it was the force of his disdain. The Caesar-like, tyrannical dominion he wielded.
“Fairly. Certain.” As usual, he plucked the most important words from the exchange.
“I chanced upon her and her bridesmaids exploring the ruins yesterday morning, and barely arrived in time to interrupt two gunmen.”
“Christ’s blood.” His brother tensed, alert as a hound on point. “Why did I not hear of this? Was anyone shot?”
“Only the gunmen. One is dead, and the other hovering quite close.” A dark satisfaction rose within him at the thought. “I was hoping you’d look into it. Use your vast connections to suss out any reason someone would want my fiancée dead.”
“Piers, chances are that person is here tonight,” Ramsay cautioned. “Ye should have yer woman and her companions protected at all times.”
“I can see all three women at this very moment, though I must be careful lest the observant, hungry crowd make any correct assumptions before the reveal.” He smirked. “I’ll admit I enjoy their suspicions and suppositions.”
A put-upon sigh was his brother’s reply. “Ye ken, I’ll need to know the identity of yer bride and her companions sooner than later, if ye want my help.”
“I’ll narrow it down to three, but I’ll not gesture.”
Ramsay stepped closer to the balustrade. “Who are they?” he muttered, his lips moving imperceptibly.
“Lady Francesca Cavendish.” Piers found her scarlet skirts immediately, as red tended to be her color of preference. “She’s dancing with the dandy young Viscount Crossland at the moment. Then there’s Miss Cecelia Teague, in the peacock mask. She’s over by the refreshment table.”
“I can see why she’d entice ye,” Ramsay commented, taking another sip as he thoroughly inspected the intrepid Miss Teague.
“I told you not to stare.” Pierce nudged him.
Ramsay blinked, breaking from some sort of trance. “Of course, who else?”
“The third is Lady Alexandra Lane, over by the door to the grounds.” Piers’s eyes ached for the sight of her.
But what if he never looked away?
“The wallflower trying to melt into the fern?” Ramsay asked.
Losing the battle with himself, Piers found her without difficulty.
Her features were softened by distance and dim lighting, but he could feel the absorption with which she studied the fourteenth-century falchions some ancestor of his had mounted on the wall in lieu of portraiture.
Her greatest nemesis: a row of topiary potted beneath the display.
She rose to her tiptoes, doing her best to examine the handles cruelly hanging just beyond her scope. She leaned so far forward, she lost her balance and nearly toppled into the branches before correcting herself with a few wild flings of her arms.
Instinctively, Piers took a step forward, only relaxing when she swatted at her skirts and scanned the ballroom to ascertain how many people had witnessed her misstep.
No one had noticed. Now that he’d allowed himself to look at her, to inspect her around her peers, he realized that she cultivated her own invisibility.
The ladies clustered in his ballroom like vibrant gemstones glittering in their jewel-toned silks and lace frippery; the good Dr. Lane draped herself in a soft shimmering silver.
A woman at such a soiree generally eschewed high-necked daydresses for dangerously low-cut bodices. She was encouraged to bare as much of her shoulders and arms as was possible whilse maintaining a nod to propriety with lace or something equally iridescent.
Lady Alexandra, however, had swathed herself in modest moonbeams from neck to wrist, her gown draping about the bodice in Grecian gathers to both accentuate and obscure her bosom.
Every other figure on shameless display somehow became redundant and uninteresting. The only vision he wanted, frustratingly concealed.
His fear had been validated. He couldn’t physically bring himself to look away, not even to save her from mortification.
He knew the moment her gaze found his, even from across such a distance. Every hair on his body vibrated with awareness of it. She ducked behind the topiary in an equally ungraceful motion and Piers found himself fighting an enchanted smile.
“Ye’re marrying the Countess of Mont Claire, obviously.” His brother’s correct deduction broke Piers of his enchantment.
“How, pray, is that so obvious?”
“Because Miss Teague, while a…” He paused as he examined the woman for longer than was necessary. “A desirable candidate, is a commoner, and Lady Alexandra’s family is not only recently destitute, but she’s socially irrelevant and an infamous eccentric. The countess is the only appropriate choice of the three.”
“Is that so?” Piers scowled, disliking the defensive knot in his gut where Lady Alexandra was concerned.
“Yes. Lady Francesca is the last of the Cavendish line. To marry her would fulfill yer father’s wishes toward her and is well done of ye.” The gentle approval in Ramsay’s tone reminded Piers of their mutual affection for his dearly departed father.
“If I remember correctly, Lady Francesca’s family died under rather horrific circumstances.” Piers watched the lithe, vivacious woman fight for the lead of the waltz with her overwhelmed companion.
“A suspicious fire,” Ramsay confirmed gravely. “No one ever found the culprit.”
“Do you suppose that could be connected to the shooting today? Do you have any idea if the Cavendish family still has enemies?”
“Not that I’ve heard of.” Ramsay gave another halfhearted shrug before he tilted his head in puzzlement. “Why do ye think I’d know?”
“Because you make it your business to know everything about these people. Because their secrets grant you your power. And—” Piers took the note from his pocket, the one with his brother’s native language scrawled upon it.
Ramsay glanced at it before grasping his bicep in a vise grip. “Piers, I ken this is my language, but ye can’t think I had anything to do with—”
“It never crossed my mind.” He narrowed his eyes at his brother, the years and pain between them yawning like a chasm upon which they stood on opposite sides. “Strange, that it should cross yours.”
Ramsay released him, visibly vexed for such a self-contained man. “All three of these women have hair some shade of red.”
“Therein lies the problem.”
Ramsay pocketed the paper and they both watched as Lady Francesca broke from her dance partner as the waltz ended, slipping through the crowd and down the eastern hall. “It would be easier to do if ye’d not rendered the assassins uninterrogatable.”
“One of them might pull through.” Piers made a helpless gesture. “And eventually he’ll be able to move his jaw again.”
His brother shook his head. “I’ll try to have an answer for ye before the wedding. In the meantime, keep yer fiancée and her companions out of trouble.”
Piers was interrupted from a reply as the dowager Duchess of Kent, a great friend of his father’s, engaged him with congratulation
s and a not-so-subtle interrogation regarding his impending nuptials.
He paid as close attention as he could to the woman, his notice drawn again and again to the corner Alexandra Lane had disappeared around.
When Francesca didn’t return after five minutes, he worried that he should follow her. Could she be in danger, even here at the castle? Would anyone dare to accost her under the nose of the Terror of Torcliff?
He found Miss Teague as she politely returned an empty cup of punch to a footman with a cheery smile before drifting toward the same hallway down which his fiancée had disappeared.
Odd. Was she searching for Francesca, as well? He’d assessed Miss Teague to be a canny creature. Should he follow?
Excusing himself from the growing circle of dowagers and matrons flocking to him like a conspiracy of sharp-beaked ravens, he searched once again for Alexandra.
There. She’d finally peeked out from around the corner in which she’d ensconced herself, and was hurrying across the ballroom with no little alacrity.
They were up to something.
Piers made his excuses, and swept down the stairs, intent upon finding out just where the three intrepid redheads were going.
And what trouble they were certain to find.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Did you find anything?” Alexandra whispered through the small crack in the door.
“It’s easier to search if we don’t have to answer that question every five seconds,” came Francesca’s hissed reply.
“Just … do hurry,” she urged. “I don’t know how much longer our luck will hold.” Alexandra peered down the long stone hall. The shadows of restored tapestries hung in neat rows like windows to another time.
A darker time.
The east wing layout of Castle Redmayne was all wrong for such a caper. Gargantuan windows set into alcoves lined one side of the hallways, and treasures and objets d’art cast unruly shadows onto grand chamber doorways. The shadows occasionally shifted, threatening to snap her nerves strung as tightly as the violin strings currently serenading the ballroom with Strauss.
How to Love a Duke in Ten Days Page 10