by Joyce Alec
Ophelia tried to say something but found that her throat was working furiously in an attempt to rid herself of the lump that was growing within it. She was overcome with emotion, realizing that part of her feared that Lord Marchmont might turn from her now that Lord Ancrum had treated her in such a way. Miss Smallwood had managed to recognize that fear and was doing her best to reassure Ophelia in any way she could.
“I pray that you are right,” Ophelia whispered, knowing that she could not deny that her heart was filled with none other than Lord Marchmont. “I fear that it may not be so.”
“He will not turn from you so easily,” Miss Smallwood insisted, her voice and expression firm with determination. “Have faith that his affections for you are true, and that he will not be swayed by something such as this. He will believe that Lord Ancrum is the one at fault. His concern will be for you, not for your reputation. He will not fail you, Ophelia. Simply trust that he will understand all once you have spoken to him of it.”
Ophelia nodded slowly, realizing that Miss Smallwood was quite correct. She needed to trust that Lord Marchmont would believe her when she told him what had occurred. She had to believe that he would not turn from her, as Lord Ancrum believed he would. Her fears continued to dog at her mind, but she pushed them away hard, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath as she did so.
“You are quite correct, Miss Smallwood,” she murmured, one hand pressed against her stomach as she turned around to face the ballroom again. “And I must continue to behave as I have always done. I shall not allow Lord Ancrum’s behavior to place any guilt upon my heart.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and set her shoulders. “Now, I should go and seek out my aunt. Most likely she will be dreadfully upset and I will need to reassure her.”
Miss Smallwood smiled and nodded and made to step back into the ballroom with her—only for a gentleman to come hurrying out of the ballroom, his eyes roving here and there in the gloom until they landed firmly on Ophelia.
“Miss Grey!” he exclaimed, his small eyes seeming to bulge from his head. “Miss Grey, I hear that you are engaged to Lord Marchmont! Tell me that Lord Ancrum has not succeeded in his endeavors. Tell me that Lord Marchmont has not turned from you. Please, speak the truth to me for it is of the utmost urgency!”
Ophelia felt her heart quail within her for a moment, staring at this gentleman with no understanding as to who he was or why he sought such an answer from her. “I—I do not know, my lord,” she said honestly, thinking that this evening was most peculiar in all that had occurred. “Might I ask if we have been introduced? I confess that I do not recall—”
The gentleman held up one hand and, with the other, pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped at his brow. “Miss Grey, if you please!” he exclaimed, as though she were doing wrong in speaking to him. “Remain here. I shall seek out your betrothed and ensure that he has not turned from you.” His expression grew somewhat grim. “After all, if Lord Ancrum interferes, then there can be no reason why I cannot also.”
Ophelia blinked, her confusion mounting. “Interfered?” she repeated, taking a step forward. “I do not understand.”
“Remain here, if you please,” the gentleman replied abruptly, not answering her questions. “I shall return with your betrothed at once, Miss Grey. Please, it is of the utmost importance.”
And, with that, he turned on his heel and hurried back into the ballroom.
13
“Did you see what occurred?”
Peter frowned to himself as he walked into the ballroom, wondering what had happened. Whispers and murmurings were running rife, for this was the fourth time he had come across ladies talking rapidly together about whatever it was that had happened at this ball. He shrugged inwardly, thinking that, most likely, a debutante had done something unfortunate or that a gentleman had made a disgrace of himself in some way. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened at a ball.
“The room seems to be abuzz with whispers,” Lord Blackridge commented as they made their way through the crowd in search of Miss Grey. “I confess that it does fill me with curiosity over what has happened.”
Peter snorted. “It will be idle gossip and nothing more,” he replied. “And I confess that I feel a little sorry for whoever will be dragged through society’s lips with harshness and disgrace.” He shook his head, taking in a breath to settle his nervousness. “Can you see Miss Grey or Lady Sharrow anywhere?”
Ever since they had discovered the truth about the wooden box, Peter had found himself almost desperate to return to Miss Grey’s side. He still could not be certain as to why this particular gentleman had set Peter up in such a fashion, nor why he was so desperate for Peter and Miss Grey to wed, but he had to find the lady and tell her of what he knew. He also had to ensure that she knew that the beau monde expected them to be engaged—and felt himself hoping that she would consent to such a thing regardless. It had been done in quite the wrong way, he knew, for he should have spoken to her first before ever even mentioning an engagement between them to another living soul, but it was too late to go back on what he had done now.
The truth was, Peter wanted desperately for Miss Grey to accept him. He could not hide his affection for her even from himself, knowing that to be by her side was something that he now longed for. The truth of his affections would be spoken to her with all honesty and hope, praying that she would believe his heart to be true and would accept his proposal of marriage. How much he hoped that she would accept him in the knowledge that he cared deeply for her and not out of any sense of duty.
Silently, he prayed that she felt something akin to his own affections, for that would be joyous in itself, filling him with light as he allowed himself to consider it. Most of the beau monde married out of duty and responsibility, finding themselves wed to someone who matched them in title and in fortune, but certainly not in affection. It was not something Peter had sought, even though he knew that he had needed to find a wife. He had, he recalled, accepted that there might be nothing more than a fondness between himself and the lady he chose to marry—but now that he had this strong affection in his heart for Miss Grey, he knew that he could not settle for mere fondness anymore. There was too much emotion between them for that.
“Miss Grey was quite right to slap him in such a manner.”
Peter stopped dead, his thoughts flying from his mind as he heard someone speak her name. Turning swiftly, he came upon three ladies speaking eagerly to one another, their eyes widening when they saw him approaching.
“Be careful, Marchmont,” he heard Lord Blackridge say behind him. “Do not show yourself too interested.”
Peter did not care how he came across, even though it might very well add to the gossip that was obviously winging its way around the room. “Might I ask,” he said with a tight smile, “what has occurred with Miss Grey? I have found myself a little tardy this evening and, as such, have missed the uproar.” His smile faded as he saw the three ladies exchange glances, one putting her fingers to her mouth as though in shock.
“I hear that you are betrothed to Miss Grey,” said the first lady, whom Peter knew to be Lady Whitehall, having been introduced to her before. “I am sorry that it will have to come to an end, Lord Marchmont.”
His gaze narrowed. The news of his betrothal had, as Lord Blackridge had predicted, made its way through London with a good deal of swiftness, but it was not this that brought Peter such concern.
“Why should you think it would come to an end, Lady Whitehall?” he asked, as calmly as he could. “What occurred here this evening?”
Lady Whitehall hesitated and then, slowly, began to tell him precisely what Lord Ancrum had done and how Miss Grey had reacted. All three ladies watched Peter closely, clearly wanting to gauge his reaction so that they might share it with others the moment he had stepped away. He was to be nothing more than another piece of gossip for them to share.
Peter felt himself grow slowly cold, horrified to hear
how Miss Grey had been treated. Lord Ancrum had no right to lay a finger on her and why he had attempted to kiss her was quite beyond him.
“This is worrying indeed,” Lord Blackridge said, taking a step closer to Peter and to the ladies he was talking with. “Why did Lord Ancrum attempt to do such a thing?”
The second lady shrugged. “Mayhap he wishes to marry her himself?” she suggested, a small smile crooking her mouth.
“We believe that to be the case,” Lady Whitehall replied sharply, frowning in the lady’s direction. “It is because he sought to bring her engagement to an end, as he stated, although I fear that Miss Grey will refuse him.” She looked back at Peter, her expression growing curious. “Will you reject her now, Lord Marchmont? Will you free her to marry Lord Ancrum?”
Peter’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching as he sought to find some semblance of composure. All he wanted to do was to go in search of this Lord Ancrum and to take his vengeance upon him, to defend Miss Grey in any way he could.
“I shall not,” he stated crisply, aware that the three ladies were still watching him closely. “Instead, I shall demand that he make recompense for the disgrace he has attempted to bring upon Miss Grey.”
The three ladies gasped, their eyes widening. “A duel?” the third asked, agog with interest. “Truly?”
Peter gave them a small bow, not wanting to say anything more. “I shall do what I must in order to preserve Miss Grey’s reputation,” he declared unequivocally. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must find her.”
He did not wait to hear more but stepped away at once, Lord Blackridge by his side.
“I cannot understand it,” Lord Blackridge murmured as Peter held his head high and hurried through the crowd. “Why would Lord Ancrum attempt to do something so foolish?”
“He has quite ruined her,” Peter muttered darkly. “I have every intention of calling him out, Blackridge.”
His friend nodded, knowing precisely what he meant. “That is your prerogative, of course,” he allowed. “But mayhap finding out the truth behind his decision to do such a thing would be a wise course of action.”
Peter frowned, glancing across at Lord Blackridge. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that it may be in some way connected to this wooden box—to this entire mystery,” Lord Blackridge explained. “There is a good deal of strangeness still about what has occurred ever since you woke up in that room, and I cannot help but wonder if what has happened this evening is connected with it all.”
It was something Peter had not yet considered, his mind whirring with the idea. Could it be? Could Lord Ancrum have something to do with all that had occurred with him?”
“Oh, Lord Marchmont! There you are.”
Peter stopped dead as the one gentleman he had been seeking ever since they had discovered the truth about the wooden box hurried towards him, his face a little red. He stiffened at once, his hands still tight as his fingers curled together.
“Lord Whitfield,” he grated, his anger rising within him. “I have a good many questions for you.”
Lord Whitfield’s eyes widened.
“I have discovered that it was you who left the wooden box beside me when you had me placed in that attic room,” Peter continued, taking a single step closer to the fellow. “You purchased it, did you not? You left it beside me.” He saw the red begin to fade from Lord Whitfield’s cheeks, the man’s eyes widening. “You will explain yourself at once.”
Lord Whitfield shook his head, his cheeks wobbling as he did so. “You must speak to Miss Grey first, Lord Marchmont,” he stammered, beginning to step backwards. “She is waiting for you and I said that I would find you for her.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, his anger tightening his chest. “What have you done, Lord Whitfield?”
“I have done nothing!” Lord Whitfield protested, his hands raised in defense. “I did not know that Lord Ancrum would behave in such a fashion, in an attempt to change the situation. It is most unfortunate.”
The man said nothing more but turned on his heel and hurried away from both Peter and Lord Blackridge, leaving them with no other choice but to follow him. Peter’s jaw was tight as he did so, his anger growing so quickly and so steadily that he felt as though it would be almost impossible to contain once he had his hands on Lord Whitfield. Walking quickly towards the open doors, Peter felt the eyes of the remaining guests lingering on him, quite certain that he would soon become a part of the fodder that fed the gossip eaters. He did not care. All he wanted to find now was the truth.
“Miss Grey!”
Her eyes flared as he walked out towards her, seeing her leaning back against the balcony rail.
“Lord Marchmont.”
Much to his surprise, she put her hands out to him and he took them without hesitation, squeezing her fingers gently so as to reassure her. Miss Grey’s eyes were wide with confusion and her pallor was a trifle grey. Clearly, she had endured a great deal this evening.
“I have heard what Lord Ancrum attempted to do, Miss Grey,” he told her, seeing her shoulders slump. “I am sorry for it.”
“It has no bearing on you,” she told him, her voice as firm as ever. “But yes, it was something of a shock.” A small smile crept across her expression. “Although I am glad that you have not thought ill of me because of it.”
He wanted to pull her into his arms, to reassure her that he did not consider her to be at fault, but restrained himself. “This has nothing to do with you or your behavior, Miss Grey,” he said firmly. “It is entirely to do with Lord Whitfield and Lord Ancrum.” Turning around, he allowed one hand to settle about her waist, whilst holding her other hand tightly. “You shall explain, Lord Whitfield.”
Lord Whitfield did not do so at once, as Peter had expected. Instead, he looked from Peter to Miss Grey and back again, a look of satisfaction settling on his expression.
“Speak.”
Lord Blackridge’s voice was loud and authoritative, making Lord Whitfield jump with the suddenness of it. The man began to stammer all at once, his expression now a little fearful.
“There is nothing to say,” he protested weakly, spreading his hands. “Lord Ancrum has behaved abominably and I am delighted that your engagement is to continue.”
Beside him, Peter felt Miss Grey stiffen and his embarrassment crashed over him like a wave.
“I fear that I have not asked you to marry me as yet, Miss Grey,” he murmured, looking down at her as her green eyes lifted to his again. “I have every intention of doing so, however. I am sorry that the ton has known of my intention before you.” His heart quickened as he waited for her to respond, his stomach churning as he feared she might refuse him—only to see her smile softly and nod her agreement.
“We can discuss such matters later,” she told him, her fingers pressing his for a moment. “But you need not fear that I am in any way offended, Lord Marchmont.”
This came as something of a relief to him and, for a few moments, Peter held her gaze, finding her to be truly lovely in both her character and her expression. He felt his heart lift free of its fears, his tension rushing out of him as he looked down at her, thinking himself to be one of the luckiest gentlemen to have ever lived to have found such an incredible young lady.
“You are to tell us the truth, Whitfield.”
Lord Blackridge spoke again, making Peter tug his gaze, reluctantly, from Miss Grey.
“We have found the box you left for me to discover the day I awoke in the boarding house,” Peter reminded him, making Miss Grey’s breath catch with surprise. “I found the maker of such a box. Mr. Huntly, is it not?” He watched Lord Whitfield keenly, seeing how he looked away sharply. “He recalled that you paid handsomely for such a box, even though it had none of his ornate carvings or the like. Why you purchased it, he did not know, but he was quite certain that it was to you that it was sold.”
Lord Whitfield let out a long breath, dropped his head, and ran one hand across his forehead.
At this, Lord Whitfield whitened terribly, trembling visibly at the thought. “I should not speak of this to you,” he said eventually, pulling out his white handkerchief to mop his brow. “It is in the agreement.”
“The agreement, whatever it is, is at an end,” Lord Blackridge interrupted crisply. “Speak.”
For a few moments, Lord Whitfield did nothing but sigh and shake his head, mopping his brow and muttering to himself. Peter’s anger was burning hot within him, searing his veins and filling him so completely that it was all he could to do remain standing beside Miss Grey. Had it not been for her touch, he was quite certain he would have lunged for the fellow and thrown him hard against the wall until the truth was forced from his lips.
“I had no other choice,” Lord Whitfield sputtered eventually, his eyes lowering to the ground by Peter’s feet. “I made a ridiculous bet and knew that unless I did something, I should lose a great deal of money.”
Peter’s anger drained from him in a moment, leaving him feeling cold. “A bet?” he stated harshly. “This was all due to your attempts to win a bet?”
“It was a great deal of money,” Lord Whitfield wailed, looking utterly distraught. “I believed that you would wed Miss Grey. After all, you had not been looking with any urgency for a wife prior to this and I believed you to be quite enamored with the lady. I was in my cups and made this ridiculous bet for more money than I could possibly afford to lose.” He shook his head again, as though angry with himself for what he had done. “When I heard that you had ended your courtship, I knew that I had to do something in order to draw you back together again—although it could not be known that it was I who had done such a thing, since the agreement was that neither of us would involve ourselves with you in any way.” Miserably, Lord Whitfield drew his gaze up towards Peter, his sorrow evident. “I did not mean to bring you any harm, but I could not think what else to do.”