Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  Lucinda leaned closer to keep their conversation private. “I am, Viscountess. Lord Godown assisted Uncle Gerhard in my rescue from Cyrus Woodstone.”

  “And his wife?” Lady Gibbons thankfully ignored the opportunity to speak of the scandal.

  Lucinda glanced to the table where Sir Carter kept company with his associates. She had once dreamed of being accepted by the other men’s wives. “I fear not, Lady Gibbons, but I have had the acquaintance of both Lady Worthing and the Duchess of Thornhill. I attended their joint Come Out ball as the guest of His Grace.”

  The viscountess’s eyebrow rose in amusement. “I cannot imagine the current duchess looked upon Thornhill’s bestowing his attentions elsewhere very kindly.”

  Lucinda thought of the duchess’s venomous attack at Huntingborne Abbey. “I would agree,” she said simply.

  Lady Gibbons’ snort of contempt surprised Lucinda. “The girl is all that is insecure. She used my nephew to turn His Grace toward jealousy–although I am certain Godown participated in the ruse of his own free will. In some ways, I suppose we, the marquis’s family, are fortunate: The woman would have bored Godown within a week. Likely, my nephew meant to taunt young Fowler. He and the duke have had an ongoing ‘competition’ since their days at university. Now that I think on it, Thornhill and the duchess are a perfect match. The lady requires constant reassurance of her beauty and her worth, and the duke holds a compulsion to prove himself as a daunting knight, who rights the wrongs of ladies in distress. Perhaps when they both mature, they will find they have little in common.”

  Lucinda held few good thoughts of the duchess, but the duke was a different story. “His Grace has served me well over the years, even when I knew him upon the Peninsular front.”

  Lady Gibbons’s lips pursed in dissatisfaction. “Do not misread my opinion of His Grace, my Dear. Thornhill has saved my nephew’s life on multiple occasions, as has Gabriel done for each of the others in his group. The men share a pronounced allegiance to one another. Yet, except for the duke, those of Godown’s governmental unit have abandoned their idealistic youthful dreams and have taken gigantic steps toward manhood. Sometimes, in my very biased opinion,” she said pointedly, “I think Thornhill has had an easier return to his life than have had the others. Lord Worthing lost his wife and now faces the imminent death of his father. The Earl of Berwick lost his father, his older brother Myles, and his twin sister Margaret, while Viscount Lexford returned home to find his father incapacitated, his brother dead from a scandalous duel, and the woman he intended to marry pregnant with his brother’s child.

  “And Godown never thought to return to England after a devious woman accused him of the most vile of interactions. In his absence, my brother Renard passed, and the title rested in limbo without a clear successor. In comparison, Thornhill was always the heir to the dukedom. He protested he would not accept it because of his father’s infamous reputation, but with a bit of prompting on his sister’s part, Fowler reclaimed his position without resistance. The duke never grieved for his father, a man he despised. If any in the Fowler family suffered, it was Lady Worthing.

  “The current Viscountess Worthing ran the dukedom in her brother’s absence and faced Society’s censure of their father. The Countess of Berwick knew only punishment from her uncle, a religious zealot, and our dear Grace and her sister, Lady Lexford, escaped from a brother who meant to ‘sell’ them to pay his gaming debts. Neither Thornhill nor his duchess has known the devastation the others have encountered. Lord Yardley, Viscount Lexford, and Sir Carter are minor sons, who never expected to inherit. I am a strong advocate for the concept that strength and merit are earned through adversity.”

  Lucinda listened closely to the viscountess’s tale. Although it was shocking to have another speak earnestly on privileged matters, it was comforting to hear someone give voice to Lucinda’s private thoughts. “I appreciate your honesty, Lady Gibbons. I, too, believe life’s never ending twists and turns mold a person’s mettle. ”

  “Mrs. Warren.” Lucinda looked up to see Baron Lavelle bowing to her and the viscountess. “The Prince means to lead his revered guests in the next set.” She could hear the musicians tuning their instruments in the distant ballroom. “Would you do me the honor of the dance?’

  Lucinda would prefer to wait for the possibility of Sir Carter’s appearance. Despite how he had ignored her all evening, her heart still hoped for a miracle. Yet, when her uncle nodded his approval, Lucinda dutifully placed her gloved fingers in the baron’s outstretched palm.

  “Please excuse me, Lady Gibbons,” she whispered before standing to follow the milling crowd into the ballroom. It was a glorious room. The sheer magnificence spoke of a world of which she had never thought to know. She gazed upon her spectacular environs, every nerve aflame with joylessness. It was only a room if she did not share it with Sir Carter. He brought life to her days.

  The Regent and Lady Shanleigh assumed their position at the head of the centerline of dancers, while Lavelle directed Lucinda’s steps to a newly formed line at the ballroom’s side. Instinctively, her eyes searched for Sir Carter, but the baronet was nowhere to be found. Just as she thought he might not participate in the dance, he bowed before a woman Uncle Gerhard had earlier identified as Lady Marguerite Nichols-David. A knife to her heart would have caused Lucinda less pain.

  She turned her head to see the earl escorting Lady Gibbons toward a bank of chairs. The viscountess walked with a cane, and Uncle Gerhard took great care with the viscountess’s steps. It appeared Lord Charleton had discovered a touch of love. Everyone but me, Lucinda thought morosely.

  As she returned her gaze to her dance partner, Lucinda caught a brief glimpse of the baronet and the dark-haired woman on his arm. He and Lady Marguerite and the Kimbolts formed a foursome for the set. Quickly, Lucinda pulled her eyes from the scene. She wished the night would end soon so she might return to the Rightnour townhouse, where she might spend her night crying into her pillow.

  “When do you return to Lancashire?” Baron Lavelle asked dutifully.

  Lucinda bit her bottom lip to drive away the pain. “I am at my uncle’s disposal,” she said through a weak smile.

  “Until that time, I pray you will permit me to call upon you at Nour Hall.”

  Lucinda attempted to place the wave of emotions from her expression. She was sorry she had accepted the baron’s request for the dance–better to hide in the women’s retiring room than to face the sight of the baronet enjoying himself with another. To disguise her anguish, she murmured her assent before looking away. Whether she preferred it or not, she was aware of every nuance of Sir Carter’s interactions. She recognized every tic of his muscular stance. Lucinda searched for something–someone–upon which she could concentrate. To discover something which would distract her from the terrible tableau forming before her eyes. Then a familiar countenance came into focus. It was only for a few brief seconds before the man turned away, but she had seen him nonetheless.

  Fear and anxiousness swarmed her chest. “Excuse me,” she murmured as she walked speedily from the floor, leaving the baron looking on in disbelief.

  “What is amiss?” her uncle asked as he caught her by the arm. His expression troubled. “Are you ill?”

  Alarm exploded, as her mind raced to find a solution. “No.” She shook off his hand. “But I must warn Sir Carter,” Lucinda whispered uneasily. “Mr. Monroe is in the room, and he is dressed as one of the prince’s footmen.”

  Charleton caught her again and shoved Lucinda gently in the direction of Lady Gibbons. “Join the viscountess,” he ordered. “I will warn the baronet and the others. I want you safe.” He strode away without looking back.

  Lucinda paused to search the crowd again for Mr. Monroe’s familiar countenance. Finally, she spotted him, slipping through one of the open laced draped doors leading to a raised terrace. With a staying hand to the viscountess, who struggled to her feet, Lucinda rushed to where she had last seen the man, who ha
d once treated her as if she were a desirable woman, but whom she now knew as Sir Carter’s embittered enemy.

  Carter watched Lucinda as she walked arm-in-arm with Baron Lavelle toward the dance floor. “Lady Marguerite has no partner,” Law had whispered. “You should not offend the prince by not partaking of his hospitality.”

  Carter knew his brother correct, but he had no desire to dance with anyone but Mrs. Warren; yet, with resignation, he nodded his agreement, before making his way to the woman’s side. “Lady Marguerite,” he said with a bow, “if you are not previously engaged, may I claim the next set.”

  The lady dipped into a proper curtsy. “You may, Sir,” she said with her usual sweetness. No spark. No challenge. No shrewish barbs. Nothing like Lucinda Warren. Instinctively, he extended his hand to the woman. When she placed her fingers in his, Carter prayed for the slightest trace of tension between them, but only blandness existed. He shoved the sigh of disappointment from his lips; instead, he directed the lady’s steps toward the dance floor. “You have been from London, Sir?”

  After news of Mrs. Warren’s arrival in the City had come, Carter had spent all his evenings alone, preparing his response to her. “Some,” he said noncommittally. “I was recently in Kent on estate business.” Not a total fabrication. He and Pennington had called on Thornhill, while staying at Huntingborne.

  The lady smiled. “I would be pleased to one day see Huntingborne Abbey.”

  It was not necessary for Lady Marguerite to announce she would welcome his plight; Carter was well aware of his family’s and her family’s expectations. “A bachelor household is no place for a lady,” he said with more irritation than he intended. Yet, you willingly escorted Lucinda Warren to your home, and you would do so again in a heartbeat, his foolish yearning announced. Placing Lady Marguerite beside Mercy Kimbolt, Carter took his place in the line of gentlemen; yet, in doing so, his eyes fell upon Lucinda. She stood directly across from him, and the thread, which was missing from his connection to Lady Marguerite, reached across the distance to where she partnered Baron Lavelle. Selfishly, he willed her to meet his eyes, but when she turned her head in obvious pain, Carter regretted the gesture. He shook his head sadly.

  Ignoring his desire to race to her side and catch Lucinda up in his embrace, Carter turned his attention on Lady Lexford. He could not betray Lucinda in his heart by turning so quickly to Lady Marguerite. “Will you remain in London until the end of the Short Season?” he asked politely.

  “I think not,” she said with a nod to her husband. They had been married but six months, and Carter envied the bliss on Lexford’s countenance. “The viscount and I plan an elaborate Christmastide celebration,” she announced. The way Lexford’s lady looked upon her husband, Carter wondered if she, took, knew the happiness of an expected heir.

  He smiled easily. Carter was truly happy for Aidan Kimbolt, who had experienced more than one trial in his journey to happiness. “I will anticipate my invitation,” he said with a taunt. However, his mind remained on the woman who had turned her back on him.

  The last of the musicians’ preparations filled the air. Carter set his mind to spending the next half hour with Lady Marguerite, but a flash of color–a blonde head turning to rush to her uncle’s side caught his interest: with difficulty, he forced his feet to remain still.

  A gasp from Lady Lexford diverted his attention for mere seconds, and when Carter looked again Lucinda Warren had disappeared. Where is she? Carter’s heart lurched into high gear. He turned in place to search the entire room before he spotted her exiting through one of the lace-draped portals. Did Mrs. Warren plan some sort of tryst? The idea of her seeking the attentions of another man rebelled against everything holy within him.

  From beside him, Lord Lexford questioned his wife, and Carter drew his eyes from the spot where he had last seen her. “What is amiss?” Lexford demanded.

  “That man!” Lady Lexford whispered harshly, nodding toward the front of the room.

  Carter and Lexford looked to where she indicated. “Which one?” the viscount asked anxiously.

  Mercy Kimbolt caught her husband’s arm. “The one standing behind His Highness,” she hissed from her mouth’s corner. “He is the one from the card game with Lord Stafford in Oxford.”

  “The one who approached you?” Lexford asked with distaste. The viscount’s hands fisted and unfisted at his side.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Carter and the Lexfords completely ignored Lady Marguerite, who looked on in confusion. “His name is Mr. Monroe. He was the one from whom Viscount Stafford offered his protection.”

  Unconsciously, Carter repeated her words. “Monroe. Oxford.” He could hear the urgency springing to his words. In a panic, he glanced to where the man now flanked Prinny. Closely. Too closely. Dressed in the garb of one of the prince’s “invisible” servants was the man who had shot Dylan Monroe at the Rising Son Inn. A muscle twitched in Carter’s jaw. Had the injury been a ruse for the older man to make his escape? During the incident, Jamot’s capture preoccupied Carter’s interest. “Escort the women to safety,” he whispered his orders to Lexford. “It could not be a coincidence; the stranger must be Dylan Monroe’s accomplice.”

  “Bloody hell!” Lexford muttered as he caught his wife and Lady Marguerite by their arms to rush them away.

  “What is amiss?” Pennington stepped before Carter.

  Carter ran his tongue along the sudden dryness of his lips. “I believe the rumors of an assassin are coming to fruition this evening. The man behind the prince is known to Lady Lexford and Viscount Stafford as ‘Monroe.’ Likely, Dylan Monroe’s father,” he said urgently. “Send someone to follow Mrs. Warren. She stepped onto the terrace. Where the father is, so must be the son.” Fresh despair filled Carter’s chest.

  Pennington nodded and rushed away. Steadying his breath, Carter caught a glass of champagne from a passing footman before staggering in the direction of their country’s royal prince, the heir to the English throne. He bumped into first one couple and then a second, presenting the ruse of his having imbibed too much. He hoped Lexford rushing the women from harm would add to the image of his inappropriate behavior. He also hoped his pretense would signal the others to take action. “Ex…cuse me! Pardon!” he said too loudly for polite Society.

  With a final lurching step, he came abreast of Prince George. The fact the prince stood stiffly erect did not bode well. “Your Royal Highness,” Carter slurred the words and swayed in place. Those around him retreated in disapproval, all except the man from the Suffolk inn. Carter cursed himself for not having taken note of the obvious: Dylan Monroe’s wound was too clean–as if it had been perfectly placed. He executed a sloppy bow, and in doing so, he caught a glimpse of metal pressed against the prince’s back. “Thisss is a wonferdul party!” he declared with a too familiar draping of his arm about Prince George’s shoulder. Other than a collective gasp, the crowd had gone silent.

  The prince said dismissively, “You have drunk too freely of my champagne, Sir Carter,” but Carter recognized the Regent’s silent plea for assistance.

  “Yet, it’s excellent cham...champagne.” He raised the glass as if to examine the crystal; instead, Carter used the glass’s shine as a mirror to examine the room for other accomplices. He permitted his weight to nudge the prince to the right, not an easy task considering Prinny’s girth, but the assailant shifted also.

  Fortunately, Prinny honorably excused Lady Shanleigh. “If you will pardon me, my Dear. I must speak to the baronet privately.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” With a deep curtsy to display her full breasts, the woman walked away.

  Prinny caught Carter’s arm in desperation, but the prince played his role. “We must find your family, Sir Carter.”

  Carter shot a quick glance about the room. He noted his father’s approach, but Law stayed the baron with a whispered warning and a shake of his head. The entire party looked on. He and Prinny played a deadly game of dare, held together in an od
d embrace and the assassin pressed closely behind them. “Monroe,” or whatever the man called himself, had said nothing, but Carter could smell the fear on the man’s rapid exhalation.

  “It ‘pears, Your Highness,” he said with another hopeful lurch, “my family ‘as deserted me.” He noted Pennington had returned to the front of the gathering crowd. With a nod, he said he had followed Carter’s orders. He hated the fact he could not rush to Lucinda’s side, and he prayed she was not in danger–just a moment for a breath of fresh air–as opposed to Prince George’s life. “What should I do?” he said morosely as if he was a “pity” drunk.

  “Remain with me, my Boy,” Prinny said through tight lips and a fake smile.

  Through the champagne glass’s shine, Carter noted how James Kerrington had crossed the musicians’ raised dais to stand some ten feet behind the prince’s attacker, and John Swenton approached slowly from the man’s right.

  The prince’s assailant hissed, “Walk away, Sir Carter. I recognize your ruse.”

  Carter, too, spoke in hushed tones. “You will not live another day.”

  “Yet, I will die a happy man.”

  Carter heard Prinny’s breath hitch. Unfortunately, Carter was not in a position to reach the gun before “Monroe” pulled the trigger; therefore, he did the only thing he could.

  Lucinda paused for a few brief seconds to permit her eyes to adjust to the night’s darkness. She scanned the area. There were no steps to the lower gardens, nor was there a connecting passageway. “Where has he gone?” she thought aloud. Carefully, she sidestepped to the balustrade to search the ground below. Nothing but rose bushes–lovely, but not conducive to Mr. Monroe’s escape. Using the shadows to hide her presence, she traced the half circle of the raised terrace, constantly scanning the grounds, as well as the open door to the ballroom. No music filled the night air, which meant something was amiss–something involving Dylan Monroe. A flicker of light on her left caught Lucinda’s attention. A low-cased window remained open, likely for cross ventilation, but a shadowy figure announced the opening was being used for something more than a cooling breeze.