He hoped to God they’d all seen the last of her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I saw who killed Allbright.
The letter was written in the same hand as the previous one he’d received at Pendon Place. Only this time, the writer had troubled to send it to the London house.
Griffin stared hard at the note. He’d wondered whether there’d been any more point to this correspondence than simple malice, and now he had his answer.
Blackmail. Clearly, the writer wanted money and was leading up to a demand. Pay him once, however, and Griffin would be paying for the rest of his days. He had no intention of allowing himself to be bled dry over Allbright’s death.
There must be a way to find out who was sending these notes. The same person who’d started the rumor around Pendon, no doubt. Someone literate … Someone with an ax to grind …
Suddenly Griffin realized he had a sample of Crane’s writing at home at Pendon Place. He’d seen it a time or two when he looked up his grandfather’s estate records, but he could remember nothing about it.
He’d immediately suspected his grandfather’s former steward when the first note came, then told himself his own prejudice led him to suspect Crane of everything from smuggling (of which Crane was doubtless guilty) to stolen cattle and failed crops.
Logically, it seemed pointless for Crane to write such an ineffectual note as the previous one. Crane was a man of action, not one to sit around writing poisoned-pen letters with no particular aim.
But what if the point were to keep Griffin on tenterhooks until he was so softened by fear, he’d pay any amount to silence the writer of that note?
That sounded too subtle for Crane, somehow. If he knew the truth, he would also know that he held Griffin’s life in the palm of his hand. He wouldn’t wait to use that information to his own best advantage.
“Griffin, Lord deVere called again this aft— Oh! I’m sorry.” Rosamund pulled up short. Then she hurried toward him, concern pinching her features. “What is it? Griffin, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” he said, tucking the note into his breast pocket. “Nothing. What did deVere have to say?”
She continued to stare at him with a worried frown in her eyes and something else, too.
Hurt, he realized. She knew he hid something from her, and she wanted to know what it was. The fact that he did not intend to tell her would continue to lie between them, keeping them that fraction of distance apart.
A sudden rush of remorse and frustration swept through him. He wanted to tell her, but he’d promised not to divulge the truth to anyone. It wasn’t his secret to tell.
She was talking about a ball, he realized, rattling on as if she hadn’t cared one way or the other about this secret he kept.
He scowled. “A ball? Here? You must be joking.”
“We have been in Town for over a month, easing Jacqueline into society,” said Rosamund. “It is time to launch her in style. She now has the confidence to carry it off and sufficient acquaintances in London that it will not seem like we are throwing her into the shark pool without a raft.”
She laughed. “An unfortunate metaphor! But ton parties can be very like shark-infested waters without the support of one’s family and friends.”
He nodded. He knew that from firsthand experience, did he not?
“And,” she continued, “we will gather all of the prospective suitors on that odious list of Lord deVere’s together in one place so that you can make your inspection.”
She said it as if inspecting a load of callow youths were an enticement. He sighed. Well, he supposed it was, in a way. He needed to get Jacqueline riveted to someone by the end of the season. Since Rosamund’s allegiance was firmly with Maddox, that left Griffin to play Cupid.
“Does it have to be a damned ball? Why not a soiree-type caper or one of those devilish musicales?”
“Oh, but there is nothing like a ball!” said Rosamund. “What could be more conducive to matrimony than dancing in a gentleman’s arms?”
Suddenly those luminous eyes dimmed a little, and her gaze lowered.
With a pang, he realized she regretted never having danced with him.
“I suppose we could have a soiree,” she said unenthusiastically.
Inwardly, he cursed. But when she’d looked so excited and happy about the damned ball, how could he gainsay her?
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “But do not, under any circumstances, expect me to dance.”
She flew to him and hugged as much of him as she could and pulled him down to kiss him repeatedly on the lips. “Oh, thank you, Griffin! You will not be sorry. It is going to be the grandest ball London has ever seen! Everyone will be there.”
Oh, Hell.
But how could he refuse her anything when the rewards of giving in were so great? He bent his head to hers.
After a pleasant interlude, she spoke into his ear in that husky, sensual voice she had. “I should so love to dance the waltz with you, my love. You have no notion how … exhilarating it can be.” The warmth of her breath on his ear sent thrills down his spine. “In fact,” she said, teasing delicately behind his ear with her tongue, “I do believe I should become quite crazed being so close to you in public and unable to … do … this.…”
He groaned as her clever, elegant hands did wicked things to his body.
“But there is always afterwards,” she said softly. “Or even a moment or two during the ball when we might steal away…”
The blood in his brain packed its bags and headed south for the duration.
“You do know how to waltz, don’t you, Griffin?” that siren’s voice breathed.
He nodded.
“I would so love for you to waltz with me.”
Damn it! There was only so much torture flesh and blood could stand. “All right. You win. One waltz.”
Those sapphire eyes glinted up at him beneath half-lowered lids. “Promise?”
“Word of a gentleman,” he growled, and lifted her onto the desk.
* * *
Jacqueline’s eyes widened. “You actually persuaded him to agree to dance? How on earth did you do that?”
Rosamund had the grace to blush. Not only because the nature of the methods she’d employed had produced such sinful and utterly satisfying results, but because her tactics had been underhanded and she’d known it, even at the time.
Still, the end was a noble one. Why should Griffin hide himself away and miss out on all the joy that dancing could bring? She’d hoped that once he became more accustomed to wearing fine clothes and attending ton parties, his self-loathing would lessen.
The ton had become accustomed to seeing this big bear of a man among them. The Earl of Tregarth had been the talk of London for a time, but that was mostly due to his sudden marriage to her. She took care to sing his praises wherever she went, and she’d been gratified to see that he’d made a number of friends on his own account.
She said to Jacqueline, “Why should he not dance—and what’s more, why should he not do it well? He is an excellent pugilist, or so Andy tells me, and for that, a man must be very light on his feet.”
Cecily looked dubious. “As long as he doesn’t forget himself and plant his partner a facer in the midst of the cotillion.”
All three ladies contemplated this. Then they burst into peals of laughter.
“Oh,” said Rosamund, wiping her eyes. “Can you imagine the scandal? But as he has stipulated that he will dance only one waltz, and that one with me, I must hope he does nothing so violent.”
“Wear sturdy shoes,” Jacqueline advised her.
Rosamund lifted her chin. “I certainly will not! I have more faith in him than that. You’ll see.”
“That’s the power of love for you.” Cecily rolled her eyes. “Women grow blinkers on the sides of their heads.”
“Love?” Jacqueline and Rosamund chorused.
Jacqueline sat up straight and stared at Rosamund.
Rosamu
nd blushed and bent over her embroidery. “How can you talk such nonsense, Cecily?”
“Really? Is she in love with Griffin?” said Jacqueline to Cecily. Rosamund noted that the question had not been directed to her.
“Of course she is,” said Cecily. Then she adopted the pinched, nasal tones of a renowned naturalist whose lectures at the Royal Society they had often attended. “You will observe, my dear Jacqueline, that the specimen we have here has bent her head and will not meet our eyes. In an animal in the canine family, this would indicate submission to the superior beast. In the genus Rosamundus, however, the pose tends to indicate guilt or embarrassment.”
Jacqueline giggled. Rosamund looked up and returned Cecily’s gaze with a defiant lift of one eyebrow.
“Next,” intoned Cecily, “we note that the skin of the creature has turned bright pink in hue. In a chameleon, we would conclude changing color in this manner was for the purpose of camouflage. But while our Rosamundus here might wish she could fade against the sofa cushions to escape our notice, sadly she does not have the capability. She also displays—and has for several weeks shown this trait, I might add—suspiciously bright eyes. A sign of health in canines, but in female humans—”
“Stop! Stop! I will admit it if only you will stop droning on in that awful voice,” said Rosamund. “Yes, I love him. There! I said it.”
Cecily pointed at her dramatically. “Traitor!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Rosamund.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Cecily sighed. “Montford chose men for each of us that we could not possibly fall in love with. And look what happened! Jane deserted us for the love of her life, and now you are enjoying your happily ever after with a man who should give you nightmares. I am the only one who will do the sensible thing, it seems. I shall never fall in love.” She gave a naughty smile. “Well, not with my husband, anyway.”
“Ha!” said Jacqueline. “Why should you not succumb, just as your cousins have? Perhaps your duke is a better Cupid than you give him credit for.”
Rosamund and Cecily exchanged glances. Cecily sipped her tea. “If you knew my betrothed, you would not ask that question. Besides, Montford didn’t choose him. My parents betrothed me to him before they died.”
Jacqueline wrinkled her nose. “Is he a wicked, horrid man?”
“No,” said Rosamund.
“Is he old and toothless like Lord Malby, then?”
Cecily shook her head. “No, none of those things. Although if he were wicked, he would be a great deal more interesting.” She smiled. “My fiancé is one of the few single dukes under fifty in the kingdom. I have known him forever. He is quiet and mild, and I shall like being married to him very well.”
“Because you will ride roughshod over him,” said Rosamund.
Cecily showed her teeth. “Precisely.”
Jacqueline frowned. “One never truly knows, though, does one? I was acquainted with a gentleman once who seemed so quiet and self-effacing. Almost awkward, you know. I thought him such a lamb!” Her brows drew together, and she gave a slight shudder. “But he turned out to be a great dirty rat in lamb’s clothing instead.”
Jacqueline’s gaze turned inward, and it was clear that she intended to say no more. Rosamund put her hand on Jacqueline’s and pressed it. She wanted to talk about Allbright with Jacqueline, but not in front of Cecily.
Rosamund took a deep breath. “Well, Cecily, no doubt your duke will be at the ball and Jacqueline may judge for herself if there is any species of rodent beneath his woolly exterior.”
Cecily laughed. “If there is, you may be sure that it is a mouse.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The ball would be magical, Rosamund thought as she surveyed the ballroom. She’d filled it with masses of spring flowers to create a soft bower against the pale green walls. Chandeliers glittered; the floor had been waxed to a deep, lustrous shine. The musicians were first-rate, as were the delicacies from her new French cook.
For the past three years, Rosamund had played hostess at Montford’s balls and entertainments, so she knew precisely how such things should be done. But this night was special—her first ball as Countess of Tregarth, not to mention the event that would officially launch Jacqueline on the ton.
As Rosamund waited in the receiving line with Griffin and Jacqueline for the first guests to arrive, her nervousness grew.
They had held a dinner beforehand just for her family and the closest of her friends and one or two matrons who would be useful in smoothing Jacqueline’s path.
She’d been tempted to invite Mr. Maddox to dine also, but she’d decided not to anger Griffin or upset Jacqueline by making such a pointed statement in Maddox’s support. He’d be at the ball, however. It would have been rude not to invite him. At least that’s what she intended to tell Griffin when he fumed about it.
The Duke of Montford moved to speak with her. “I have scarcely seen you these past weeks, my dear.” He glanced at Griffin. “I wonder why.”
Avoiding her former guardian had been a deliberate strategy on her part, and it seemed Montford knew it. Did he also suspect the reason? That she had been foolish enough to fall in love with her husband, of all things?
Well, of course he did. The duke always knew everything.
She laughed and gave a slight, helpless shrug. “We Westruther ladies are sad cases, are we not?”
The concern in those intelligent dark eyes made her take his hand in hers and press it. “I might look like a spun-sugar angel, but I am strong, Your Grace.”
Montford’s expression relaxed. “I never doubted that.” He turned the subject, but he watched Griffin with a calculating light in his eyes until the earl happened to glance her way.
The tender glow in Griffin’s expression was so palpable, it seemed to light up her heart. Rosamund could not help beaming back at him in a totally slavish and embarrassing way.
Montford sucked in a swift breath. Observing her flush, he said dryly, “I begin to feel faintly ill.”
“Oh! I hope it wasn’t anything you ate, Your Grace,” Rosamund said with spurious sympathy. “My cook would be distraught to hear it.”
A twitch of his thin lips acknowledged her sally, but he did not reply.
He surveyed the guests as they streamed between the double doors, pausing to be announced before proceeding toward the receiving line, where Rosamund and the duke stood.
“Did I hear correctly?” he murmured. “Cecily told me you invited your mama tonight.”
“Yes,” she said.
His lips tightened. “After what that woman did, you ought to cut the connection. You have my full support in this. That goes without saying, I hope.” His lips spread in the thinnest of smiles. “I believe Steyne threw her out of his house.”
She had heard that, of course, and regretted the necessity. She also knew Griffin had been there, but he hadn’t spoken of it and she hadn’t asked.
“I thought you would wish to have nothing more to do with her,” pursued Montford. “Aren’t you taking the precept of turning the other cheek a trifle too far?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace,” she said. “With me, it is more another part of the Scripture. ‘An eye for an eye,’ is it not? Tonight I shall have my revenge.”
Montford’s brows drew together. He looked more concerned than before. “It is not like you to be vindictive.”
“Oh, no!” she said. “I don’t mean to waste time being vindictive. In fact, I shall scarcely notice Mama is here, I daresay. One is always so busy when one hosts an event of this nature, don’t you find?”
He gazed at her a trifle blankly, and she hid a smile at having stymied him, if only temporarily. “My revenge is to show the marchioness how blissfully happy I am despite all her scheming. Perhaps even because of it.” Thoughtfully, she added, “Wouldn’t that make her green if she knew?”
Montford’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Where on earth did you learn to be so devious?”
She offered
him a glinting smile. “Oh, I learned from the very best.”
* * *
Griffin was not as complacent over Lady Steyne’s presence in his house as his wife seemed to be. The marchioness arrived a fraction too late for the receiving line, which was probably her intention. Fine by him, he thought.
Which was why he was startled and displeased when she detached herself from her fawning escort later in the evening and addressed him. “Lord Tregarth. You are surprised to see me here tonight, I daresay.”
“Not at all.” Rosamund had informed him she would invite her mother. That she had the gall to accept the invitation did not shock him. Xavier was quite correct: The woman was capable of anything.
“I came because I was invited,” said the marchioness airily. “Do you think I am forgiven?”
“Forgiven?” he repeated, feigning puzzlement. “For the portrait incident or for the past twenty years or more?”
Her face whitened. “You know nothing of my family, my suffering, what I went through!”
“I don’t particularly care to know what you think you went through,” said Griffin. “I don’t know if Rosamund has forgiven you, either. It seems like the sort of thing she might do. I only know that I never shall.”
He bowed and bade her good evening. He would have left her then, but she took hold of his arm with both hands, and in such a tight grip, it would cause a scene if he tried to throw her off.
Her rouged lips curled back in a faint snarl. “How dare you treat me as if I’m the one who ruined her life. You ruined it the day you married her.”
“I’m not going to listen to this.”
“You will listen or I’ll scream the house down,” she hissed. “Do you want that? Do you want me to ruin Rosamund’s first ball? Believe me, Lord Tregarth, I have very little to lose at this juncture!”
Griffin’s hand clenched in a reflexive movement. He’d never wanted to hit a woman in his life. Until now.
Yet, something deep within him cringed away from this woman like a whipped cur. So slight in stature but so powerful in the weapons she could use to devastate those around her. The small boy inside him recognized that brand of cruelty, knew it all too well.
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