“My coats,” Lord Guy uttered faintly.
“Umh, umh” came a muffled voice.
Lord Guy walked to the other side of his bed, carefully avoiding stepping on any of his coats. He saw his valet lying upon his stomach on the floor, his hands and feet bound tightly with cravats.
“What the devil—” Lord Guy began, outraged almost beyond words at the mistreatment of his wardrobe.
Strong hands grabbed him from behind, and he found himself flung up against the wall. The breath knocked out of him, Lord Guy gasped for air and stared in horror at the masked intruder who was inches from his face. He did not dare struggle. The man twisted one of Lord Guy’s arms painfully behind his back. So great was the man’s hold around his collar. Lord Guy choked on his cravat.
“Where is the cat?” the housebreaker growled.
“C-cat? What cat?” Lord Guy stammered, terrified for his life.
The intruder tightened his grip. “I want the cat statue, and I want it now.”
Lord Guy’s mind raced. The ivory cat figurine he had stolen from the duchess? Is that what this was about? Had the duchess put this ruffian up to this? No. ’Twas impossible. He was dealing with a madman. Someone who had heard about the theft—
The intruder knocked Lord Guy’s head sharply once against the wall. “You have had enough time to think. The cat. Where is the cat?”
“I p-pawned it,” Lord Guy babbled, his head throbbing.
“What?” the housebreaker demanded. “You pawned it?”
“Y-yes. Needed the ready. You know how it is. A fellow finds himself in dun territory—” His head flopped on his neck as the thief shook him.
“What pawnshop did you take it to?” the man interrupted, his voice furious.
Lord Guy could not believe the burglar was going to all this trouble for one little cat carving. But who cared what motivated the man? He simply wanted out of this nightmare with his skin whole. He gave the direction of the pawnshop and said feebly, “I did not get that much for it. Only enough to keep my tailor at bay.”
A savage blow to the head met this statement, and Lord Guy crumpled unconscious to the floor. The valet moaned in fear.
Ignoring him, Vincent Phillips climbed out of the window from which he had entered the house and deftly descended the outside wall to the ground. He had remained undetected long enough to search all the servants’ quarters in the attics. He had started there, believing that, as a servant, the attics were where Miss Shelby was housed. His efforts in finding the Bastet statue had nonetheless been fruitless.
Desperate, he had expanded his search to Lord Guy’s room, where he was discovered by the valet coming into his employer’s room with a stack of newly laundered cravats.
Now Vincent ripped off his mask. His nostrils flared with rage. He could not believe a priceless statue had been sold for a fraction of its worth by some stupid fop, and it now lay in a pawnshop. He neither knew, nor cared, how the idiot had come upon the statue.
Disgusted, he made his way back to the Clarendon to wait for the opening of the shop on the morrow. He would pay whatever ridiculous price the shopowner required, take the Bastet statue, and book passage on the first ship headed for America. He hoped the Philadelphia collector appreciated all his efforts.
* * * *
In Upper Brook Street safe in his room that night, Eugene stared into the Bastet statue’s glowing citrine eyes.
“My goddess, we have suffered a setback tonight. I am fearful my master will not take the action necessary to secure Miss Kendall’s hand in marriage.”
To Eugene, Bastet’s golden eyes reflected scorn. His turbaned head dropped into his hands. “Matters are slipping out of control. And what is worse, I desire my freedom now more than at any time during my life, Bastet. I must be free for my wise lady, Leonie. I want to take care of her and show her the world.”
He raised his head and gazed into the cat goddess’s eyes once again. “Help me, Bastet.”
Eugene prayed long into the night. Before he finally retired, he vowed he would stay by his master’s side at every moment to prevent him from doing anything careless.
Monday was the fair. Perhaps there a way would be revealed to him on how to bring the two together. For all their sakes.
In Clarges Street, Daphne, too, remained awake long into the night.
The ride home from the ball in Lord Ravenswood’s coach progressed in a silence broken only by the earl’s brief outline of his plans to escort them to the fair.
At his distant, aloof manner, Daphne had been hard-pressed not to cry off from the outing. But she could not be so cruel to Miss Shelby, whom she knew was looking forward to the venture.
Pleading fatigue once they were home, Daphne excused herself from an inquisitive Leonie and retreated to her room. She removed her beautiful sea-green gown, washed her face and hands, and slipped into a warm night rail.
Dark red hair tumbled down her back when Daphne removed the pins holding it. She seated herself in a chair by the fire to brush it before going to bed.
Her thoughts immediately returned to Lord Ravenswood. Her heart danced with excitement as a picture of his handsome face sprang into her mind’s eye. Her brush strokes quickened.
But, almost at once, the joy turned to foreboding as she recalled his cold words. It was a mistake. The mingling of their lips, their breath, the shared intimacy. It had all been a mistake in his lordship’s opinion. She shivered in spite of the fire.
He had removed his glove to touch her hair with his bare hand, sending a rush of warmth through her body. How she would relish the feel of his hair against her fingers.
She would never have such an opportunity. Like the other gentlemen Daphne had known, Lord Ravenswood did not really want her. He had made his feelings clear. And this time, Miss Oakswine was not to blame.
Even more difficult was recognizing that, while it had not truly mattered with the others, it mattered with Lord Ravenswood. She loved him.
Daphne’s anguish peaked to shatter the last of her control. Her brush fell to the carpet with a soft thud, and she wept.
Several minutes passed before a low roar from the other side of the bedchamber door alerted her to Mihos’s presence. She rose, wiping the tears from her cheeks with one swift motion.
She opened the door, and Mihos entered with a majestic tilt to his head. Ever since the accident, the cat had developed a swagger. Seeing it now brought a reluctant smile to Daphne’s lips. “Come, Mihos, I am for bed.”
“Grraow,” the striped cat said in apparent agreement.
As she pulled the coverlet back and climbed into the four-poster. Daphne wondered how she would be able to part from the tiger-like cat. Surely at some point she would have to return Mihos to the earl.
The feline in question showed no signs of wishing to go anywhere that night. He curled up contentedly on top of the coverlet, directly between Daphne’s calves, and promptly fell asleep.
Without any such good fortune, Daphne stared up at the canopy, telling herself nothing would change between her and Lord Ravenswood by the time of the fair on Monday. Hoping, all the while, everything would.
Chapter Nine
By breakfast the following morning, a cross Lord Ravenswood decided his old business partner, Lord Montcross, must have held a secret grudge against him. Otherwise, he would not have cursed him with Eugene.
Since the earl had woken, Eugene had driven him near the brink of madness. The manservant had hovered over him, fussing like a mother hen, taking forever with the selection of the day’s attire and the grooming of his master. By the time Eugene shaved him and helped him dress, Anthony felt smothered.
In the small dining room, the earl tried to use the Times as a shield against further contretemps with the manservant. A footman poured him some coffee and moved to an array of hot dishes on the sideboard, but before he could inquire what his lordship desired, Eugene dismissed him with a flick of his fingers.
“Master, Mrs. Ware has coo
ked the eggs to perfection this morning. May I bring you some?”
“Very good,” Anthony replied vaguely.
Spooning the eggs onto a plate, Eugene asked, “And a rasher of bacon would be tasty as well, would it not, master?”
Anthony felt his temper rise. He snapped the newspaper. “Yes, Eugene. Add a muffin and some kippers, and that will be all,” he told him dismissively.
“Yes, master.” Eugene placed the heavy plate in front of Lord Ravenswood. “What are your plans for today?”
Anthony knew at once he did not want Eugene shadowing him while he went to ask Mr. Blenkinsop for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The manservant knew nothing of his decision to offer for her, and Anthony preferred to keep it that way. “I am going to Hoby’s to order a new pair of Hessians. I shall not require your presence.”
“As you wish, master.”
Drinking coffee, while Eugene stood guard from his position by the sideboard, Anthony considered his proposed meeting with Mr. Blenkinsop. The family would be pleased to accept his suit, of that there was no doubt.
Indeed, he reflected cynically, Mrs. Blenkinsop would lord his capture over the other matchmaking names. The ton in general would view the couple with approval.
A picture of a pair of light green eyes sprang into his mind. What would Miss Kendall think of his betrothal?
Anthony placed his cup back in its saucer. The brew tasted bitter. Rather than dwelling on a lady he had decided would not suit him, he set his mind to the difficult chore of disentangling himself from Eugene. He wished to offer for Miss Blenkinsop free of interference and have the matter over and done.
It proved no easy task. Anthony ordered Eugene to remain at home while he went to Hoby’s. Upon reaching the boot maker’s shop, though, he sighed when he spotted Eugene getting out of a hackney a short way down the street. The Egyptian man’s white garments stood out in the bustling crowd. The earl threw the reins to his tiger and told him to wait twenty minutes, then take the phaeton home.
Anthony ordered a new pair of boots, then resorted to the old ploy of slipping out the back way of the shop, all the while cursing the circumstances that had brought him to such a pass. He could not fathom what Eugene’s motivations were for staying with him like a sticking plaster.
He wryly congratulated himself, however, when he arrived at the Blenkinsops’ house in Grosvenor Square without Eugene being the wiser.
He asked for Mr. Blenkinsop, confident he would not have long to wait. In this, he was wrong. He cooled his heels in the Blue Saloon a good thirty minutes. During this time, he heard a scream followed by a loud crash coming from the floor above him.
Beginning to wonder what the deuce was going on, Lord Ravenswood was further puzzled by the entrance of Mrs. Blenkinsop and her daughter instead of Mr. Blenkinsop.
He rose and bowed to the ladies. They seated themselves on a sofa, and he sat opposite them, observing that Miss Blenkinsop was even paler than usual. She wore a white muslin gown with a lace fichu tucked in the neck of the dress. Her manner, though, seemed a bit more animated to the earl.
In sharp contrast to her daughter, Mrs. Blenkinsop’s color was high. She wore a gown of purple silk and an air of fury.
But the tone of her voice when she spoke to the earl was mollifying. “My lord, it is most provoking. I have just learned that Mr. Blenkinsop has taken the buffleheaded notion into his brainbox that he must race off to Surrey chasing after some musty old book.”
“Father collects antique volumes, my lord,” Elfleta explained.
Mrs. Blenkinsop eyed her repressively. “It is too bad of him and aggravating beyond words that he should choose to indulge himself at this time. He left at the crack of dawn this morning, quite without my permission, and is not expected back until midday Monday.”
For some unexplainable reason, Anthony felt his shoulders relax and tension drain from his chest. “I shall call on him Tuesday, then.”
“Pish!” Mrs. Blenkinsop exclaimed. “There is no need to wait that long. Mr. Blenkinsop will be happy to receive you Monday afternoon. You young people should not be forced to postpone announcing your, er, happy news.” Mrs. Blenkinsop winked awfully.
Repressing a shudder, Lord Ravenswood said, “I am afraid I cannot call on Monday. I am promised to friends for a country fair in High Jones.”
Elfleta tilted her head at him. She despised the country, but now that she and the earl were all but betrothed, he belonged to her. By rights, if he were going to a fair, he should be escorting her. “A country fair. How diverting, my lord.”
This broad hint for an invitation caused Lord Ravenswood a moment of unease. He had no desire to increase the party by including his intended and her mother. This would be the only occasion where he would meet Miss Kendall before she learned of his engagement. For some perplexing reason, it was important he share this last day with her.
“A prior commitment requires me to attend. I fear it will be dull work, Miss Blenkinsop.” He rose. “I shall do myself the honor of calling on Mr. Blenkinsop on Tuesday. Pray excuse me, ladies.” He bowed, and raising an eyebrow at her unexpected boldness, he accepted Miss Blenkinsop’s proffered hand and kissed her knuckles.
“We shall look forward to it, my lord,” Mrs. Blenkinsop trilled.
Lord Ravenswood took his leave, bent on spending the rest of the day at his club, White’s, where he would be certain not to encounter any females.
As soon as he quit the room, Elfleta slouched back on the sofa and pouted. “I want to go to that fair.”
“But, Elf, you know you detest the country,” Mrs. Blenkinsop said in some surprise.
“It makes no difference. Lord Ravenswood should have invited me.”
“Well, you shall soon be engaged and appear on his arm at all the events that matter. Surely a country fair cannot be important.” Mrs. Blenkinsop stood and walked to the door. “No need for a fit of the sullens, Elf. All will be well. Except, of course, for your father. All will not be well for him when he returns. I shall see to that! The vexing man.”
Left alone, Elfleta picked listlessly at her gown. Her lips pressed firmly together, she wondered who his lordship planned to attend at the fair.
Coming to a sudden decision, she rang for a servant. “Fetch me a pen and paper,” she instructed the footman who appeared.
The man ran to do her bidding. Elfleta smiled to herself. She would ask Lord Guy to call on her. He seemed smitten. Perhaps he could be persuaded to take her to the fair.
* * * *
In St. James Street, Lord Guy had a number of the gentlemen in his set gathered around him outside White’s club. He gave them a highly altered tale of the previous evening’s events.
“Weary from dancing with all the beauties at the Pelhams’, I returned home to find my bedchamber in shambles.”
“What do you suppose they were looking for, Guy?” a voice asked. “The secret of how your hair stays up high like that?”
A round of good-natured ribbing followed this question. Lord Guy laughed and remained unperturbed. He knew he looked his best today in a coat of tawny orange and pantaloons of a paler orange shade. His waistcoat, also pale orange, had yellow birds frozen in flight embroidered across it.
His pride and joy, the pom-poms on his boots, were a tawny orange to match his coat. He observed with no small measure of satisfaction that young Lord Trimmer had emulated the style. The peer’s boots sported pom-poms of a bright blue shade to coordinate with his coat. This validation of his ability to set a fashion pleased Lord Guy no end.
Lord Guy noted Lord Ravenswood approaching the club and made as if to hail him. Having his friends see he was on intimate terms with the earl could only increase his standing. But Ravenswood’s black expression challenged anyone to greet him as he walked by the group with an all-encompassing nod. Lord Guy’s mouth formed a moue of distaste after the earl passed into the club.
He continued his story. “As I was saying, my poor valet lay bound and gagged on t
he floor. I swung around and saw the intruder was a huge man with a chest like a barrel. The blackguard towered above me and had the wild look of a bedlamite, but I was not deterred. I delivered a right-handed blow and the fellow went down.”
At this juncture, the company’s attention was distracted by the arrival of a sedan chair. This elegant vehicle was lined with white satin, and on its floor lay a white fur rug. A hush fell over the group as the vehicle’s occupant alighted, obviously intending on going into White’s. Lord Guy felt his pulse gallop. Here was no less a personage than Mr. Brummell himself to see him surrounded by friends in his moment of glory!
Lord Guy aligned one booted foot so that Brummell, the unchallenged leader of fashion, could not fail to observe his pom-poms.
Beau Brummell paused. His fingers found his quizzing glass. He slowly raised it to his eye and leveled it at Lord Guy’s boots. Silence reigned.
“Did Hoby make those boots?” the Beau inquired mildly.
Lord Guy puffed out his chest with pride. “’Twas my invention, but Meyer & Miller made them.”
Brummell dropped his quizzing glass. “Ah, that is welcome news. For a moment I thought I would be forced to take my custom elsewhere.”
As one, Lord Guy’s friends followed Brummell into the club. Lord Trimmer dropped behind for a moment to rip the offending pom-poms from his boots and toss them into the street.
Lord Guy, crimson with anger and humiliation, stood alone.
“My lord, my lord!”
Lord Guy swung around and recognized one of the Duchess of Welbourne’s footmen. “What is it?”
“Message for you, sir.”
“Give it to me and be gone,” Lord Guy said curtly. Opening the missive he scanned the contents, and his eyes narrowed. Miss Blenkinsop requested him to call on her at his earliest convenience. He would most certainly go. He wondered what service he might perform for Lord Ravenswood’s soon-to-be fiancée.
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