“Not possible,” she said haughtily, ignoring his reference to the famous courtesan’s exposé. “It is locked away and will not change hands until each person mentioned has complied with the terms of the agreement I have set forth.”
“Damnable luck,” the man spat. “He became even more foolish later. When he was king. His affair with Coneyham was evidence of that. But when he was regent, he was bored, and a man like that does poorly if not entertained at all times. If only his letter hadn’t become lost among his solicitor’s papers. Intended to be presented on the occasion of his death—not years afterward. Damnable inefficiency.”
“The letter explaining how he’d kept the Journal of the League of Jolly Gentlemen, you mean?” Gertrude said, enjoying the power she felt. “And how you should continue with the league in his name? So many well-known gentlemen, too. He liked his joke, didn’t he? Wanted you all to have to get together and hear your exploits read aloud. My, my. Speaking of needing to be entertained. You certainly like to be entertained, don’t you?”
“I’ll thank you to keep your speculations to yourself.”
“Speculations? You seem to forget. I’ve seen the journal. Most interesting diagrams. Your Prinny was quite the artist.”
Her uninvited guest grew red. “I’m prepared to pay whatever you want.”
Gertrude’s heart beat faster. Those were the words she wanted to hear. Now, if only that fool Hermoine could get her part of the bargain completed. “Very soon I shall contact you,” she told the man. “And we’ll arrange an exchange.”
“Why not now—tonight?”
“I’ve already told you. There are others involved. I shall want you all together when the transaction is completed.”
“All together, you say? Absolutely not. Never.”
“Well, we’ll have to see.” Gertrude knew when to be less officious.
“Damn Prinny. I had no idea he was keeping his wretched journal. Fool. He always had to play his silly games. And then to allow the thing to be stolen by some street urchin and carted off like that.”
“Yes.” Gertrude attempted a sympathetic note. “But thanks to myself, you no longer have to worry. It’s in a safe place again.” She had considered approaching Max Rossmara directly and offering him money for the journal, but had soon changed her mind. He wasn’t the kind of man to take part in any scheme designed to extort money from others. And he was unlikely to be amused when he found out that she knew he’d been a pickpocket—and journal thief— in Covent Garden before Viscount Hunsingore came along. And above all she never wanted him to realize she had been the girl who slept with the master of the pickpocket gang. How angry that common man became when he learned Max had been taken away by Viscount Hunsingore. No, she must not arouse any suspicions that she had known Max as a small boy. She must simply pray Hermoine would find a way to get her hands on the journal. Tonight, perhaps. She’d told Hermoine that tonight she was to seduce Max, or suffer consequences she wouldn’t like.
“A ball tonight, is it?” her visitor inquired.
“Yes.” A delicious thought came to Gertrude. “Please be my guest. A most superior kind of person inhabits this part of Scotland. Do you know the Rossmaras? Or the Dowager Duchess of Franchot, perhaps?”
“I know of them,” was the dubious response.
“Then do join us, please.”
“I shall consider it,” he said. “In any case, I cannot leave until morning. Kindly put suitable quarters at my disposal.”
“Why, of course, my lord. And every possible comfort. Do you prefer brunette, redhead, or blonde?”
The man frowned for an instant, then chuckled. “You have audacity, I’ll give you that. Arrange for my quarters at once if you please. As to the other, well, we’ll see if I encounter a specimen who happens to take my fancy—of any of the varieties you describe.”
Chapter Twenty-five
They were announced as Mr. Max Rossmara and Miss Kirsty Mercer. Instantly hundreds of curious eyes turned in their direction and Max didn’t fail to note that as many male eyes were fastened on Kirsty as female eyes took stock of him. He’d been successfully fending off the marriageable females from miles around for years and thought little of it. He did not like the way men looked at Kirsty.
What any of them was thinking—male or female—he would prefer not to know.
With Kirsty’s hand on his arm, he descended the staircase to the moderate-sized ballroom at The Hallows. By inclining his head to Kirsty and keeping up a stream of near-nonsensical conversation, he made it unnecessary to greet any of the other guests. His plan was to dance every dance with the girl on his arm and to hell with the opinions of others.
“There you are, my boy.” His great-grandmother’s voice reached him. With its dry quality there was a tone that seemed to echo across the best part of the century the woman had lived. “Max, over here at once. Where have you been? We got here ages ago.”
He met Blanche’s eye, and she winked hugely. Blanche Bastible had improved vastly in the years he’d known her.
“Evening, Great-grandmama,” Max said. “You know how the carriages line up for these affairs. You can only wait your turn. You look ravishing. Doesn’t she look ravishing, Kirsty?”
Kirsty dropped a graceful curtsy. “Ye’re a picture, my lady. Gray suits ye. I’ve never seen ye wear it before. Your eyes are gray. It’s a pretty thing, ye are.”
The dowager flipped open her fan and flapped it. “Oh, stop with your flattery both of you. I’m too old to look anything but old in anything I wear. And I don’t give a fig about it.”
“Ye’re a strong-minded woman,” Kirsty said. Her comfort with the dowager always surprised Max.
“I certainly am,” the old lady said. “You think the color of my gown complements my eyes?”
“Och, I do indeed.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I shall have something else made in the same color. Your father has been borne away to talk business somewhere, Max.”
“He invariably is.” And Max would be amazed to avoid a similar fate for long.
“That son-in-law of mine is very glad of his wounds tonight,” Blanche said good-naturedly. “You know how he detests events such as this.”
“Especially without Aunt Grace to cheer him,” Max remarked. He bent to whisper to the dowager, explaining why Kirsty wasn’t wearing the aquamarines. Great-grandmama’s expression became inscrutable, but she nodded.
“Oooooh, there you are, Max.” Positively rushing through the throng, showing no consideration for those she thrust aside, Lady Hermoine Rashly made a path straight for Max and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. I absolutely hate all the fuss of these affairs, but with you at my side I shall bear it. Let me look at you.”
He detested her.
The revelation shocked Max. He managed to smile, but felt sickened. She was a strumpet. She wore surprisingly demure clothing and was almost devoid of jewels, yet she was a strumpet nevertheless.
“You are divine, Max, darling. I am the envy of every female present. Don’t you agree with me, my lady?”
The dowager grunted.
“I’m sure you do, Kirsty,” Hermoine said, and there was a sly meanness in her tone. “You must feel as if you were in a fairy story, Oh, my, where did you find that frock. Perhaps I should send for my maid and have her try to find something more suitable among my things.”
Silence followed, and Hermoine had the sensibility to color slightly. “Of course,” she said hurriedly, “what you’re wearing does at least fit relatively well. I shall ask my cousin Horace to dance with you. What do you say to that?”
Kirsty made no attempt to say anything.
Lady Hermoine shook her head until her hair bobbled back and forth. “No, you shall not thank me. I insist upon making sure you have a lovely evening. After all, it’s only likely to happen once that you’ll be at a ball like this.”
Max took solace from the pitying expression on Kirsty’s fa
ce. She remained silent.
And Lady Hermoine bobbed and bubbled girlishly in a high-necked gown of pale green. Her sleeves were long, with puffs at the elbows, and she wore a single long strand of pearls at her neck.
The woman was a virginal parody.
Max couldn’t help but admire a very clever move, but even a nun’s habit wouldn’t disguise the true nature of Lady Hermoine Rashly.
The odious Horace approached and bowed low to the dowager and to Blanche. Blanche, resplendent in pink, with pink roses decorating every inch that could be decorated, simpered in response to Horace’s greeting and appeared ready to swoon when he kissed her hand. Horace immediately asked Blanche to dance. For a moment Max looked at Arran’s mother-in-law and saw that she was still a very attractive woman for her age, but a whispered comment from Horace to Hermoine in passing swept away any thought that Horace might find Blanche appealing. Horace said, “You shall owe me for this annoyance, my love,” to Hermoine. “I’ll expect to collect later. You were wise to take my advice with that gown. Now try to act the innocent—if you can.”
Hermoine sniffed and turned her head aside.
“There you are!” Countess Grabham bustled up, her black gown particularly sumptuous this evening, and her jet offset with diamonds. Even the veil she wore was dotted with diamonds. “You are the only people who matter. We are delighted you’re here. And little Kirsty from the valley. How charming a gesture to bring her. Enjoy yourself, my dear.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Kirsty said.
A waltz struck up, and Max turned to Kirsty. “One of the dances you know, I believe,” he murmured. Without giving her a chance to refuse, he fastened an arm around her waist and propelled her to the dance floor. There he swept her into his arms and began to dance. At first she tripped over his feet, but soon enough she settled down and her natural grace took over. They circled the floor without speaking. He held her sedately, correctly, and swirled her around and around, delighting in the color that came to her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eyes.
“I am the envy of every man in the room,” he said, training his gaze over her head. “Every one of them wishes he could be the one to hold you.”
“Hush, Max Rossmara,” she told him. “Ye were wrong t’do this. Your great-grandmother won’t be pleased.”
“I doubt she will.” He saw a familiar figure winding a path between revelers, a glass in each hand. “Any more than my handsome devil of a father will be. Aha, he sees us.”
“Och, dearie me,” Kirsty said, stumbling again. “Ye should take me back and dance with the Lady Hermoine.”
Max met his father’s eyes briefly before turning with the dance. But that look was long enough for the son to see sympathy in the father’s eyes. Struan Rossmara, Viscount Hunsingore, knew what it was to love a woman beyond all reason, and he knew his son loved Kirsty Mercer.
“Max,” Kirsty whispered fiercely. “Ye should dance wi’ your betrothed.”
“What do you think of her dress?” Max said, drawing his darling girl closer.
“It’s . . . well, I’m sure it pleases her. Max, please, everyone will look at us.”
“Yes, they will. We make a grand couple.”
“You’re holding me too close.”
“I intend to hold you much closer before long.”
Her face flamed. “People are watching us,” she hissed.
Max pulled her even nearer until he could smell her subtle, summer flower scent and see the glints in her pale hair.
“Max.”
“I dinna care,” he said, copying her accent. “Ye’re a bonnie lassie, and I’ll ha’ ye for my own, or die.”
That silenced her. He saw how she took a great breath and let go of her inhibitions. They whirled and swirled, her gorgeous skirts swinging. Her lips parted, showing the edges of her teeth. The dewy texture of her skin glistened.
When the piece finished he wasn’t ready to stop, but did so, holding both of her hands and looking into her eyes.
A smattering of applause startled him, and he looked about. A space had cleared around them, and brilliantly dressed men and women had stood aside to watch. Now they clapped. Max bowed and grinned, and led Kirsty from the floor.
Expecting a tirade from his father and great-grandmother, he guided Kirsty to a chair beside Blanche. “I’ll go for some drinks. What will you have, Kirsty?”
She looked at her hands in her lap and shook her head.
This was too much for her. His fault, but what choice had there been? He’d needed a forum for a grand gesture, and this was the best he was likely to get.
“Lemonade it shall be then. Does anyone else need something?”
“Here,” the dowager said, pushing a glass into Kirsty’s hands. “My granddaughter’s husband brought me lemonade, and I can’t abide the stuff. Evidently he thinks ancient ladies shouldn’t take strong liquor.”
That brought a little chuckle from Kirsty.
At last Max could no longer avoid turning to the countess and Lady Hermoine. Both returned his regard with fixed expressions. He smiled. They didn’t.
Max glanced about. “Has that cousin of yours absconded with Mrs. Bastible, Hermoine?”
“I think he took her for refreshments,” Lady Hermoine said, sending a venomous look in Kirsty’s direction. “The next dance is ours, isn’t it, Max?”
He frowned deeply, as if trying to remember. “Is it? No, no, it’s not, my lady. May I see your card, Kirsty?” When she handed it to him, he opened it and said, “I thought as much. Kirsty must put up with me again.”
The orchestra struck up another waltz and he offered Kirsty his hand. She took it, but he didn’t miss the misery on her face.
“I shall want to speak to you, Max,” his father said, as Max passed him. “The Reverend Pottinger is to be a little late—duties keep him—but when he arrives I shall want to introduce him to Kirsty.”
“We do not always achieve what we want to achieve,” Max told him before taking Kirsty away.
“Ye are . . .” She blinked rapidly. “I’ll say it, if it’s right, and it is. Ye are a bad man, Max Rossmara. Ye were the one who told me there was none who would approve of ye and me, yet ye do this in front o’ all the important people for miles around.”
“I’m dancing with the only person in this room who is important to me. I love you. There’s nothing I can do about that, nothing I want to do about it.”
“Max, dinna say it.”
“You don’t love me?”
“Ye know I do. But we’ve no future but a future o’ pain. They’ll no’ allow us t’be together. Ye’ve an important place in the world for your family. Important wi’ society. I canna be what ye need. We were wrong t’start what we’ve started. I’ll go away, Max. I must go away.”
Anger gnawed at him. “You will not leave me. Do you understand?”
“Ye canna make me stay.”
“Can’t I? We shall see. Where would you go anyway?”
“Ye’ll help me. Find me a place in another house where I’m no’ known.”
“No.”
“Please, Max.”
“Well, I’m . . . I’m afraid we may be heading for trouble of another nature. Your brother has somehow managed to gain entrance here. How I can’t imagine, but I may have to rescue him. He’s behind one of the palms near the statue of—I don’t know who it is. The one missing an arm.”
Kirsty looked wildly about until she sighted Niall. He tried to appear to be tending the palm Max spoke of. Already several guests stared at him, and looked at each other askance.
“What would possess him t’do such a wild thing?” she whispered. “He’ll get in terrible trouble.”
“We’d best dance in his direction,” Max said. “Try to draw as little attention as possible. He’s only making sure you’re all right, and he can see that you are. I see his smile. What young man who loves his sister could fail to be delighted at seeing her happy. You’d best smile.”
“Och, ye�
�re a sly one,” she said, but she smiled nevertheless, and tipped back her head when he spun her about. “He’ll tell Father and Mother. I canna guess what they’ll think. Probably that my soul is claimed for the devil himself.”
“I disagree. I think they’ll know I choose to show you off in public and that they’ll guess the depth of my sincere feelings for you.”
The orchestra swelled its efforts, and the dancing became more spirited. More and more dancers took the floor, and Max lost sight of Niall Mercer. When he glimpsed the statue again, the young man was gone. Just as well.
He must brace himself for what would follow when his father took him aside, but he must also brace himself to tell his father how it would be in future. Looking at Kirsty now, he felt only elation, elation and adoration. They had been friends for a long time, and in love a long time. What could be wrong with his wanting her for his wife?
“Kirsty,” he said in her ear, “I should like to ask you something.”
She clung to him, clearly a little giddy, and looked expectantly into his face.
The music stopped.
Max frowned. The piece wasn’t finished.
A drumroll sounded and, amid laughter and whispered conversation, the assembly turned toward the dais.
Countess Grabham stood there, visibly very comfortable and composed before her guests. She clapped her hands, then took a glass of champagne from a tray offered by a servant. “Champagne for all of my friends,” she ordered. “This is such a happy night for me.”
Max saw Blanche Bastible and Horace Hubble. They were trading sips from the same glass of champagne, and Blanche was giggling. Apparently she had already drunk too much, and the thought made Max furious with Hubble.
“Hurry please,” the countess cried. “Champagne for everyone. We’re going to drink a very special toast. As you know, I’ve only been in these parts a year, yet I cannot tell you how much I treasure the kindness you have all shown to me and my wards. And to my niece and my nephew, of course.” Holding her glass aloft in both hands, she smiled around.
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