by Regina Scott
She drew in a breath and composed her face. It would never do for her parents to suspect she was moments away from becoming overset. She knew girls who resorted to smelling salts for this sort of occasion. She’d never used them. She’d always considered herself stronger than that.
She must have succeeded in hiding her feelings, for her mother and father merely greeted her with a smile as she returned to her seat. Lady Minerva twisted Priscilla’s ring on her finger as if unwilling to return it, whatever had happened.
“Well?” Emily whispered as the lights dimmed for the second act.
“Miss Bigglethorpe denied any association,” Priscilla whispered back, mindful of her parents and the sharp-eared Lady Minerva. She certainly didn’t want to part with another piece of jewelry.
“I suppose she would even if she was innocent,” Emily mused.
“I cannot determine whether she’s lying,” Priscilla admitted. “But I’m even more convinced that Miss Crandall is innocent. All she did was stand about wringing her hands. She hasn’t the courage to try to blackmail me.”
“I never considered a blackmailer to be particularly brave,” Emily said. “Otherwise they’d face their victims with their demands.”
She had a point. As if Lady Minerva thought so too, she chuckled. Priscilla waited for her to shush them, but then she realized the old lady was hanging on their every word.
She hitched herself closer to Emily. “You will have to question her. It’s plain this isn’t my skill.”
“Oh, I imagine you’d do perfectly well,” Emily replied, “if you were questioning a man. You understand how they think better than anyone I know.”
Ordinarily, she would have agreed, but not after that conversation with Nathan Kent. She couldn’t determine where she’d gone wrong. She’d done everything she’d been trained to do, and failed.
It wasn’t as if she was new to the game. She’d been twelve when her figure started to appear. At the time, she’d felt ungainly, and certainly many of the other students at the Barnsley School had been scathing in their responses, commenting on how many sweets she must have eaten, why her gowns no longer fit properly.
Aunt Sylvia had taken her aside during Christmas holiday. “You’ve been granted a gift, Priscilla,” she’d said. “And I, for one, intend to see that you do not waste it.”
From then on, every holiday she’d spent with her aunt. Her parents didn’t mind; anything they could do to further a relationship with the wealthy lady was to the good in their minds. The Countess of Brentfield had taught her how to smile as if she knew a delicious secret. Her ability to walk so that she appeared to be gliding across the carpet and to toss her curls so that the gold caught the light were also tricks her aunt had revealed, as was the need to blink tears into her eyes and murmur an apology when she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.
Everything she had learned had given her power, over the other students, over her teachers, over her parents.
And then over the men who came to court her.
Only with Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne had she ever felt free to be herself. Everyone else saw the perfect Priscilla Tate, the dewy debutante her aunt had created to ensnare the equally perfect husband. And now Nathan Kent had looked right through her and seen the woman inside.
It was clear he didn’t like what he saw. But what hurt more was that she didn’t much like the sight either.
Chapter Ten
Priscilla had regained some of her balance by the time she met with Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne in the Emerson withdrawing room the next morning. One look at the elegant room with its pale blue walls, white wainscoting, and gilded chairs served to remind her of why she was pursuing the duke. Though she’d hoped the way to His Grace’s heart lay through Nathan Kent’s good opinion, that door seemed to have closed. She would have to rethink her strategy, all while catching the creature who threatened her future.
“So, what have you learned about your blackmailer?” Ariadne wanted to know, settling her pink sprigged-muslin skirts about her and opening her reticule to pull out her journal.
“And how can we help?” Daphne added, one foot tapping under her green sprigged-muslin gown. “Chase down the miscreant? Challenge him to a duel? Cut out his liver and serve it on toast?”
“Bit bloodthirsty,” Emily commented. “You begin to sound like me.”
Daphne beamed as if that were a great compliment.
“We have ruled out Acantha Dalrymple,” Priscilla told them. “She is being blackmailed by the same person.”
“Daring,” Daphne put in, and that definitely sounded like a compliment.
“Miss Bigglethorpe is still a possibility,” Emily said, shifting in her dark-green gown. “She has shown marked interest in the duke, and she had opportunity to deliver the notes.”
“The rival,” Ariadne agreed with a delighted shiver. “Though we should also look for a less obvious adversary. It’s always the ones you least expect in all the books and plays, someone hidden in plain sight.” She glanced around at them all as if suspecting her friends of harboring nefarious secrets.
Priscilla pulled her mended shawl closer. She was dressed in deliberate dishabille today. Her muslin morning gown dripped with lace that had been cut from a dozen older gowns. Her golden curls were tied up in a simple lace bandeau. “Don’t look to me for your villain,” she told Ariadne. “I certainly didn’t slip the note into my own pocket.”
Ariadne’s gaze drifted off into the middle distance. “Oh, but what if you did? What if some part of you was warning yourself away from the duke because your heart is engaged elsewhere?” Muttering to herself, she lowered her head and began scribbling in her journal.
Priscilla attempted to ignore her. “The point is, the culprit is still at large, and time is running out. I cannot have His Grace doubting me. As it is, he has yet to invite me to his masquerade.”
Ariadne’s head came up, and she exchanged glances with Daphne.
Priscilla stared at them. “You too? Oh, this is maddening!”
Daphne looked apologetic. “I’m sure it’s only because of Mother. She is well respected in many circles.”
And Priscilla’s mother was not. For one thing, she tended to escalate any emotion, especially since their finances had taken a turn for the worse. She was pleasantly happy one moment and sobbing the next. For another, her family was connected to trade. Her own dowry, now spent, had purchased her a place among the haut ton, and she was quite unwilling to lose it.
Up until now, the Tate name combined with their connection to the dowager Countess of Brentfield had given Priscilla entre everywhere. But the fickle ton had all but forgotten Lady Brentfield.
Given where her aunt currently resided, Priscilla could only be thankful for that.
A cough from the doorway made them all turn. Warburton, the Southwell family butler, stood in the doorway. When Priscilla was mistress of her own establishment, she planned to find someone just like him: tall, elegant, inscrutable, absolutely loyal to the family he served.
Seeing that he had their attention, he inclined his white-haired head. “Forgive the interruption, ladies. I know you are otherwise engaged, but I’ve just been given the card of His Grace the Duke of Rottenford, asking if you are amenable to receiving him.”
Priscilla sprang to her feet. “Are you mad? Send him up! Immediately!”
Warburton did not so much as pale as his gaze swung to Lady Emily, and paused.
Emily waved a hand. “Send him up, Warburton.”
“Very good, your ladyship,” her butler said with a nod. His smile brushed Priscilla as he turned to do his duty.
And she knew she must do hers. “Quickly. Ariadne, sit there. Daphne, move that chair closer to the sofa. Emily, push your chair back; His Grace will need room for his longer legs.” She bent and rearranged the figurines on the side table into a more pleasing pattern. Glancing up, she found all her friends staring at her.
Ariadne recovered first. “Come along!
” she said with a clap of her hands. “We have our cues. The stage must be set.”
Priscilla drew in a breath. How wonderful to have friends who understood!
A short while later, when His Grace entered the room, everything was to Priscilla’s liking. Ariadne and Daphne made a charming picture side by side, and Emily sat serenely in a higher-backed chair, as if holding court. Best of all, Priscilla was alone on the sofa, with plenty of room beside her for His Grace.
He was all politeness. He bowed over Emily’s hand; inclined his head to Ariadne and Daphne, who simpered; then glanced around looking for his seat. Priscilla smiled in welcome, and he sauntered over and lowered himself beside her.
A shiver went through her. Here he was, at last. All hers. With his dark hair pomaded in place, his cerulean coat impeccably tailored, and his boots gleaming, he was an impressive sight. The tight-lipped smile he bestowed on Priscilla was actually encouraging.
She would have been in alt if Mr. Kent and Miss Fairtree hadn’t followed him into the room just then. Their presence necessitated finding another chair and jockeying for position, and when it was all over, she was back on the sofa.
And Mr. Kent was beside her.
Priscilla kept her smile in place as she gazed across the space to where His Grace sat with Emily on one side and Miss Fairtree on the other. By the look on Nathan’s face, he thought he had outmaneuvered her.
He had no idea with whom he was dealing.
“How nice to see you all again,” she said, fluttering her lashes in the duke’s direction. “It seems as if it’s been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
Miss Fairtree managed a smile, but the duke shook his head. “Saw you at the opera last night,” he said, stretching his long legs across the carpet and bumping into Daphne’s kid leather slippers in the process. Daphne seemed too busy gaping at Priscilla to notice. “You were talking with those two other women across the way.”
“Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall,” Nathan supplied, while Priscilla held back a shout of triumph that His Grace hadn’t even remembered their names.
“I’m honored you noticed,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I was only sad you and I did not have an opportunity to converse.”
“The calls on His Grace’s time are many and varied,” Mr. Kent said. “He insisted on coming to see you today, and as we know you are generally to be found in good company, we thought we’d try here first.”
So the duke had wished to see her, and Nathan, no doubt, had steered him to Emily’s hoping he might miss Priscilla.
“How very sensible of you,” she said, with a dimpled smile to His Grace. “Of course you can most often find me with my dear friends.” She nodded to Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne. “It’s rare that we aren’t invited to the same events.”
Emily raised her brows, and Priscilla knew she’d understood her hint. Her friend turned to the duke. “Indeed, Your Grace, I far prefer to attend any event with Priscilla at my side. That’s why I may have to rescind my acceptance to your masquerade.”
The duke had been toying with a crested silver button on his flowered waistcoat. Now he frowned at Emily. “You’d refuse my invitation?”
Priscilla nudged Ariadne’s foot.
Her friend straightened. “Me too.” She glanced at Priscilla. “Reluctantly.”
“Not me,” Daphne said happily. “I love a good masquerade.”
“How nice to have such loyal friends,” Miss Fairtree said wistfully.
“A great blessing, I’m sure,” Nathan drawled. Priscilla could feel him watching her, but she kept her gaze on the duke.
His Grace glanced around the group, then leaned forward. “Hold on. Are you saying you never received an invitation to my party, Miss Tate?”
Priscilla willed herself to blush as she lowered her gaze again. “Sadly, I have not had the honor, Your Grace.”
“That’s not right.” He slapped both hands down on the knees of his dove-colored pantaloons. “I say, that’s not right! I know Miss Tate was on the guest list. What went wrong, Natty?”
Priscilla was certain she heard Nathan smother a groan, but whether at the use of so familiar a name or the realization that he’d been caught, she didn’t know.
“I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” he replied with his usual polite calm. “But I will make sure Miss Tate receives an invitation if I have to deliver it myself.”
He somehow sounded none too pleased with the matter. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him gritting his teeth. She purposely kept from glancing his way.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said with her best smile. “And you can be sure I’ll send my acceptance the moment I receive the invitation.”
“Is anyone else we know coming?” Ariadne put in, pencil at the ready as if to record his response. “Miss Bigglethorpe? Miss Crandall?”
“Who?” His Grace asked.
“Yes,” Nathan answered for him. “Both ladies have accepted, as have most members of the ton.”
“It should be quite a crush,” Miss Fairtree murmured.
“One of the premiere events of the Season,” Priscilla assured her. “What a triumph, Your Grace. You must be thrilled.”
“Delighted,” he said, nodding. “Of course, I must endure that Venetian breakfast affair with my family first.” He blinked, and his gaze fixed on Priscilla at last. “I say, Miss Tate, why don’t you come to that too? I wager I’d have a great deal more fun with you on my arm than with Glynnis.”
Miss Fairtree blanched, and everyone else in the room squirmed, including Nathan Kent. Priscilla knew what to do.
She smiled at the woman. “I imagine any number of charming gentlemen might be pleased to accompany Miss Fairtree,” she said. “She is gracious even to consider sharing you with me.”
Though the duke frowned again, the others relaxed. Priscilla had managed to remind the duke to be charming and praise Miss Fairtree at the same time, all the while asserting her claim on His Grace. It was rather nicely done, if she had to say so herself.
Glynnis Fairtree glanced up. Priscilla thought she might see relief or gratitude in the woman’s eyes. Instead, her gaze was as sharp as a dagger. Despite herself, Priscilla recoiled.
“Then it’s settled,” His Grace declared, rising. “Natty, see that Miss Tate receives all the details.” He nodded all around. “Ladies. Until the masquerade.”
Priscilla rose and curtsied, and her friends did too.
“Until the masquerade,” they all chorused.
“And breakfast,” Priscilla added with a look to Nathan as she straightened.
His smile was grim. “So it would appear.”
Chapter Eleven
“I like Miss Tate,” His Grace declared as they descended the stairs of the Emerson town house and made for the waiting carriage.
“She is very pretty,” Glynnis allowed. She paused as the footman helped first His Grace and then her into the coach.
Nathan made a mental note to remind the staff that ladies were to be assisted first, regardless of whether the duke was present.
“Very pretty,” His Grace insisted, settling into his seat on the tanned leather upholstery. “Smart too.”
Perhaps too smart. She’d kept her focus on the duke today, but Nathan could not forget the way she’d fluttered her lashes, voice growing soft, as she’d leaned toward him at the opera last night. Such marked attention from a talented, clever, beautiful woman like Priscilla Tate would have thrilled any man. Yet Nathan couldn’t believe she had any interest in him. Quite simply, as a personal secretary, no matter how well connected, he wasn’t worth her time.
“She is on the list, isn’t she, Natty?”
His Grace was regarding him fixedly. So was Glynnis.
“For the masquerade?” Nathan clarified. “Certainly. And now for the breakfast as well.”
“No, no,” the duke scolded. “Not those lists. The List.”
Glynnis glanced between the two of them.
&
nbsp; Nathan licked his lips. “Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss such matters, Your Grace.”
The duke frowned. “Why not?”
Was the fellow really so obtuse? “I believe we have several other calls to make.” He tapped on the ceiling to signal the driver to go about their pre-planned route.
But His Grace was not about to let the matter drop as the coach set off past the stone and brick houses of Mayfair. “You cannot have forgotten The List, Natty. It is very important that we narrow it down to a single name before the masquerade. How am I to announce my betrothal otherwise?”
Glynnis colored. “Perhaps Mr. Kent is right, Your Grace. Perhaps you and he should discuss this another time.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s on my mind now. I may forget it later.”
Very likely. “I’ll remind you,” Nathan promised.
The duke sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, stretching his bright blue coat out of shape. “You had better. I’m having difficulty keeping these women straight. I know Miss Tate and Miss Dalrymple are on The List, but I cannot recall their status. I believe Miss Tate is near the top.”
Glynnis had squeezed back in her seat and turned her face to the window, as if trying to avoid the topic. “We’ll be at Miss Bigglethorpe’s home in a moment,” she murmured. “Perhaps a visit with her will refresh your memory.”
Perhaps, but if the mulish set to His Grace’s long face was any indication, he had already made up his mind. And that meant Nathan had a lot of work to do if he was to keep Priscilla away from the duke.
*
In the Emerson town house, Priscilla fanned her face with one hand as she and her friends settled back into their seats following the duke’s departure. “A breakfast with His Grace and his family,” she enthused, wanting to dance around the room with her arms wide. “This could be the perfect opportunity!”