by Regina Scott
“Then we must try again,” Emily said. “Extend the search beyond the ballroom. Daphne and I will take the west wing; you and Ariadne take the east.”
With a nod, they all set off once more.
The east wing of the house contained the library where Priscilla had met Nathan and calmed Acantha. The lofty room was empty, but it still elicited a sigh from Ariadne. Priscilla knew envy when she heard it.
They peered in other rooms, but all were empty of guests. Indeed, many were dark, and only the light from the corridor allowed them to see into the depths. Why would her aunt hide in any of them? Surely she’d want to be among people, where the excitement was sure to be.
Unless she planned to make her own excitement.
Priscilla shivered as they finished with the last room on that floor and started back toward the ballroom. Even the corridor seemed deserted. Perhaps that was why Priscilla easily spotted a movement from the corner of her eye. She started to turn in that direction, but Ariadne caught her arm.
“Pretend you don’t see him,” she whispered. “A gentleman garbed like a Roman centurion has been following us for the last little while.”
Priscilla’s heart beat as quickly as her slippers flew down the carpet. “Could it be Nathan Kent?”
Ariadne shook her head. “This fellow has hair blacker than midnight, and I don’t think it’s a wig.” She glanced at Priscilla. “Oh, Priscilla, what if he’s your blackmailer?”
Her steps nearly faltered. Mr. Richmont had black hair, and as he was related the duke, he had to be in attendance tonight. Was he the one who had been blackmailing her after all? Was the woman in a gray dress who had visited the graveyard just a coincidence, and it was her former suitor who had pushed over the stone?
Aunt Sylvia bent on trouble, her blackmailer stalking her steps, and her betrothal to a man she didn’t love to be announced within the hour: It was enough to give a lady a fit of the vapors! Unfortunately, she hadn’t the luxury.
“This way,” she said to Ariadne and steered her safely back into the ballroom.
They paused at the top of the stairs. In their absence, a circus troupe had arrived and was performing in the center of the room, the guests clustered around them. Priscilla’s gaze swept the crowd. She spied Emily and Daphne, her parents, and the duke. Where was her aunt?
Beside her, Ariadne stiffened. “There he is,” she whispered with a jerk of her head to the right that unsettled her laurel wreath. Priscilla glanced in that direction.
A tall man with a tunic of scarlet wool covered in a bronze breastplate, black mask covering the top half of his face, stood farther along the landing. As Ariadne had said, black hair, unfashionably long, hung to his shoulders. The wave in it told Priscilla he usually wore it in a queue. She knew Mr. Richmont’s hair was neatly trimmed. So who was this fellow? And why was he following them?
“Priscilla!” Ariadne hissed, one finger trembling as she pointed. “Look!”
Priscilla’s head swung around. Below them, meandering through the crowd, was the raven-haired queen she’d seen earlier. As Priscilla watched, she reached the harlequin’s side and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. Even as the harlequin stiffened, she turned and walked away. His Grace followed her.
“Oh, no! He’s in terrible danger,” Priscilla cried. “I have to save him!”
Ariadne gave her a push toward the stairs. “Go! I’ll keep our centurion busy.”
Priscilla didn’t hesitate. She lifted her skirts and fled down the stairs. Only when she’d put a group or two between her and her friend did she dare look back.
Ariadne and the centurion stood in close conversation on the landing. The gentleman raised a bare hand and caressed her cheek.
Oh, my!
Praying Ariadne could hold her own against seduction, Priscilla pushed through the crowd, trying to find His Grace or her aunt.
Emily met her at the doors to the terrace.
“We saw them,” she reported. “Daphne has gone in search of Mr. Kent. I wasn’t sure whether my presence would make matters better or worse.” She held open the door. “They’re just at the edge of the balcony.”
Priscilla saw them as well. Aunt Sylvia was rubbing one hand along the duke’s arm, her mouth curved in a smile. Then she raised her other hand, and moonlight gleamed on cold metal.
Priscilla ran.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The duke raised his hand as if to deflect the blow, but Priscilla shoved between him and her aunt, slapping at Lady Brentfield’s hand.
“No!” she cried. “I won’t let you hurt him!”
She felt the duke’s fingers on her shoulders, as if he were trying to move her aside and protect her, but her aunt cried out as something clattered to the stones of the terrace.
“Stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!” She bent to retrieve a folding fan. The embossed silver case glowed in the moonlight. “Mama gave me this for my birthday!”
Priscilla sucked in a breath as Lady Brentfield lifted her fan, lovely face crumpled. “I’m very sorry, Aunt,” she said, trying to calm her frazzled nerves and think clearly.
“Ant?” Lady Brentfield frowned at Priscilla. “I’m not an ant. I’m a girl. Do I know you?”
Priscilla could not stop the hitch of pain in her voice. “I’m a friend of your mother’s. Does she know you’re at the party?”
Her aunt’s smile was sly as she glanced in either direction. “No. I ran away from the nursery. Sh! Don’t tell!” She glanced at the duke. “You either, Mr. Clown.”
Priscilla glanced back, waiting for the duke to raise his voice in confusion, but he merely inclined his head as if he understood. Or perhaps he was merely too stunned to do more than that.
“Lady Emily is just inside the door, Your Grace,” Priscilla murmured, putting a hand on her aunt’s arm to keep her in place. “If you’d be so good as to bring her to me.”
He hesitated, but whether because he wasn’t sure of her or annoyed she’d made him her errand boy, she couldn’t know. If he hadn’t already proposed, she was certain he would have crossed her off his list for this lunacy. Once more, she’d dared to lay hands on him, and he could not know she had been trying to save his life again.
But, at last, he turned and did as she’d bid, and a moment later, he returned with Emily.
Lady Brentfield eyed her and stepped closer to Priscilla. “I don’t like you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Emily assured her.
Priscilla shook her head. “It’s just playacting, Aunt, er Miss Tate. You are pretending to be a queen. I am pretending to be a shepherdess. See my little lamb?” She held up the puppet, and her aunt seized it and held it close, cooing.
She glanced up at Priscilla. “And what is she pretending to be?”
Priscilla couldn’t very well tell her Death. “Sick.”
Emily scowled at her.
“Sick?” Lady Brentfield scrunched her nose, one hand petting the lamb. “I was sick. People took care of me. Then a lady came to say that the Duke of Rottenford wanted to see me.”
A lady? From the duke? Priscilla glanced at His Grace. “The Duke of Rottenford?”
“Rottenford, Rottingham, Rotten Fish.” Her aunt giggled. “I don’t remember. All I know is she was very nice to me. She brought me to London and let me see my brother then bought me this pretty dress.” She spread the skirts of her velvet gown with one hand and spun in a happy circle.
So she’d had help escaping. This lady who had brought her to London could only be Priscilla’s blackmailer. Her eyes narrowed.
“Who was this lady, Miss Tate?” she asked her aunt.
Lady Brentfield waved a hand. “I don’t know. She was a friend of the duke’s. Ask him.”
Priscilla looked to the man beside her. “Your Grace?”
He took a step back, stiffening, but before he could say a word, Lady Brentfield brightened.
“Oh, are you a duke too?”
Priscilla couldn’t go on this way.
She needed answers. If her aunt wasn’t the one threatening the duke, then that meant the villain was still at large.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said before turning to her friend. “Emily, will you see that my . . . Miss Tate is safely returned home? I must speak to the duke.”
Emily took Lady Brentfield’s arm. “Come along, dear. I know your family is worried about you.”
With a last look to Priscilla, her aunt suffered herself to be led away. Priscilla reached out and took the duke’s hand.
“Your Grace, you must have realized that that woman is my aunt, Lady Brentfield. She has fallen on hard times. I thought she might be a danger to you, but now I fear there’s someone else involved. I ask your help in locating that person.”
He inclined his head and gave her hand a squeeze as if in support. Emboldened, Priscilla raised her head. “And there is more. Because Lady Brentfield lost her fortune along with her mind, my family had fallen on hard times as well. That is why I was determined to make a brilliant match. But I cannot in good conscience marry you. You see, I love someone else.”
She could feel the tension in him and wasn’t surprised when his voice came out strained and not at all like his usual bray. “Oh? Who?”
She could not have him turning any wrath on Nathan. It was hardly Nathan’s fault she’d conceived this passion for him. “Please don’t be angry with him or with me, Your Grace. I don’t believe he’s aware of my feelings. He doesn’t think much of me, I fear. I told him the truth about my aunt, and he despised me for it.” She felt the tears coming again and forced her voice to stay steady. “But I cannot marry you when my heart will always yearn for him.”
She drew in a breath, steadied herself, waited for the duke to tell her what a fool she was for wishing away a fortune and position that so many women would have died to obtain. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
Priscilla couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn’t even hear. Only one man had ever made her tremble at his touch. She pulled back and stared up at her harlequin.
“Nathan.”
He slipped the mask off his face, his hair plastered to his forehead from the leather. “Was I so obvious?”
He should have been. It wasn’t the tailor or the stairs that had altered the duke’s physique. But she’d been so focused on finding her aunt she’d overlooked what her heart had been trying to tell her.
“Not obvious,” she assured him. “But if you are here, where is His Grace?”
“Upstairs with Glynnis,” he replied. “Until we found your aunt, I was taking no chances.” He sobered. “I’m truly sorry, Priscilla. You were right; she seems to have lost her mind.”
Once more tears threatened. “I don’t know whether it’s a tragedy or a blessing considering her tendencies to murder. But I still cannot believe she is my blackmailer. She might have been able to convince her caretakers to post a note for London, but how could she have had them delivered at Acantha Dalrymple’s or the duke’s breakfast? Someone has to be helping her.”
“This lady of whom she spoke.” Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Dalrymple or Miss Bigglethorpe, perhaps?”
She felt as if some piece of the puzzle was still missing. “Regardless, we need to alert His Grace that there will be no announcement tonight. I will not marry him.”
He adjusted the frilly cravat at the throat of his costume. “Ah, yes. I believe you said you were in love with someone else.”
Must she say it again? “I thought you were the duke when I made that confession.”
“You seem to be under a misapprehension about a number of things,” he said, smile playing about his lips. “For one, I don’t despise you, Priscilla. I could never despise you. I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”
She was starting to tremble again. “I see, sir. As a member of good Society, you know what such a declaration must mean.”
“Indeed.” He went down on one knee, moonlight setting his face to glowing. Or perhaps it was the love shining through his remarkably fine eyes. “Miss Priscilla Tate,” he said, “will you do me the honor of . . .”
“Priscilla!” Daphne thrust through the doors from the ballroom and skidded to a stop in front of them, gown settling about her like the wings of a dove. “Emily says you must come at once. She knows who your blackmailer is.” She blinked. “Oh, hello, Mr. Kent. Why are you dressed like His Grace?”
Brows up, Nathan climbed to his feet, while Priscilla once more had to swallow a frustrated shriek.
“Are we in danger, Miss Courdebas?” he asked.
“I didn’t think so,” she hedged. “But then, I thought His Grace was safely here with us.” She glanced between the two of them. “Perhaps we should speak with Emily.”
“Lead the way,” Nathan said, waving her before them. He slipped his mask back into place and took Priscilla’s arm, and she couldn’t help her sigh.
“To be continued,” he murmured as they returned to the ballroom.
But before they could move to find Emily, they were besieged.
“Your Grace,” Acantha whined, sidling up to him. She was dressed in a fantastic costume of a sunny yellow satin with black piping, feathers clinging to her hair and edging every portion of the gown. Priscilla could only think that perhaps she was attempting to be some sort of bird, but the only black and yellow bird she knew in England was the yellow wagtail. Regardless, the color sapped her skin of warmth, and the beaked mask made her nose look sharper than ever.
“I was certain you had something you wished to discuss with me,” she said, eying Priscilla pointedly.
From the other side of him, Miss Bigglethorpe went so far as to link her arm with his. “Indeed, Your Grace, I appreciate your kindness in dismissing these other women before making your feelings known to me, but we are running out of time.”
“It is imperative that we find Miss Fairtree,” Emily said, pushing her way to Priscilla’s side. “I will not be comfortable until I know her plans.”
Glynnis’s plans? Was she the blackmailer? Then the duke, the real duke, was truly in danger.
There was no time for Nathan to find a proper way to respond to these women. No opportunity for the social niceties. Priscilla brought the heel of her slipper down on Miss Bigglethorpe’s instep and pulled Nathan out of her grip as her rival gasped and hopped back.
“Glynnis is upstairs, with the real duke,” she told Emily. Then she pointed at Acantha. “If you wish to marry His Grace, follow us.” She did not look back as she toured Nathan toward the stairs, Emily and Daphne hurrying along beside them.
“Forceful,” Nathan murmured to her, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“When I must be,” she replied. Then she turned to Emily. “You think Glynnis Fairtree is our villain?”
“Perhaps,” Emily said darkly. “Before I sent your aunt home with your father, Daphne and I led her about the ballroom. We even insisted on pulling the masks off a few people.”
“Nothing like a little scandal to liven up a party,” Daphne agreed with a giggle.
Priscilla shook her head. “And I suppose she could identify no one.”
Emily nodded as they reached the top of the stairs. “The ‘lady’ who helped her was not in residence. There is only one woman close to the duke who hadn’t made her presence felt tonight.”
“Glynnis,” Nathan said, arm tightening under Priscilla’s. “This way.”
He led them through the doors at the top of the stairs, and Priscilla only had a moment to wonder what had become of Ariadne before they were all hurrying down the corridor of the west wing toward the stairs to the next floor.
“Wait a moment,” Acantha said, puffing up beside them. “That’s not the duke’s voice. Who are you?”
Nathan inclined his head, pausing. “Forgive the subterfuge, Miss Dalrymple. It’s Nathan Kent.”
“Who?” she asked with a frown.
“Enough!” Priscilla cried. “The
real duke is in danger. If we intend to rescue him, we must go.”
“Oh no!” Acantha darted in front of her. “You’re not taking credit for his rescue!” She lifted her skirts and scurried up the stairs, yellow feathers flying in her wake. “Rottenford! Percy! Be brave! I’m coming!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nathan couldn’t help thinking that they’d all gone a little mad as he started after Acantha, Priscilla beside him and Lady Emily and Daphne behind. Acantha seemed to think she had superhuman powers the way she dashed up the stairs and disappeared around the corner. Lady Emily certainly thought she had discovered the truth, stalking along as if she meant to claim a life. Daphne always seemed a bit mad to him. Society would name Priscilla mad when they heard she had let the duke off the hook. And he had been mad to think he could survive watching Priscilla marry anyone but him.
He took her hand as they reached the top of the stairs and led her and her friends to an open door along the carpeted corridor. Inside the cozy withdrawing room, Glynnis and His Grace sat before the fire, a chessboard between them on a little inlaid table. His Grace’s harlequin costume of bright scarlet and gold velvet with gold fringe stood out against the pale green and white of the room’s décor.
He and Glynnis, in her queen’s robes of deepest purple, were staring at Acantha, who had careened into the room just ahead of Nathan and Priscilla. That lady put her hands on her hips, further dislodging a few feathers, which floated down to the grass-colored carpet.
“You are a liar, Priscilla Tate,” she declared with an accusatory look in her direction. “His Grace is perfectly fine.”
The duke smiled at her as he rose. “Of course I am. Bored to flinders, but fine all the same. What a marvelous costume.”
Acantha simpered.
Glynnis, however, stood and glanced among the people crowding into the withdrawing room with a frown. “Was someone out to hurt His Grace?”
“Not intentionally,” Lady Emily said, moving past Nathan. “And not at first. She would have much rather made sure Acantha and Priscilla were out of the way instead. Isn’t that right, Miss Fairtree?”