Now she found herself affianced to a man she disliked more with each passing day.
“Strange to see Fen at a ball,” Mr. Crockett said.
Andromeda winced at the nickname. If she thought of Lord Fenimore by his full name and title, it helped to emphasize the distance between them. She missed the Fen Trent who had cared about her―a Fen who no longer existed.
“It’s fortunate you didn’t marry him,” Mr. Crockett said. “It would never have done, you know.”
Did she look as if she were longing for Lord Fenimore? God help if her Slough noticed. She forced a laugh. “Definitely not.”
“A burning desire to build furniture is all very well, but must he blazon his family name across the building? If he’d stayed in the background and used only his partner’s name, Wellcome, it would have been less embarrassing for all concerned. His poor parents! Did you notice? Both the marquis and marchioness are here, but they have pointedly ignored Fen all evening.”
And Fen had given no sign that he cared. She didn’t admire the course he’d taken in life, but he bore the consequences well. “I think he likes dealing with customers,” Andromeda said. “I heard him talking to Lady Corington. He seemed entirely absorbed in the discussion.”
“I daresay, but one can’t consider someone so farouche one’s friend. I nod to him in public only for old times’ sake. Fortunately my reputation can stand it.”
“You have a reputation as a rake!”
Donald Crockett grinned. He had a charming smile, the better to cozen ladies with, she supposed. “Precisely—rakes are known for associating with all sorts, even the riff-raff.”
Another implied insult. Must people be so horrid?
“Fen always did choose his own road,” Mr. Crockett concluded.
How she wished she had chosen hers—or chosen better, at least. Why had it taken her so long to realize she didn’t want to marry Lord Slough? It had nothing to do with seeing Lord Fenimore again. No, that wasn’t quite true; she might lie to others, but not to herself. She didn’t—couldn’t—love Lord Fenimore anymore, but seeing him had somehow clarified her growing dismay about Lord Slough.
Yet Slough was exactly what she’d prepared herself for all these years—a nobleman who needed a perfect wife. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the beau monde. When he’d offered for her, what else could she have done but say yes?
She could have said no.
“Is something wrong, Miss Gibbons?” Donald Crockett said. “You seem abstracted.”
With difficulty, she dragged her attention back to her partner. “A touch of the headache is making me clumsy, I’m afraid.” That was the third falsehood of the evening. She didn’t like the person she had become. She could blame it on Lord Slough’s influence, but that would be unfair. Just because he had shown himself to be less than charming didn’t mean she should be less than perfect.
“Sorry to be such a bore,” she added. Usually dancing and flirting with Mr. Crockett was fun.
“Not at all,” he said. “Shall I return you to your aunt?”
“Thank you, but no. People will comment if we leave the floor halfway through the dance.” And that would annoy Lord Slough, she didn’t add. He could be most unpleasant when annoyed.
Oh, God. He could be most unpleasant anytime. She envisioned a lifetime of Lord Slough’s unpleasantness and almost burst into tears then and there.
“We’ll soldier on through the rest, then,” Mr. Crockett said. He returned her by and by to Aunt Mattie, who was discussing wedding plans with one of her cronies.
“You’re looking a little peaked, dearest,” Aunt Mattie said. “Perhaps we should leave early and keep you close at home for the next few days. We must get you well-rested for your wedding and the night to follow.” She gave a droll look, and her crony tittered.
Nausea rose in Andromeda’s gorge. Lord Slough was sure to find fault with her small bosom and criticize her skills in the bedchamber—for as a virgin, needless to say she very properly had none.
“I’m perfectly well,” she lied—that was number four. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room, but she couldn’t face the chattering women there either and instead detoured down a corridor, seeking someplace quiet and a chance to think.
She pushed open the first door she came to—a small drawing room in darkness but for the light cast through a chink between the curtains by a lantern on the terrace outside.
She shut the door and sank onto a sofa. She imagined jilting Lord Slough now, only a few days before the wedding. There would be the most ghastly scandal. Knowing Lord Slough and his pride, he would set it about that he had found her lacking in some way. Papa and Aunt Mattie would be mortified, and no respectable man would want her after that.
She wished, oh, how she wished, that her mother were here. She wrapped her fingers around the locket her mother had given her. Her mother had been... oh, so lovely and a little wild, almost like a dryad or a—a fairy weaver or some such creature, and she had told Andromeda that this was no ordinary locket. Instead of containing a lock of hair or a miniature, it held powerful magic, and she was to call upon it for help only if she truly needed it. But Mama had died many years ago, and although Papa had grieved, both he and Aunt Mattie said life went on more smoothly without Mama and her strange ways.
Andromeda would never agree with that—she sorely missed her mother—but her confidence in magic had slowly ebbed away, and the locket, however much she treasured it, couldn’t offer comfort today. No matter how much Andromeda wished there was a way to recover from this disastrous engagement... there wasn’t.
Tears gathered like a storm behind her eyes, and she let them fall.
But not for long. A lady might indulge in a good hearty cry alone in her bed at night, but not at a ball. After a few moments, she wiped the tears away and stood, resolute. She would dwell on the positives—such as the honor Lord Slough was bestowing upon her, daughter of an obscure retired colonel. Such as her elevated status as Lady Slough. Those didn’t seem particularly positive anymore. Well then, the happiness her marriage would bring to Papa and Aunt Mattie, who had eagerly advised her to accept the offer.
She must soldier on, as Donald Crockett had said. No knight in shining armor would appear to rescue her from her own folly—and why should he? She had trained herself in ladylike perfections, which included poise in all circumstances. With determination and perseverance, she would deal with the consequences herself.
The room, she realized now, was darker than before; the lantern on the terrace must have gone out. A faint light from the corridor showed the position of the door. She began to move toward it, when voices in the corridor gave her pause. She must get to a mirror before encountering others, as she might have red-rimmed eyes. She would wait until whoever it was had gone past...
The voices stopped close by. Oh, no, were they coming in here? She glanced desperately about—ah, the curtains. She slipped between the heavy fabric and the wall.
The door opened. Light streamed into the room. “This will do very well,” Lord Slough said. She would recognize his loathsome voice anywhere. “Light this single candle and go. A few minutes of peace and quiet in the darkness, and my migraine will ease.”
There was a murmur from a servant.
“No, I don’t need a damned tisane. Just leave me alone and make certain no one disturbs me.”
The servant left, shutting the door behind him. Andromeda stood utterly still, taking soft, shallow breaths. A few minutes, he’d said; it wouldn’t be long, and then he would leave, and—
Beside her, the terrace door opened. A breeze ruffled the curtains, stealthy footsteps sounded, and along with the aromas of tobacco and something sweet that she couldn’t identify, someone came in. He closed the door behind him.
“Quick, man,” came Lord Slough’s voice. “You’re late.”
“There were too many people on the terrace,” the other man said, “including a footman who hovered ou
t there so long that I had to dispatch him.”
“You killed a footman? Are you mad? What an idiotic risk!”
The other made a noise of derision. “You fret for nothing. He will simply disappear, and his body will never be found.” The man spoke with a slight foreign accent. “When will the wagon be available?”
“The day after tomorrow. This will be the last shipment, my friend.”
The foreigner’s voice sharpened with annoyance. “The last one? Why?”
“Because I can buy only so much furniture without it appearing suspicious. I cannot take that risk.”
The man muttered an oath—in French. “Willingness to take risks proves your allegiance to our cause.”
Lord Slough made a rude noise. “It’s your cause, my friend, not mine. My only allegiance is to myself.”
“My master will not take kindly to such sentiments,” the spy said. “He does not appreciate unwilling servants.”
“I am no one’s servant,” Slough sneered. “However, I now have some extremely useful information for your employer and will soon be in a position to provide more.”
“That is for him to decide,” the other said. “What do you have?”
“The identities of two of England’s spies in France.”
There was a pause. “Dead men—who will be made to talk first,” the other said at last with a sinister chuckle. Andromeda’s blood ran cold. This man was a French spy...
Worse, Lord Slough was a traitor.
CHAPTER THREE
ANDROMEDA’S HEART BEGAN to pound—great thudding beats that threatened to burst through her chest. Oh, God. Oh, God! What should she do?
Surely that was obvious. She had to stop the treason. She had to inform the authorities about Lord Slough.
Desperately, she tried to calm her heart and her breathing. She clutched the locket as if it had the ability to control her shaking fingers. She had to stay utterly still until they left. If they found her, that murderous spy would surely kill her. They were talking money now—bargaining in soft, angry voices for a monstrously high figure.
“I cannot commit to that. You will have to discuss it with my master,” the spy said.
“Very well, but he would be wise to agree. A word in the right ears, and you and your master will be no more.”
“You would not be such a fool,” the spy said with utter confidence, making Andromeda shudder again. He would kill Lord Slough as easily as he’d done the footman. “What surety can you give my master that the names are accurate?”
“You have my word on it,” Lord Slough said at his most haughty.
“The word of a traitor?” The man spat. “Worthless.”
“One of these fine days I shall take great pleasure in shooting you,” drawled Lord Slough.
The spy gave another of his sinister chuckles. “Not as long as I have money to pay you, you won’t.”
“And when you provide the money, you shall have the names,” Lord Slough drawled. There followed the clink of coins and what might be the whisper of bills. “To which location shall I send the final shipment?”
“The third,” the spy said. “On the other matter, come to my master tomorrow―and do not fail, or you will regret it.”
“Not as much as you and he will,” retorted Slough. Footsteps crossed toward the terrace again. Andromeda shrank on tiptoe against the wall, still clutching the locket. If the man glanced her way...
The terrace door opened and shut, and the light of the single candle wavered. For a long moment there was silence. Was that Lord Slough’s soft tread, moving closer?
The flame of the candle, visible through the curtain, grew brighter, and terror washed over her in waves. She clutched the locket harder. If she’d ever needed its help, now was the time. Is this what you meant, Mama?
Oh, what a fool she was, hoping for magic to protect her. She must find a way to save herself, but the closer he came, the more she trembled. If he saw her, she was lost. Terrified, she let go of the locket, and her hand flew up in an instinctive gesture against the menacing light.
The candle guttered and died. Lord Slough cursed, a knock sounded, and the door opened. A sconce in the corridor shed a dim light into the room. “Feeling better now, my lord? Beg pardon, but Lady Corington wishes me to show you to a bedchamber.”
“Curse you, didn’t I say to leave me alone?”
“You won’t be disturbed in a bedchamber, my lord,” the footman said. “Lady Corington has ordered wine and a warming pan, with Lord Corington’s valet to attend you.”
“I don’t need a damned warming pan. I’m completely recovered.” He stalked out. The footman shut the door.
Andromeda’s knees gave way. She slumped against the wall, but she couldn’t afford to wait even a minute. She commanded her knees to hold her again and slipped from behind the curtain. She stumbled across the room, then halted as her hand touched the door handle. What if Lord Slough was still within sight and saw her leave the room?
The terrace. She would have to go out that way. Surely the spy had gone—or might he still be disposing of the footman’s body? Sick horror overwhelmed her.
No. A perfect lady was a paragon of self-control. Even in her panic, she hadn’t given in to her terror. She hadn’t allowed herself to believe, as she’d done one ghastly time years ago, in the power of the locket—or at least, not more than for a second or two. Now she would not permit herself to be deterred from her goal, even by a corpse. She had to get out of here. She had to go tell Papa. He did some work for the Home Office and would inform the proper authorities.
She crept across the room and peered through the glass, but saw only darkness and a few wind-tossed trees. Cautiously, she opened the French door. Off to the right, lanterns on the balustrade outside the ballroom revealed no one. So late in the evening, the air had turned chilly, and no one lingered outside. She slipped out and shut the door softly behind her.
She scurried along the flagstones toward the doors that led to the ballroom and paused to gather her composure. She smoothed her skirts and patted her hair. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and walked inside, head high.
Perhaps that was too high; she didn’t want to attract attention, so she softened her posture. She closed the door, striving to appear calm and as usual. A few people had noticed her arrival, so she fanned herself with a languid hand as if she’d gone outdoors to cool off. It might cause talk, as ordinarily she wouldn’t venture onto the terrace alone. Lord Slough wouldn’t approve.
A sound between a gasp and a laugh broke from her, and a few people turned to gaze at her in surprise. Faces hovered in front of her eyes; perhaps she truly would expire from the heat and sheer horror. Frantically, she fanned herself harder and headed toward her aunt. It didn’t matter whether or not Lord Slough approved. It mattered whether he’d seen her come indoors.
She spied him at the entrance to the corridor leading to the room where he’d met with the Frenchman. He was tallish and easily spotted over the heads of the others. Had he seen her?
She must go straight to Papa and tell him what she’d heard. He would—
“There you are,” said her aunt. “My dear, you’re white as a sheet! What’s wrong?”
“You were right, Aunt Mattie,” Andromeda said. “I’m overtired. Where is Papa? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s in the card room, dearest, but you needn’t bother him. We’ll send a message with a footman to let him know we’re leaving, and then send the carriage back for him.”
“No, I need to speak with him,” Andromeda said.
“Whatever for?” Aunt Mattie said. “We’ll be perfectly safe.”
Andromeda had another idea—a better one than trying to pry Papa from the card room and find someplace to speak with him in private. “Is Lo―Lady Overwood still here? I meant to ask her for—for the recipe for a restorative she mentioned a few days ago.” If her ladyship was still here, so would the marquis be. He worked at the Home Office in a high c
apacity and therefore was a suitable person to tell.
“She and his lordship left a few minutes ago,” said Aunt Mattie’s friend. “They often go home early—his work is so exhausting, poor, dear man.”
Andromeda would have to revert to her original plan and tell Papa—but she must wait until they arrived home.
“How serendipitous! Your betrothed is coming this way,” Aunt Mattie said. “If you’re uneasy, perhaps Lord Slough would be so kind as to escort us.”
“No!” Andromeda cried, and then, as both her aunt and her friend gaped, she stammered, “I—I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing him.” Automatically, her fingers went to the heart-shaped locket. She must pull herself together and act as if everything was as usual.
“Lord Slough is in love with you, Andromeda,” said Aunt Mattie. “He won’t mind.”
“Won’t mind what?” Lord Slough asked.
“Nothing,” Andromeda said, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m frightfully tired and my head aches, but I believe I’ll just sit down for a moment or two.” She plunked herself ungracefully into a chair next to her aunt, let go of the locket, and tried to concentrate. “I don’t wish to make a fuss. There’s really no need to leave early. I’ll be fine, I’m sure.” She was babbling. “Perhaps a glass of wine would restore me...”
Lord Slough snapped his fingers at a nearby footman. “Wine for Miss Gibbons.”
“Th-thank you, my lord,” she managed to say, forcing a tremulous smile. Thank heavens even a perfect lady might succumb briefly to pain and fatigue.
“I should be delighted to escort you home.” Lord Slough took a seat next to her. The footman arrived with wine. As she sipped it, she caught sight of Fen across the room, talking and gesturing to another lady—selling more furniture, she supposed. To think that only an hour earlier, she had feared losing her composure with harmless Lord Fenimore Trent. She forced her eyes away from him and made herself scan the room idly, wishing Papa would leave the card room of his own accord and take them home.
Why couldn’t Aunt Mattie stop talking? Now she was repeating that they should go home now, that they needn’t bother Papa.
A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors Page 45