The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2)

by Mary Lancaster

  Grant smiled at Mrs. Fenton and her family as they passed. “Cornelius came back because he saw Dickie Crowmore leave a posting inn in the direction of Blackhaven. Worse, not only has Dickie now booked into your hotel, but he’s on his way here to the ball.”

  Kate frowned. “Surely he can’t have been invited.”

  “There’s more. He’s with your father.”

  Her step faltered. “My father?” She didn’t know how she felt about that. The sense of betrayal was so familiar it had become part of her. Surely there couldn’t be more? She tried to think. “Then Dickie knows I’m not dead.”

  “Not necessarily. According to what Cornelius learned at the inn, he believed you were dead then.”

  The orchestra struck up once more. Annoyingly, it was a waltz. He really had been counting the dances. Somewhere it warmed as well as amused her.

  She said, “I wrote to my parents last week, just after Mrs. Winslow invited me. I mentioned the ball. Why would my father have come to Blackhaven? Oh dear, do you suppose Dickie told him I was dead?”

  “I think it’s unlikely.” His arm encircled her waist and suddenly old wounds and new fears receded, just because he was there. “Would your father attend a ball if you were dead? I suspect Dickie wants your father with him—along with as many other witnesses as possible—when he receives official news of your death. I’m sure his shock would have been beautiful to behold, although not as impressive as his shock on finding you alive.”

  It made sense. “He’s forming a bond with my father,” she said, stepping back with Grant as he began to dance. “They already conspired to hustle me out of London.”

  Grant nodded. “No doubt Dickie wants your father to vouch for him, officially or otherwise, if any suspicion attaches to him.” He glanced toward the entrance, then back to her, and his face softened in a way that melted her heart. “I don’t want to be discussing things like this when I’m dancing with you.”

  “Is that why you tried to palm me off on Vernon?” she asked sardonically.

  “No, I didn’t know how far Dickie was behind Cornelius. I just wanted you away from him. But you don’t obey Vernon.”

  “I don’t obey you either,” she retorted.

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Because I choose to be.”

  “After ignoring me all evening?”

  In spite of herself, she flushed. She couldn’t explain it to herself, let alone to him.

  He said softly, “Are we quarrelling, Kate?”

  She shook her head, and his thumb caressed her gloved hand. “You confuse me,” she said, low. “I don’t know what you want of me, what I want of you. This … frightens me, Tris. And I’ve had enough of fear. I vowed years ago I would never be frightened again.”

  His eyes seemed to consume her. “Fear is part of caring. If it helps, I’m terrified.”

  She swallowed. “Then this is even more insane.”

  “Perhaps. But you fit so perfectly in my arms, it must be right. I feel I could dance with you right out of the room and across the sky.”

  “You see?” she managed. “Insane.” And yet something in her leapt to meet his words. She wanted to dance away from the world with him. Just with him. She blurted, “I hate that you’re Vernon’s brother.”

  A quick frown pulled down his brow. “Don’t. I can’t change that. It’s not as if we’d compare notes.”

  “Don’t you?” she said at once, and his eyes searched hers, his frown deepening.

  “Not in any way that matters. Were you at the church this afternoon?”

  “Why should you think so?” she countered, unwilling to admit it.

  “Because it’s the only time I’ve spoken to Vernon in two years. I’m not perfect, Kate. I’m as jealous as the next man, and it seems I still say things deliberately to hurt my brother. It was never intended to hurt you, and if it did, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s only ever the truth that hurts me.”

  He jerked her closer, as if by instinct. Certainly, he didn’t appear to notice that he held her quite indecorously. His heat burned through the flimsy fabric of her gown.

  “The truth is,” he whispered intensely. Anticipation closed her throat, churned in her stomach. She couldn’t breathe. “The truth is, I—” He broke off, his eyes flying toward the door. Dexterously, he turned her, dancing her away to the far side of the ballroom, and off the dance floor. “There, of course you must have a drink. Champagne, perhaps.”

  She blinked at him, bemused as he guided her into an anteroom, to a table full of bubbling glasses. It was much quieter than the ballroom, with just three older gentlemen standing in a group near the table.

  Grant greeted them politely and picked up two glasses, moving away from the table before he presented one to her.

  “Dickie has just arrived,” he murmured. “And I presume that’s your father with him.”

  “How do you know Dickie?” she asked curiously.

  “I don’t. I recognize him from Cornelius’s description. An aggressive slug in an expensive coat.”

  In spite of everything, laughter snatched at her breath. “That’s Dickie.”

  “Besides, Mrs. Winslow clearly didn’t know him. Between us, we are bringing her a lot of uninvited guests.”

  “At least most of them are titled. And fashionable. Her ball will be talked of in Blackhaven for years.” Though hopefully not for the wrong reasons.

  Grant clinked his glass gently against hers. “I never expected you to be dealing with him face to face. If you just walk past his line of vision once, where people can see his reaction, I’ll do the rest.”

  “Oh, no,” Kate said. She sipped her champagne. “I’ll face him. I want to see in his eyes what he’s done. Tried to do.”

  A smile tugged at Grant’s lips as he raised his glass to her. She swept past him to the door back into the ballroom—and came face to face with Dickie Crowmore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Her heart lurched once, but she’d meant what she’d said. She gazed straight into his face without fear.

  He seemed frozen, except for the fact that his widening eyes showed a tendency to bulge. She’d never seen blood drain from anyone’s face so rapidly. It left his skin livid and he had to clutch at the doorframe as if dizziness almost overcame him.

  “Dickie,” she drawled. “How wonderful.”

  “You,” he uttered. A world of loathing and sheer, stunned astonishment spilled out of that single syllable.

  “You seem surprised, Dickie,” she observed. “I presumed it was me you’d come to see.” She smiled faintly. “You cut me.”

  Close at her elbow, Grant’s hitched breath told her he too was remembering the villain with the knife that would have killed her had it not been for Grant. After all, her pistol could only have stopped one of them.

  Perhaps Dickie caught the nuance, too, for color rushed back into his cheeks as fast as it had left.

  “Of course, it was you we came to see,” said another impatient voice, and at last she saw her father, pushing past Dickie to her. “Katherine.”

  “Father.” She offered her cheek, but she didn’t kiss his.

  She withdrew before his lips could touch her, if such had been his intention. It had been their mode of greeting for nine years now, since he’d sent her back to her husband. She’d been eighteen years old. Just. And yet still she didn’t want to know if he too was surprised to see her alive. If he was, he’d recovered better than Dickie.

  Grant’s soothing hand was at her elbow. “Shall we move out of the doorway?” he suggested, clearly anxious for her not to be hemmed in. Somehow, he stood between her and the other men, gesturing politely for them to step back into the ballroom.

  Her father glared at him. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, looking him up and down.

  “Tristram Grant.” He smiled. “I’m the curate.”

  And somehow, while hysterical laughter tried to rumble up from her stomach, she was in the ballroo
m with her hand tucked in Grant’s arm. Although she still carried her champagne, he’d abandoned his. And nearby, among the crowd, but facing them, stood Wickenden, Gillie, and Cornelius.

  Dickie’s still rattled gaze swept over them without interest and then snapped back to the wicked baron.

  “How remiss of me,” Kate said lazily to Grant. “I should have presented you to my father, Sir Anthony Mere. And my late husband’s cousin, Dickie, of course.”

  The insult was deliberate. As Baron Crowmore, Dickie had precedence over her father. Besides which, she hadn’t given him his title, just the nickname he loathed and could never shake off.

  Neither her father nor Dickie thought the curate worthy of more than an impatient nod. “So, what brings both of you into exile with me?” Kate inquired.

  “Katherine,” her father warned, glancing around the several interested people nearby who could hear her quite plainly. He lowered his voice. “Your mother was worried about you.”

  Kate laughed. Why worry about her once the evil old devil was dead?

  “Of course she could not come herself, her health being what it is,” her father said, slightly flustered by her reaction.

  “Of course,” Kate said. “And Dickie also was worried about me?”

  “His lordship has been staying with friends in the north,” her father said impatiently. “He heard disturbing rumors about you and was coming to see for himself when we fell in together on the final stage of the journey.”

  “Rumors,” Kate repeated, transferring her gaze to Dickie. “They must have been very bad that you couldn’t even wait until morning to talk to me about them. You, of all people, should know that there are always rumors about me. But perhaps these latest ones came from your friend, Mr. Tugg?”

  For an instant, she saw the truth in his eyes. The shock that she knew. The understanding that Tugg had betrayed him, that he, the new Lord Crowmore, had, in fact, manipulated for just this moment. Kate held his gaze with utter contempt.

  “Tugg,” her father repeated. “Who’s Tugg?”

  “Interesting man,” Lord Wickenden said suddenly. No one had noticed him moving closer, and all eyes snapped round to him. He smiled and bowed to Kate’s father. “Your servant, Sir Anthony. We must talk later.”

  And now Dickie knew more or less the full extent of this disaster. Wickenden could destroy anyone, socially, with a word. And Dickie’s was a lot more than a social crime. A hint of desperation and fury crossed his pale face. But it was momentary. He came up, fighting.

  “I should have known I would find his lordship here, by your side, Kate.” He smiled. “And didn’t I glimpse Lord Vernon, too, when I arrived? No wonder poor Sir Anthony bolted up here to see what the devil was going on. It will make a delicious tale in London.”

  Grant took a hasty step forward, though Kate hung onto his arm.

  “Oops,” Wickenden said in apparent amusement. “I’m at your service, Grant.” Which meant he was happy to serve as Grant’s second in the duel which would inevitably follow the punch Grant was so clearly about to deliver.

  “Diversionary tactics, Dickie?” Kate said, digging her fingers warningly into Grant’s arm. “With so much else to talk about, why would anyone choose to discuss you and Tugg?”

  “The magistrate might,” Tristram said savagely.

  “Oh, please,” Dickie said with contempt. He didn’t even look at Grant. “Would you care to dance, Kate? We might then discuss things privately at the same time.”

  “The lady is promised to me for this dance,” Tristram said.

  “In fact, my card is full,” Kate confirmed. “But you are quite right. We should discuss family matters in private. And since you are here, even without invitation, let it be now. There is a quieter antechamber at the other end of the ballroom.”

  “You would know about such a thing. But let us repair there, by all means.”

  “With Sir Anthony,” Tristram interpolated. “And myself.”

  Dickie curled his lip. “I believe we can dispense with spiritual guidance.”

  Kate doubted it was the spiritual Tristram had in mind. “Nevertheless, I would like Mr. Grant to be present.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better with the vicar himself?” Dickie murmured as he walked at her other side.

  Kate frowned. “The vicar is not here,” she said before it dawned on her. Tugg must have told Dickie something about Grant—no doubt to justify the time it had taken him and his cohorts to dispose of her—only promoted him to vicar. No doubt the niceties were lost on Tugg in any case.

  Dickie, never one to overlook free champagne and already foiled from his effort to obtain some, seized two glasses from the tray of a passing servant in livery.

  In the ante room, Bernard and Jenny Smallwood were glaring at one another and arguing in low, intense voices. Lord Vernon’s name was definitely mentioned, so perhaps Kate’s campaign in that field was working. The pair broke off at the invasion of so many people at once.

  “Be so good as to vacate the room, young man,” Crowmore said.

  Bernard stared at him. “I will when I’m good and ready. For now, I suggest you vacate it and be so good as to mend your manner in the presence of a lady. Ladies,” he added with a blink as he finally noticed Kate’s presence.

  “Why, you puppy!” Crowmore exclaimed. No doubt he was itching to loose his anger on someone who couldn’t ruin him.

  “If you please. Bernard,” Kate said quietly. “It’s very important.” She tapped him on the arm with her fan. “Besides, you don’t wish to quarrel with Jenny, you know. You want to dance with her. My apologies, Miss Smallwood.”

  Jenny looked more than happy to run away from the influx of angry men, so Bernard shrugged and tucked her hand in his arm before strolling out as if he’d always meant to.

  “Thank you,” Grant murmured as they passed him. Before he closed the door, Kate had time to glimpse Wickenden and Cornelius hovering like well-dressed guards.

  The room was small, furnished only with a small round table on an oriental rug and two small armchairs. A pleasant breeze drifted through the curtain.

  Although she would have preferred to stand, Kate sat simply to prove her ease of mind to Dickie, and set her champagne glass on the table in front of her. At Dickie’s civil invitation, her father took the other chair. Dickie then presented him with one of his champagne glasses.

  “We might as well be comfortable,” he observed, raising his glass and taking a sip.

  Grant lounged against the wall somewhere behind Kate. When she glanced round at him, he looked very un-clergyman-like, much more like the soldier he’d once been, in repose, resting but watchful. Yet Dickie had clearly discounted him as some nonentity Kate had wrapped around her little finger in passing. The thought gave her an instant’s amusement.

  “So,” Dickie said, setting his glass down on the table beside Kate’s. “How do we solve this little problem of accusation and counter-accusation?”

  “I haven’t heard anyone accuse anyone of anything,” Kate’s father said irritably. “Except you, sir, seem to imagine you may insult my daughter before me with impunity. I am not deaf, sir. And now that we are private, I take leave to tell you I won’t stand for it.”

  Kate felt her eyes widen. That was unexpected. She’d expected him to agree with Dickie on that issue at least. Dickie looked more annoyed than surprised, though he covered it almost immediately.

  “Come, sir, that is what we will sort out.” Dickie blinked rapidly, forced a smile as he turned his attention back to Kate. “I propose to keep my observations to myself and further to silence any salacious gossip I encounter, so far as is in my power. We both know your battered reputation can ill stand any more scandal, and the news of your antics up here with at least three lovers—!”

  Kate’s father leapt to his feet.

  “No, no, sir!” Dickie threw up one hand. “I merely illustrate what could be said and what I will endeavor to see is not said. On the condition that you
, Kate, keep your tongue still on matters concerning me.”

  “What matters?” Sir Anthony demanded, subsiding back into his chair. His voice dripped with distaste.

  “Why, we aren’t going to talk about them, are we?” Dickie snatched up his glass and raised it high in an unexpectedly dramatic gesture. Kate watched the candlelight dance through the tiny bubbles in his glass, thinking that she should have known he would negotiate, that she didn’t wish him to get off so easily, that in his own way, he was as corrupt and evil as her husband. The question was, would she sacrifice her own peace—and Grant’s career in the Church—to bring him to justice? For herself, she’d already faced scandal. Another made no odds. But if she really became the curate’s wife…

  “A toast,” Dickie declaimed. And quite suddenly, Tristram catapulted past her shoulder and seized Dickie’s free hand by the wrist.

  Only it wasn’t free. His fingers grasped a tiny, open vial. He tried to palm it, but Tristram brutally wrested it from him. Kate leapt to her feet, her reticule dropping to the floor with a clatter. She ignored it.

  Dickie had paled again, but still he tried to brazen it out. He held out his hand. “My property, if you please.”

  “Poison?” Grant said in a strange, intense whisper. “You would truly poison her in front of her own father? How desperate are you?”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Dickie said coldly. “Of course I was not poisoning her.”

  Grant raised the vial in front of him. “You were about to pour this into her glass while distracting us with your pompous toast.”

  “What of it?” Dickie said brazenly. “It wouldn’t have harmed her. It wouldn’t have killed her.”

  “Then what the devil is it?” Grant demanded, sniffing the vial and wrinkling his nose.

  “You tried to drug my daughter?” Kate’s father said in stark disbelief.

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody self-righteous!” Dickie exclaimed. “Don’t pretend it’s not what you want, too, Mere! It’s not poison, you imbeciles. It’s to make her miscarry.”

  Kate grasped her chair back for support. He’d found the one thing to unite everyone against her.