Marlowe’s escort was indeed part of a larger scheme, but one concocted by none other than the duchess herself. Unbeknownst to Katherine, Astrid planned on making her ball the first and last Katherine had to attend as a widow. Astrid had observed her best friend closely for years and had come to two conclusions: one, Katherine, reserved, rapier-witted, and secretly softhearted, was quite possibly her favorite person in the world. Two—and this was a realization Astrid had only come to in recent weeks, though she wondered how she’d missed something so obvious for so long—Katherine was head-over-heels in love with Sebastian Sherbrook.
Katherine was never going to be happy until she was by Sebastian’s side. And Astrid was certain, from the surreptitious looks of longing he tossed her way, that Sebastian was as inordinately besotted with Katherine, though too proud and broken to admit it. Fools in love. She supposed there was no accounting for matters of the heart, as so obviously illustrated by her own marriage.
Astrid knew something else for certain: Katherine and Sebastian were too pigheaded (a word she did not use lightly now, after her experience with Petunia) to ever sort things out between them on their own. The fact that they’d lived under the same roof for a month—a month!—without taking advantage of the proximity of each other’s bedchambers was a testament to the sad state of affairs. She and Montford hadn’t even taken a week to come to their senses.
No, it was becoming horribly clear to Astrid that the pair of fools would pine in their respective corners until Judgment Day if left to their own devices.
Astrid did not plan on leaving them to their own devices. She was going to throw the two of them together at her ball, stand aside, and watch the sparks fly.
She only hoped the residence was left standing at the end of the night.
The only snag to the plan was getting Sebastian to attend the ball. He was marginally healed enough to make the effort, though he hadn’t set foot in a respectable soiree in years. And last she’d heard from Montford, he was sulking in his Soho lodgings after his latest tiff with Katherine.
Proof positive that what Astrid was about to set into motion was in the best interests of everyone. So she had heaved a mental sigh, sent a footman around town to discover Marlowe’s whereabouts and enlist his help, and girded herself for battle. If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, she’d just have to bring the mountain to Mohammed.
Or rather draw him out with a little help from Monsieur Jalousie.
Chapter Thirteen
In Which the Duchess Enlists Her Husband to the Cause
CONTRARY TO THE latest gossip, the Marquess of Manwaring was no longer in residence at Bruton Street, much to his manservant’s disgust. Though he had left Mongrel at Katherine’s, not wanting to interrupt the budding romance between her and Seamus, Sebastian had not been so considerate of Crick’s tendre for Polly. In his defense, he had not known that there had been any tendre in play until they were settled back in his Soho lodgings.
He’d received an earful from his former batman when he’d demanded an explanation for his foul mood, but as he was half-sprung at the time and totally in the depths of his own despair, it was hard to follow the manifold sins Crick laid at his feet. Chief among them, however, seemed to be Crick’s resentment of Mongrel, who’d been allowed to remain with her suitor, and Sebastian’s own idiocy when it came to the marchioness.
Sebastian had been less than forthcoming with Crick about the details of that disastrous final interview with the marchioness, but Sebastian did not blame the man for believing it had been his fault that things had not gone smoothly. It probably had been, what with the stupid flowers and the shameful confessions.
But Crick’s harangue, deserved or not, did nothing to improve his mood. Sebastian had reminded Crick—as he’d had to remind himself—that Mongrel was a dog, and that he was being an arse for being jealous of her. As for the marchioness, he’d retorted, he certainly didn’t know what Crick was implying and would thank his manservant to keep his ugly nose out of his master’s business from now on, as he bloody well didn’t know what he was talking about with his bloody useless language of flowers, if such a thing really existed at all. Et cetera, et cetera.
Sebastian had lost the thread of his own rebuttal at some point, what with being half-foxed, and had not even bothered to listen to Crick’s angry response.
Crick had eventually thrown one of the new tasseled Hessians, which Sebastian had purchased that morning in an attempt to quell his dejection, at his friend’s face and stormed out of the apartments, leaving Sebastian to his wretchedness and whiskey. And so he’d drunk, and drunk, replaying that final argument he’d had with Katherine over and over in his mind, until he passed out, slumped over his Broadwood.
When he came to in a pool of his own drool, it was dark outside and every part of his anatomy ached from his awkward position. He lifted his head from the rack, a sheet of music plastered to his cheek. He peeled it away, glimpsed the title, grimaced, and threw it on the floor.
Bloody Beethoven.
Then again, perhaps it was a sign. Maybe he’d go to Vienna.
No, being surrounded by all of that music would just torture him more. Long ago, before that fateful duel, he’d been determined to make a career as a virtuoso after Cambridge. He’d had the skill and the drive to be a success, according to Signor Clementi, his teacher, as well as the burning need to defy his proscribed fate as heir to a marquisate. But that dream, however ridiculous it seemed in retrospect, had been shattered along with the inner workings of his left hand. And his innocence.
He’d just go to Italy again, like all the other English wastrels. His cousin Melissande had left for Paris, but Byron was there, languishing in a Venetian palazzo. Sebastian couldn’t stand the moany, entitled little fop, but Byron would see to it he was set up properly. He could become a cicisbeo to a bored, rich Italian doyenne, now that he was so well-versed in the damned language of flowers. He just needed to leave England. Get away from her.
He took his arm and shoved all of the items on top of the Broadwood’s lid onto the floor.
The damned things were in his way.
He lowered his forehead to the keyboard and banged it twice to clear out the cobwebs. The cacophony of sound jangled his brainbox and made him moan. He was hung over, black-and-blue, and feeling extremely sorry for himself. He’d thought once he’d left Katherine’s, put a bit of distance between him and the scene of the crime, he’d be able to cope with her rejection. But that had not happened. His pride was battered, and his heart—
Well, he’d prefer to leave his heart out of matters from now on.
The door opened, and a sullen-faced Crick brought a tray into the room, laden with food. The sight and smell of it immediately turned Sebastian’s raw stomach. He glowered at the Cockney, who pretended not to notice him as he slammed the tray on the sideboard and then went to sulk in the corner.
So he was being given the silent treatment now. It was an improvement over the shouting, if nothing else.
“Take it away, Crick,” he croaked.
“Leave it, Crick,” Montford said briskly, striding into the room behind the servant, dressed to the nines for the evening. Crick sent Sebastian a satisfied sneer before exiting, leaving him alone with the duke. The traitor.
Sebastian banged his head against the pianoforte. “Isn’t it your annual ball tonight?” he demanded crossly.
“You remember what day of the week it is, then,” Montford retorted, eyeing Sebastian’s disastrous toilette as if it personally offended him.
He glowered at his friend. “Why are you here, then?”
“To make sure you haven’t kicked off yet.”
“That would be dashed inconvenient for you, wouldn’t it,” Sebastian muttered. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your night.”
Montford rolled his eyes and nudged the tray in his direction.
Sebastia
n made a face.
“You must eat, Sebastian. Or do something other than mope about.” Montford grabbed Sebastian’s near-empty decanter and poured himself a tall shot of whiskey. He poured none for Sebastian. The gesture did not go unnoticed. Sebastian growled, rose from his seat, and shuffled to the sideboard despite his aches and pains.
Montford shoved the decanter out of Sebastian’s reach with a warning smile that was all teeth. “None for you, I think.”
Sebastian jerked the decanter from Montford’s hands, and, eschewing a glass altogether, drank from the large bottle until he spluttered. He doubled over as whiskey went up his nose. It was a spectacularly unpleasant sensation. He’d wanted to prove a point, but as usual, he’d failed epically.
Montford slapped him on the back until he’d recovered. “I don’t like seeing you at such loose ends, Sebastian.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me. I’ve had enough from Crick,” he wheezed.
Montford pursed his lips. “I don’t know what happened between you and the marchioness, but you’re better than this, Sebastian.”
Sebastian growled in frustration. “Sorry for disappointing you. But that is what I do, isn’t it? Disappoint everyone. You’re the strong one here. The one who gets it right for the rest of us.”
Montford had, apparently, had enough. “When are you going to let go of what your uncle did to your mother and grow up?” Montford retorted. “Have you ever imagined I might be sick of being the strong one? Of cleaning up after your mess, Sebastian? Treating you like a wayward child instead of a grown man?”
Sebastian inhaled sharply at the harsh words. He felt like he’d been beaten all over again. Montford knew he had gone too far as well, from the immediate look of remorse on his face, but what was said was said.
Sebastian managed to give his friend a false smile. As if he hadn’t just been freshly gutted. “As a matter of fact, yes. I have imagined that. Which is why you may be pleased to hear I am leaving the country.”
“What?” Montford spluttered. “How?”
“I expect I’ll take a ship,” he deadpanned.
Montford rolled his eyes impatiently. “I mean, why are you going?”
Sebastian shrugged again and tried to steal back his whiskey. “Why not? There’s nothing here for me, as has been made abundantly clear. Besides, my butcher is after me.”
Montford moved the bottle farther from his reach. “I’ve told you I’ll settle your vowels,” Montford growled. “Even though you threw away a perfectly good inheritance.”
The low blows just kept on coming. “I won’t take a farthing from you or my thrice-damned uncle, you know that. I never have, and I never will. I’ve always been able to take care of myself. More or less. I’ve just had a bad run at the tables. My luck will turn.”
“That is what you always say,” Montford grumbled. “But you are quite possibly the worst gambler in the kingdom, Sebastian.” That, unfortunately, could not be argued with. “You certainly don’t need to flee the country over your butcher’s bill.”
“My butcher’s, my tailor’s, my landlord’s, my cobbler’s, my haberdasher’s, my tobacconist’s . . .”
“I get your point.”
“I need a change of scene,” he insisted. “Always hated England in the winter anyway.”
“You just got back, Sebastian,” Montford pleaded.
“Well, it was a mistake, now wasn’t it?” he asked sullenly. “Look at me,” he said, waving at his bruised face and general wretchedness.
Montford looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead he sighed heavily. It was undeniable that things had gone rather poorly for Sebastian since he’d landed back on English soil. “Where will you go?”
He shrugged. “I thought Italy. I always muddle on quite well there.”
“Then you’ve made up your mind.”
“Quite.”
“And nothing I say will dissuade you from your course.”
“Nothing,” he said firmly, returning to his pianoforte and plunking out a scale.
Montford tsked and shook his head. “Well, then, I guess you will be in Italy for the wedding,” he said blithely. “Shame, that.”
Sebastian hesitated and glanced up at his friend suspiciously. “What wedding?” he asked, though he suspected he didn’t want to know. There was a gleam in Montford’s eye that Sebastian didn’t care for at all.
“Marlowe’s.”
Sebastian guffawed. “What rot.”
“I have it on good authority that Marlowe has developed a notion to remarry. Evidently he took our little tête-à-tête the other day to heart. He needs a mother for his brats.”
Sebastian snorted. “Who has been feeding you such utter drivel?”
Montford wagged a finger. “Never betray a source, Sherry.” So it must be Astrid. “But it is a reliable one.” Perhaps not, then, since the one thing the duchess was determinedly not was reliable. “And my source also tells me our friend has set his sights on a certain blonde-haired, widowed marchioness.”
Wait. What?
Sebastian’s pulse began to thrum against his temples in a mélange of disbelief and fury. Surely not. He wouldn’t. “You are mistaken!”
Montford cocked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be too certain of that. Marlowe has attached himself most firmly to the lady’s apron strings since you were attacked. Apparently she won him over, nursing his best mate back to health. You didn’t think he visited Bruton Street so often just to see you, did you? If you’d get your head out of your arse long enough, you would not be so surprised by this turn of events.”
Sebastian crashed a fist down on the lowest octave, mentally apologizing to his Broadwood for the abuse. “You’re a bloody liar.”
Montford held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just relaying what I have heard. It seems the lady has not exactly rejected Marlowe’s attentions either, as he is escorting her to my ball as we speak. He can be rather charming when he puts his mind to it.” He hesitated, looking dubious at his own statement. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Sebastian’s heart sank even as his blood boiled. He could not believe it of her, but he could well believe it of the viscount. Marlowe had always loved to stir the pot at Sebastian’s expense. Well, this time he’d gone too far.
“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered.
Montford’s eyes widened at Sebastian’s bloodlust. “Let’s not be that hasty.”
“Where is he? We’ll see how receptive Katie is to his suit after I knock all of his teeth out.”
“Katie, is it?” Montford murmured with a grin.
“Stuff it.” He grabbed his jacket, which he had flung across the back of a chair at some point during his sulk, and jerked it on, ripping a seam. He ignored it as he crammed his feet into his tasseled Hessians.
Montford eyed his disheveled state. “Surely you can’t mean to go there dressed like that, and what with all of that,” he said, waving in the general direction of Sebastian’s bruised face, rumpled cravat, and unkempt hair.
“Try and stop me.” Sebastian strode out into the hallway, hangover forgotten, bellowing for Crick, his blood positively thrumming with rage. All he could think of was Katherine laughing at some idiot joke Marlowe—the bloody shite!—had made, touching Marlowe’s arm, and leaning toward him in a provocative ball gown . . . well, maybe not so provocative, given her ecclesiastical taste in attire. Even still. It was wrong. So wrong. Because he was supposed to be the one making an idiot joke and stealing a glimpse of her modestly covered bosom. She was his. His!
Well, not quite. But though she’d made it abundantly clear that she would never have him, he couldn’t let this farce continue for another moment. If he couldn’t have her, then he’d be damned if he let Marlowe, of all people, have her either. Selfish of him, perhaps. But then he’d never claimed to be otherwise.
He stalked out the door, not even bothering to take the hat Crick offered him on the way out.
Montford finished off his drink and followed behind him, sharing a knowing smirk with Crick. “Far be it from me to interfere,” he murmured, smug with his victory. That had not been hard at all. His wife was going to be very pleased with him tonight.
Montford’s smug confidence, as he would shortly learn at the end of a very disastrous and very messy night, was as grossly misplaced as his wife’s.
Chapter Fourteen
Let Them Eat Cake
KATHERINE ACCEPTED THE flute of champagne that the viscount had offered her and took a small sip to steady her nerves. She glanced around the elaborately decorated ballroom, filled with elaborately decorated guests, and wondered what had possessed her to agree to accompany Marlowe, of all people, to the premiere ball of the year. All she’d truly wanted to do was sulk at home with her dogs—her rather empty home, now that Sebastian had left looking like she’d stabbed him through the heart.
She could hardly breathe just remembering the horrible expression he’d worn.
“Want some cake or something?” the viscount asked her eloquently, gesturing behind them at the long table laden with exotic delicacies that could have given an entire village indigestion for days. The crowning achievement was a giant, multiple-tiered cake spackled with fluffy white butter icing and studded with edible gold medallions.
She refused the offer. She was feeling piqued and out of sympathy with the lot of these London snobs. She was still the talk of the town for nursing the marquess through his injuries, because being a Good Samaritan was apparently something of a novelty among the ton—a very sad state of affairs indeed.
Judging from the attention she was receiving tonight, nothing more interesting had happened since then, other than her attendance tonight on Marlowe’s arm. She had never felt more on display. They were like a pack of wolves, circling about her as if she were a fresh carcass. The more withdrawn she became, the more they seemed to come back for more. Only the viscount’s presence prevented her from being overwhelmed entirely.
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 17