Clockwork Blue

by Harchar, Gloria

  "Yes," Falcon replied, his tone serious. "Lady Talbot is feeling faint."

  "Oh... oh, my." This came from Lady Whitley. With a shake of her head, Nicola wondered if the silly chit was about to faint again.

  "We must see to her immediately," Lady Kensington declared. "Where is she?"

  "In the gardens. She looked deathly pale."

  "Good heavens. Does Lord Talbot know of her malady?"

  "No. But I am sure you can inform him if you go quickly before the situation takes a turn for the worse."

  "Of course. Lady Whitley, pull yourself together and find her husband."

  The woman straightened at Lady Kensington's stringent command, and scurried down the corridor.

  "I'll look in the card room," the younger woman replied.

  The gossipmongers raced off. As their footsteps faded down the hall, Nicola remained crouched behind the ornate stand, wishing Falcon would sweep away in their wake. She held her breath, tempted to look at him but fearing that if she did, he would sense her presence. He did seem to have an uncanny knack of finding her. For now, she hoped he couldn't see her in the darkened corner. The silence dragged on. Temptation pulled at her, and she finally peeked around the huge vase.

  He was staring at her, his hands on his hips. "Why do I always discover you lurking behind pieces of furniture?"

  Disgruntled, she stood and moved away from the urn. "How did you know I was there?"

  "Other than the very notable Clockwork Blue cloth poking from behind the pedestal?"

  She grimaced.

  He raised his brows. "Do you mind telling me why you were sneaking about? I see no looms for you to smash."

  She lifted her chin, heat in her cheeks. "For your information, I happened to overhear some disturbing news about you in connection with me. When I realized someone else was coming in this direction, I decided the situation too awkward to have to face the gadabouts."

  "Even more so if you had been caught skulking in the shadows." He grasped her hand, tucking it under his elbow before escorting her into the hallway.

  Her heart raced over his proprietary manner.

  He shook his head. "Excellent I discovered you first."

  "I'd say that was rather coincidental, Lady Talbot feeling faint."

  "Never believe in coincidences."

  Nicola frowned. "Are you saying you fabricated the story?"

  "The immorality I commit for you." He gave her a mocking smile.

  "Why did you come this way?"

  "I saw you leave the ballroom. Knowing this was the way to the ladies' retiring chamber, I decided to wait. Only you came out the trysting door."

  "The trysting door? How do you know that's what this is?"

  "Perhaps because I'm a womanizer?"

  "You said you weren't."

  "If you think I'm a murderer, why would you believe I told the truth?"

  Her chest burned at the idea he was having an affair with the Viscountess Ballard. "So, tell me this. Why was I invited?"

  "The Viscountess likes me."

  "Aha! So they were right. You are having an affair."

  "I am?"

  "Don't act coy with me. You scoundrel. You whisper love poems in poor Lady Ballard's ear while you plot to coerce me into marriage!"

  He rubbed his chin. "These tales wouldn't be quite so bad if only I had the pleasure of experiencing them."

  "Then you aren't having an affair with the Viscountess?"

  "Not that I'm aware. And, believe me, I'm not so obtuse."

  The strange sensations that flooded her couldn't be relief, she decided. She just didn't want to be responsible for breaking poor Lady Ballard's heart. She studied Falcon, absently recognizing they had once more entered the ballroom. "Her friend, Lady Whitley, acted as if the Viscountess had no choice but to invite me."

  "Perhaps she didn't."

  Nicola narrowed her eyes. "You blackmailed her!"

  A gentleman glanced at them and Nicola realized she'd spoken rather loudly.

  Falcon placed his hand over his heart. "I'm deeply shocked, Miss Moore, that you would even know of such dastardly deeds."

  "Don't speak of it here."

  He stared at the openly curious guest. Glancing away in a self-conscious manner, the man coughed and fidgeted before disappearing into the throng.

  Falcon returned his Malcolm gaze to Nicola. "You were saying?"

  "Although your fearsome reputation is quite useful, I would rather you not use it. Perhaps the gardens?"

  He scratched his chin. "Too public. The guests might come to the conclusion that you are my light o' love."

  "Botheration, we cannot feed the gossips with any more of that misconception. Not that they haven't already concluded as much, from what I heard in the ladies' retiring chamber," she grumbled.

  "You must learn to never listen to idle talk. Most of what a person hears is lies." He thought a moment. "Come." With his hand keeping hers firmly upon his arm, Falcon led her to a small alcove just off the ballroom. He halted next to an exotic statue of a lion and examined the intricate plasterwork on the wall.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Ah, here it is." He pulled a brass ring Nicola hadn't noticed. It moved. Nicola realized he had led her to a hidden door.

  Amazement tickled her backbone. "How do you know so much about the Ballard estate?"

  "Hurry." He tugged her after him into what she realized was the servants corridor. The hallway seemed unusually bright, casting an unearthly gold luminance near the entrance.

  "So, how do you know so much about this house?" she repeated. "Do you have a pixie that helps you also?" she asked flippantly. The faint tune of Beethoven's "Eroica" sounded from the ballroom, the lilting tones reminding her of Allegro. She glanced around for him, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Falcon shut the door and the light faded along with the tune. "Not all of us are, er... lucky enough to see pixie creatures. I used to play at the Ballard estate when I was a boy. The old Viscountess was quite fond of me."

  Nicola shivered at his proximity, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the nearby wall sconce, his features in shadow. She scoffed and realized her voice sounded strained. "I saw you a couple of times on your black Arabian when you were about fourteen yours of age, but even then I didn't consider you a boy, much less a lovable one."

  "You judge me too harshly, Nicola." His head loomed over her face. His voice was warm, savory, like plum pudding at Christmas.

  She had to resist the allure. "Ha! Your idea of love is to force a person into doing something she doesn't want to do, then to abandon her out in the country."

  His sudden stillness was unnerving. "You will not miss me. I promise."

  Alarmed at the possessiveness she heard in his tone, she peered at him through the darkness, the yellow light from the sconce throwing a deceiving halo about his head. She felt at a distinct disadvantage because she couldn't read his expression.

  She shook off the strange combination of nervousness and excitement that stabbed her and remembered their reason for sneaking into the privacy of the servants' hall.

  "What is the new Countess Ballard's weakness?"

  He curled his lips in a slight smile. "Her husband's roots, and her desire to keep them a secret."

  "What is wrong with his background?"

  "Nothing... much as I can determine."

  "You speak in circles, my lord," she exclaimed, exasperated.

  He leaned against the wall, his full face illuminated though he wore a hooded look. "Not really. I merely don't listen to gossips or care about protocol as does the rest of society."

  "What did you discover about his past that would put the nobs in a frenzy?"

  He rubbed his chin and contemplated. "Ballard's story resembles a pixie tale, actually."

  She rolled her eyes. "What tale?"

  "Charles Perrault's Cinderella, although Ballard poses a poor heroine."

  "Please, sir, strive to make yourself understood."
>
  "The present Viscount Ballard, Sidney Smith, used to be manager of a cotton mill and would have been for the rest of his days. But when the old Viscount died without immediate issue, fortune struck. As a distant cousin, Sidney inherited the title."

  "By jingo! How do you accumulate this wealth of rubbish against us poor mortals?"

  "I happen to be familiar with most of the mills in England and their stewards." He shrugged. "It is my business."

  "Have you ever considered merely asking for what you want, rather than using force? You might discover a wealth of rewards."

  He raised his brows in the cynical manner she was beginning to associate with him. "Such as?"

  "Friendship."

  He pushed away from the wall. "Are you offering me friendship, Nicola?"

  Caught off guard, she stilled as his heated hands moved up her arms. The warmth that penetrated her could have been generated from the gleam in his eyes, she realized. His regard was as hot as his touch.

  "If you are, I may not be able to resist keeping near your side. We could have a very special friendship. We have already experience magic, and just by innocent touches."

  She backed away and banged into the wall.

  He didn't notice. "Nicola." He followed her, his warm, spicy breath reminding her of their shared intimacy. "You want to kiss me."

  "I do not!" She did. Over the last two days she had worried about her future with a man who wanted only her dowry, worried about freeing Ramsey and escaping Falcon. Yet always, always, the memory of his kiss on her temple remained. The warm, moist feel of his lips on her sensitive skin. Shards of lightning struck through to her toes, and his look made her forget his plans to abandon her once they wed.

  Footsteps sounded, and then the door swung open. Air wafted across Nicola's skin, followed by a woman's startled screech and the loud clang of a silver tray.

  Nicola glanced over Falcon's shoulder. Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" erupted in her ears and she saw a flustered maid.

  "Somethin's upset the hired help," a guest cried. A ringing of boots sounded on the nearby wood treading.

  "Stay behind me." Falcon thrust Nicola in the shadows of the darkened servants' corridor.

  "Who do you have with you, Falcon?" the guest asked.

  Falcon angled his body between Nicola and the doorway. "Why, no one, Tupmore. Just had the urge to straighten my cravat."

  Thankfulness tinged with surprise surged through Nicola. She had expected Falcon to use any advantage to bend her to his will. The uneasy knowledge that she was already at his mercy flooded her heart. She crept farther into the darkened hallway.

  Suddenly, something pulled at her skirts, causing them to billow out. The sconce flared, throwing her in light. "Eroica" played in her mind. Nicola realized the crowd in front of Falcon could see her swelling skirts. She slapped at them, but they bounced out again, as if she wore hooped whalebones in the fabric.

  Tupmore gasped. "You sly dog, you are hiding a woman behind you!"

  Nicola stared at her skirts. From within the folds, Allegro gave her a mischievous wink. "What are you doing?" she asked in a furious whisper.

  He didn't answer but instead motioned over his shoulder. Peering past Falcon, Nicola recognized Lady Kensington who approached. The woman gasped. "Tiens, it is true. The Diderot chit is having a liaison with the Falconwood!"

  Her fate was sealed, caught in the talons of the Black Falcon.

  Chapter 10

  Falcon stared at Nicola, his silvery gaze fiery with surprised contempt. His look confused her.

  She turned to find Lady Remington with her lips curved in a smirk and quickly decided to correct any mistaken assumptions. "You misunderstand. This circumstance isn't the Earl's fault. It's all mine. I-I leaned against the wall, not knowing about the hidden door. It-it opened suddenly and I-I fell inside the servants' corridor. The door shut and I couldn't get it open."

  Falcon squeezed her hand in warning.

  Lady Remington licked her lips in a manner that reminded Nicola of Mrs. Wiggs's cat the time it caught a squirrel. "How is it that Falcon was discovered on the same side of the door as you?"

  "Miss Moore does not have to explain anything to you," Falcon snapped.

  Nicola threw him a reassuring nod. "I don't mind setting the record straight." She glanced back to Lady Remington. "I must confess, when I leaned against the wall— or what I thought was the wall—and it suddenly opened, I yelped quite loudly. And well, the Earl, being the gentleman that he is, came charging to my rescue. Unfortunately, he got stuck, too."

  "Outrageous," Lady Remington declared.

  Nicola saw several guests shake their heads in obvious disbelief. Lady Remington smiled as if she had just won a round of whist. "Miss Moore, what do you take us for?"

  Falcon gave Lady Remington a glare that caused Nicola to shiver in her stockings. An ice storm seemed to sweep the room. Varied emotions played in the expressions of the quests, from amusement to shock to disdain. Obviously, the guests couldn't believe that an earl would be caught with a woman from the middle class. Their open shunning caused her angry humiliation.

  "Madam, do not blacken my fiancée's reputation," Falcon snarled.

  "Fiancée?" Lady Remington repeated, her jaw slack. Nicola's heart clunked like a lead ball. She didn't want to marry! Well, in truth she did. What? Her thoughts startled her. When had she experience a change of heart?

  But not like this. She wanted romance, sweet words, avowals of love, palpitations—not the cold-hearted business arrangement Falcon proposed. "My lord, what are you saying?" she asked, keeping her tone polite but infusing it with steely warning.

  His smile showed he heard the warning—and intended to ignore it. "I know you wanted a betrothal ball, my sweet, but seeing that we've been found out, we may as well break the news to our friends now."

  Betrothal ball? My sweet? Friends? She wanted to sputter her indignation and outrage, almost as much as she wanted to give in to the sense of helplessness that gripped her.

  "What's going on here?" Her father's voice, blustery and loud, silenced the gawkers and made Nicola wish the ground would swallow her whole. The crowd parted for him, leaving her standing miserably while his sharp gaze moved knowingly—disapprovingly—from her to Falcon, then back again. "What's going on?" he asked again.

  Falcon took her by the arm. Her feet didn't want to move, to carry her into the crowd, but he left no choice but to follow or fall flat on her face. When they reached Papa, Falcon clapped the man's shoulder. Her father's complexion turned ruddy, but he showed no other reaction but the balling of one hand into a fist at his side. Amazingly, he didn't cough.

  "I fear news of our engagement has broken sooner than Nicola wanted," Falcon said. His expression was pleasant, his tone friendly, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped her father's shoulder. "I will visit you tomorrow to formalize our agreement, sir. But it's a good thing we'd already hammered out a satisfactory settlement, isn't it?"

  Nicola had no idea what response she hoped Papa would offer. Her father could call Falcon a liar. After all, they'd reached no settlement. There hadn't even been a formal offer. Or Papa could brush him off with some nonsense, then deal with the matter privately. Or he could support the Earl's lie, save face, protect her reputation... and seal her fate.

  As she stared pleadingly at him, she saw his slight tremor. He looked around at the avidly curious onlookers—strangers, no friends to speak of, enemies, and business associates—then at Falcon. He didn't look at her, and she knew with a sinking heart how he would respond.

  Or was it relief?

  "Of course, Falcon. I... look forward to the meeting." Offering her his arm, he continued, "I'm ready to go home now, Nicola."

  Falcon remained close to her other side. "I'll escort you, since I, too, must depart."

  As voices filled the air, Falcon and Papa surged through the swarm of guests, protecting her. She walked out into the starry night, her mind dazed. The waxing moon limned t
he carriages in silver, tempting her to believe that the whole situation had been a dream.

  But then Papa took a challenging step toward Falcon, reminding her that the circumstances were all too real. "I'll have an explanation from you tomorrow, sir."

  "I expected no less," Falcon responded, his expression calm.

  Papa glared at him for two or three more moments before he retreated to catch the attention of a footman. "My good man," he called out. "I need my carriage."