"I'm certain that you're right, ma'am," Melanie agreed, secretly wondering what book they were reading that made them so loath to leave. "In that case, I shall leave you to recover. Would you like me to look in on you before we leave?"
"Oh, you needn't bother, for I will probably be fast asleep," Lady Abbington answered, exchanging frantic glances with Miss Evingale. "But mind you keep a sharp eye out tonight, I shall want a full report tomorrow morning!"
After promising to do just that, Melanie gave her grandmother a good-night kiss and went to her own rooms to dress for dinner. In honor of the prince, she had decided to wear the family diamonds, and the precious gems glittered from her ears and throat. She was even wearing the gaudy necklace and tiara that completed the set, and studying her reflection in the glass she thought she looked a perfect cake. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she picked up the white kid gloves and hurried downstairs, where her father and Mr. Barrymore were waiting.
"Ah, good evening, my dear," the earl said, giving her a paternal smile as she glided into the room. "I am pleased you decided to wear the diamonds; they make you look like a fairy princess."
"Thank you, sir," she replied, smiling as she dipped in a low curtsy. "That is most kind of you." She turned next to Mr. Barrymore, who was regarding her with admiration. "Good evening, Mr. Barrymore," she said, forcing herself not to recoil from his touch as he swept her hand to his lips, "are you as nervous about this evening as am I? I vow, I fear I shall do something exceedingly foolish and disgrace us all!"
"Never you, my lady," Mr. Barrymore answered earnestly, his blue eyes lingering briefly on the perfectly cut gems circling her throat. "And even if you were to commit some small faux pas, your beauty would more than compensate for any indiscretion. That is a lovely gown."
Melanie accepted his praise with what she hoped was a maidenly blush. The dress was one of Madame Philippe's more inspired creations, and she felt quite exotic in the Nile-blue silk gown with its low décolletage and tiny puff sleeves. When she felt it was safe to do so, she extracted her hand from Barrymore's and told her father of Lady Charlotte's illness.
"Such a pity she won't be accompanying us," the earl said, looking more relieved than disappointed. "But the elderly are often subjected to bodily complaints, so we mustn't be surprised."
"Yes, that is so," Melanie agreed, deciding now was as good a time as any to slip away for a private word with Drew. She knew he was expecting the entire female population of Marchfield House to be at Carlton House, and thought it advisable to inform him of the change in plans.
"If you will excuse me, I believe I shall speak with Mrs. Musgrove," she said quickly. "Even though Grandmother insists she isn't hungry, I want to order a small collation for her. I will be back in just one moment."
As she expected, she found Drew hovering near the door, and after glancing about surreptitiously to make certain they were alone, she hurried to his side. "Grandmother and Miss Evingale aren't coming," she whispered in an urgent voice. "She claims to have the ague, and Miss Evingale is to remain and keep her company."
"I know, Mrs. Musgrove has already warned me," he answered, unable to tear his eyes from her. My God, she was beautiful, he thought, drinking in her appearance hungrily. His fingers trembled with the urge to caress the soft white flesh revealed by the exquisite gown, and it was all he could do to keep from touching her.
"Actually, it all has a rather familiar ring to it," he said, forcing himself to speak in a rational manner. "I seem to recall a particular evening when you remained at home on some pretext of illness."
"Yes, but I don't think you need resort to a pot of Mrs. Musgrove's special milk for them," she replied, her eyes moving wistfully over his muscular figure. He was wearing a butler's coat of black serge and a pair of plain cream breeches, and yet she thought him twice as handsome as Mr. Barrymore, who was dressed to the nines in a jacket of black velvet and white silk evening breeches.
"Do you mean the marchioness is really ill?" Drew asked, his brow wrinkling with concern.
"No, but unless I am much mistaken, she and Miss Evingale will be too busy reading to give you any trouble," she said with a light laugh. "You know how seriously they take their novels."
"Mmm," he agreed, unable to resist brushing a raven-black curl back from her cheek. "But actually I am rather relieved that they have elected to remain here. I must admit I have been in a perfect quake for fear of them stumbling in and ruining our rendezvous. At least here I can keep an eye on them."
"My thoughts exactly." Melanie was pleased their minds were so attuned. "Grandmother does have a penchant for mischief, does she not?"
"Almost as big a penchant as you," he said, his smile vanishing. "Which reminds me, on no account are you to let yourself be alone with Barrymore. I know you are eager to prove your father's innocence, but I don't want you taking any chances."
"I have already given you my word," she reminded him, surprised by the sternness in his voice. "I have read enough Gothics to know that midnight rendezvous are dangerous things; you may rest assured I have no desire to play the heroine."
"I know that, but I also know what a determined minx you can be," Drew snapped, aware that time was slipping inexorably away from him. He wanted to reach out and grab it with both hands, but he knew that could never be. His frustration sought relief in anger, and when he spoke his voice was sharp with displeasure. "I won't have this mission jeopardized by your theatrics, is that understood? Stay out of my way, Melanie. I mean it."
Melanie recoiled in hurt surprise. She had been feeling so close to him, and his unexpected attack brought angry tears to her eyes. Deciding that anger was preferable to the sharp pain she was feeling, she drew herself up to her full height, the top of her head barely reaching his jaw.
"Yes, Davies," she said coolly, "I can see that you do. Allow me to wish you every success in your endeavor, and once it is complete, I hope that I may never see you again!" With that she turned and stormed back to the Duchess's Room, where the others were waiting.
Carlton House was just as hot as Lady Abbington had predicted it would be, and even in her light gown Melanie was uncomfortably warm. The rich food and heavy wines did little to help, and once the supper was over and the gentlemen settled down for port and cigars, she decided to slip out onto the balcony for a quick breath of air. She could see her father deep in conversation with a member of Parliament, but of Barrymore there was no sign.
Earlier she had noted the Portuguese consul general arriving, but Senhor Martinez had not been a member of his party. Later there was such a mad crush of people that she had no hope of finding him. But once the gentlemen rejoined them, she meant to try to seek him out. And Sir, of course, she thought, her lips lifting in a rueful smile. Despite Drew's admonishments that she would never be able to spot his superior, she was determined to prove him wrong.
The thought of Drew brought a somber glow to Melanie's eyes as she recalled the scene in the hallway. What an infuriating devil the man could be, she brooded, leaning against the stone balustrade. One moment he was as passionate and exciting as any hero in a novel, and in the next he was a cold, unfeeling brute. His temper annoyed and mystified her even as his touch made her burn with the sweetest of fires.
She shivered in memory of the kiss they had exchanged last evening. It wasn't that she was a stranger to masculine attentions; at three and twenty she had been embraced by other men. But this was the first time she had ever responded with any degree of enthusiasm. In the past she had always found such embraces distasteful, or, at the very least, disappointing. But when Drew had touched her, held her, she had found herself responding in ways that made her blush to remember.
She gazed up at the stars twinkling in the soft evening sky and thought about the morrow and what it would bring. Her father would be safe, yes, but Drew would be gone. The realization brought a sharp pain that took her breath away, and even as she admitted to the truth behind the pain, she realized she was no longer alone.
"Lady Melanie, I thought I saw you coming out here," Mr. Barrymore said, walking toward her with a cool smile. "I trust you are not feeling unwell? It is uncomfortably warm inside, is it not?"
Melanie whirled around, her heart beginning to pound with fear. All of Drew's warnings were screaming in her head, and she began edging cautiously around him. "Yes, it is rather hot," she agreed, mentally judging the distance between herself and the doorway leading back into the salon. "I was in need of a breath of fresh air, but I am feeling much better now. I had best return before His Highness rejoins the company; it would not do to be late."
"I believe the prince has been detained," Mr. Barrymore said, and something in his silky tones made Melanie's senses sound a clarion warning. "A matter of state, you understand. He will probably not be free for the rest of the evening."
"Well, in that case, perhaps I should find Papa and we can return home," Melanie said with forced brightness. She could hear the sounds of laughter drifting in from the open door, and the knowledge that other people were less than ten feet away filled her with courage. Surely if she cried out someone would come rushing to her aid, she thought, never taking her eyes from Mr. Barrymore as she slid around him.
"I'm afraid I cannot allow that, my lady," Mr. Barrymore replied, pulling a pistol from his pocket and aiming it at her heart. "I suddenly find myself in need of a hostage, and I think you will do quite nicely. No, don't," he warned, cocking the pistol as she opened her mouth to scream, "I have nothing to lose by shooting you or letting you live. I would keep that in mind if I were you."
"You're mad if you think you'll get away with this," she told him, refusing to give way to the fear that was tearing at her. "Drew knows all about you, and he won't rest until he tracks you down."
"Drew?" Mr. Barrymore's dark gold eyebrows wrinkled as if in thought. "Ah, yes, you're referring to our bogus butler, I take it." At her nod he smiled coldly. "Well, my lady, if you are waiting for our gallant young spy to rescue you, I am afraid you are in for a very long wait indeed."
"What do you mean?" Melanie demanded, her fear escalating to an unspeakable terror.
"Merely that the good butler has gone on to . . . shall we say . . . another position?" The evil smile he gave her made Melanie's skin crawl with horror. "He is quite dead, my dear. I killed him shortly after I took care of Senhor Martinez. And now that you realize how very serious I am, I suggest you come with me. Move." He gestured with the gun, leaving a numb Melanie no choice but to follow.
"We've got problems," Sir announced as he came through the servants' door, his face cast in grim lines. "Martinez is dead. One of my men just found him in his room with half his head blown away."
Drew paled at the words. Ever since Melanie and the others had left for Carlton House, he had been strangely restless, consumed by an anxious fear he could not name. He tried telling himself it was excitement over the coming confrontation, not unlike the nervousness he felt before a battle; but he knew it was something far more serious. Something was wrong, he had been sure of it, and now he knew he was right.
"Barrymore?" he asked tersely, already strapping on the deadly-looking sword he had kept hidden in his wardrobe.
"Apparently," Sir agreed, watching as Drew checked his pistol before tucking it in his coat. "He must have seen through Martinez, although God—"
"Gone! Gone! All my lovely jewels!" the marchioness was screeching as she burst into Drew's room, Miss Evingale hot on her heels. "That scoundrel has made off with all of my jewels, and this time I insist that you lock him up!"
"What jewels?" Sir rapped out, glowering down at Lady Charlotte. "Are you talking about Barrymore?"
"Well, of course I am, young man, who else in this household keeps his ill-gotten gain in a hat box, I should like to know?" Lady Abbington shot back, her small jaw thrusting out as she confronted Sir. "The rascal has shabbed off, taking my jewels with him!" She stopped abruptly, seeming to notice only now that the man she was addressing was a total stranger.
"Who the devil are you?" she demanded, shooting him an angry glare. "If you are another Bow Street runner, allow me to inform you that you run a mighty loose organization! You let that jewel thief waltz out of here with a fortune tucked in his pockets."
"I'll go and check his room," Drew decided, swinging toward the door. "Maybe there's some clue as to where he'll go."
"Well, Portsmouth, of course!" Lady Charlotte snapped, shaking her head at him. "Or at least that's what his valet said before we tied him up."
"You tied his valet up?" Sir echoed, looking slightly green. "May I ask why?"
"Because he was packing," Miss Evingale volunteered, as disappointed as Lady Abbington that two such romantic fellows could be such slow tops. "He says Barrymore is planning to sail on the morning tide, so you really must hurry if you mean to catch him."
"I'll send a rider to alert the navy," Sir said, recovering from the shock to his sensitivities. "What is the name of the ship?" He seemed to take it for granted they would know.
"The Rose of Redmond" Lady Charlotte informed him, "and I would have a care if I were you. Barrymore's pistols are also missing, so we can only assume that he took them. Although"—she frowned in disapproval—"it seems a rather odd thing to take to a formal dinner, if you ask me. The prince would never approve."
Drew and Sir exchanged horrified looks.
"Melanie!" Drew groaned, his face paling. "Oh, my God, Melanie!" He turned and ran from the room.
Sir turned to follow, pausing long enough to address the two women. "Guard your prisoner, ladies," he said, the smile he gave them doing much to raise his status in their estimation. "We shall be back for him shortly." And then he dashed out after Andrew.
"Ah, Sir, I rather expected you would be gracing us with your company," His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, said, addressing Sir with one of his sweet smiles. "But how disappointing to see you in uniform, as it were. I always so enjoy trying to see through those delightful disguises of yours. You're here about Lady Melanie and our mutual friend, I take it?"
"Yes, Your Highness." Sir was well aware that the prince's affected ways hid a sharp mind. "Have you seen them?"
"Unfortunately I have," the prince sighed, shooting Drew a curious look. "She and Mr. Barrymore slipped out of here not five minutes ago. I am surmising he was holding a gun on her, and so I ordered my men to stand back."
"Which way did they go?" Drew scarcely recognized the harsh voice speaking as his own. All he could think of was Melanie in that madman's hands, a man who had already demonstrated his willingness to kill in the most brutal way imaginable.
"West, with a small contingent of my guards following at a safe distance," Prince George replied soothingly. "A roadblock has already been set up, and they should be reaching it within the half hour. Should he fail to surrender when ordered," he added with the delicacy few credited him for, "I am afraid we will have no other choice but to open fire."
Drew's eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them there was a cold deadliness in them that made the prince shiver with superstitious dread. "He will stop," Drew said softly. "By God, he will stop, or I will personally blast him into hell."
Chapter Thirteen
Melanie had no idea in which direction they were headed, or indeed, how long they had been traveling. Since the moment Barrymore had bragged to her of killing Drew, time had lost all sense of meaning, and she was totally oblivious to what was going on about her. Mr. Barrymore was not so distracted, however, and the farther they went, the more agitated he became.
"That went too smoothly," he decided, peering anxiously out of the coach's window. "We should have been challenged by now. No one can leave a royal residence that easily."
Melanie stirred at his words, trying to think of some sort of response. "We are traveling in my father's coach," she replied, gazing at him with indifference. "Doubtlessly the soldiers recognized his crest and let it pass."
"Perhaps," he conceded, his fingers t
apping out a nervous tattoo on his knee. "But I would have liked it better if someone would have at least tried to stop us."
Melanie's lips twisted in a bitter smile at his querulous tones. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Barrymore," she said in a mockingly sweet voice. "Would you like to order the coachman to turn around and try it again?"
Mr. Barrymore's face darkened in anger. "I would watch that saucy tongue of yours if I were you, bitch," he warned her coldly. "You forget you are quite at my mercy, and I can do anything I damn well please to you."
Melanie's chin came up at his insolent words. The numb pain had receded enough to allow other emotions to seep in, and she was overcome with a rage stronger than anything she had ever experienced. If it was the last thing she did on this earth, she vowed, she would see him dead for what he had done to Drew.
"What? No clever comeback such as 'I would die sooner than let you touch me'?" he mocked, his handsome looks completely distorted by the hatred twisting his features. "You disappoint me, Lady Melanie. And here I was so looking forward to taking you down a peg."
"If I were to answer you, it would be to say that I would kill you sooner than allow you to touch me," she replied, deciding the time had come to stop cowering like a Bath miss. "You are a traitor and a murderer."
"You forgot to add bastard," he said, amused by her bold defiance. "For I am that as well as all the other names you have called me. Not that it matters, of course, in a few short hours I will be sailing for the Indies, and if you make a pleasant enough traveling companion between here and Portsmouth, my dear, I may even decide to take you with me." He reached out a hand to touch her cheek, and she promptly slapped it away.
"Ah, that is more like it, my dear Lady Melanie," he laughed, settling back against the squabs of the coach. "Defiance is always much more exciting in a woman than placidness. My mother was as placid as a cow, and look where it got her: a life of shame and then a shallow grave in Potter's Field. But not for me, Lady Melanie, not for me. This time it is I who will make them dance to my tune!"
Her Ladyship's Man Page 16