“Good evening, Your Grace. Have you been sent to court me?”
Well.
“No one sends me anywhere I do not wish to go,” he replied easily. “I’m delighted to have an opportunity to speak with you.”
“She’s immeasurably kind, my sister.” Her mouth was wry at the corner and the words ironic. She sounded as though she was making a mental note to pinch Genevieve by the ear for setting a duke upon her. For clearly she thought this was why the duke was here.
“She is indeed kind.” He was certain there would be no disadvantage to flattering Genevieve to her sister. “She knew I would enjoy your company and conversation. And she assures me that you are kind, as well.”
“I’m not,” Olivia disagreed. “I’m committed. But not kind.”
“She assured me of that, as well,” he said smoothly. “Committed is an admirable thing to be sure. I’ve been accused of a similar quality.”
He was certainly committed to a course of action, anyway, with regards to Genevieve Eversea. Though he doubted anyone would call it admirable.
Across the room he noted, the way a predator notes prey, the presence of Ian Eversea.
“You’re committed to flattery, of a certainty.” Acerbic, though one could tolerate an acid tongue for a time when the owner of it was so very pretty. Like being pecked by a songbird.
“On the contrary. I’m not merely committed to flattery. I’m a positive acolyte of flattery.”
She smiled at that, and waved her fan thoughtfully beneath her chin, cocking her head, deciding whether he interested her.
Careful, Miss Eversea. You might slip up and flirt.
He considered whether he found Olivia’s directness appealing. It certainly simplified conversation. But simplification wasn’t necessarily always an improvement. Directness often disguised as much as it revealed, and was a marvelous defense. He could imagine suitors slinking away upon having frankness batted at them by the lovely Olivia Eversea.
Primarily he suspected Olivia Eversea quite simply didn’t care what he thought of her, while Genevieve Eversea’s impulses were . . . well, they were in truth . . . kind. She cared whether he was comfortable even when she was uncomfortable. She was, in her way, more of a challenge and less of one.
And her kindness was what he would inevitably be able to exploit to achieve his ends.
Wiley she might be. But he was building his strategy.
He looked for her again, as he was indeed committed. Genevieve was now in conversation with a Mr. Adam Sylvaine, Pennyroyal Green’s vicar and a cousin on their mother’s side. He was long-boned and easy of manner. A striking man, what with the height and silvery-fair hair. All of which darkly amused the duke. He was certain bums were packed tightly on the Pennyroyal Green’s little pews every Sunday, and that most of them belonged to females. Clever decision on the part of the Everseas, taking such a cousin on as the vicar.
And knowing their proclivities, certain to result in a scandal involving some poor unwed village girl and that vicar being run out of Pennyroyal Green on a rail or tumbling out of some woman’s window.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to share a dance with me later this evening, Miss Eversea?”
“Perhaps I will be just that kind.” Olivia smiled.
He suspected he received precisely the same amount of attention and charm as every other man who approached her. She appeared indomitable. He suspected she was something like the opposite.
He, like everyone else, knew the story of Lyon Redmond’s disappearance, and how she had allegedly driven him away.
The loss of love took everyone differently, he knew. Perhaps she’d spent all of the love she had, and was left with clever deflection to protect her wounds.
“Millicent!” Olivia said brightly, and sure enough, that lovely, laughing burnished girl, who was but a few feet away, turned, and then looked up, up, up, into his face.
“I wonder if you might tell Lord Moncrieffe about your interest in art.”
“I do enjoy drawing and painting,” Millicent agreed brightly.
“Are you a lover of Italian art then, Lady Blenkenship?”
He said this as Olivia Eversea slipped away. He almost laughed as he saw her vanish into the crowd.
Genevieve Eversea was nowhere to be seen.
“Ital . . . oh, you’re thinking of Genevieve. Miss Eversea. She is a great lover of Italian art. Caravaggio and the like,” Lady Millicent said with an airy wave of her hand.
“And the like” encompassed rather a lot of artists, he thought, all of whom were fairly distinctive. He knew that much about art.
She was staring at him somewhat nervously with those big sherry-colored eyes. Her eyes crept surreptitiously toward his hairline. Probably in search of horns or dueling scars or signs of creeping recession.
He stifled a sigh. He’d already played the game of “terrify the maiden” once this evening. It was much more entertaining when he was certain someone was eavesdropping, and he still saw Genevieve nowhere in the crowd.
“What manner of art do you enjoy, Lady Blenkenship?” He struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. Lord, but he was weary of pretending to enjoy art.
She hesitated. She bit her lip. And then Lady Blenkenship leaned forward and confided on a whisper, “Well, as it so happens, I can show you right now.”
This was a bit startling. And a bit more . . . promising?
“Are you interested in the work of James Ward?” he asked carefully. He was proud of himself for remembering the name. He didn’t, however, want to look at the damned horse again.
Lady Blenkenship looked this way and that, her big eyes assessing the crowd to see if anyone was looking directly at them at the moment.
“Would you like to see my . . . sketches?”
She asked it with her eyes downcast, peering flirtatiously up at him through her lashes.
Her sketches?
Was he being propositioned in a crowded salon? Did she intend to lure him up to her chamber? Did he mind? It was a complication, if Lady Blenkenship intended to seduce him, but he was no stranger to complications.
“Show me your sketches, Lady Blenkenship,” he said softly, with the smile he reserved for innuendo.
She instantly reached down behind the settee behind her and produced, to his astonishment, a sketchbook and handed it to him.
“Go on,” she urged on a whisper. “Tell me what you think.”
She’d clasped her hands in front of her, then brought them nervously up to her mouth. Her big eyes liquid with nervous anticipation.
What on earth would he find in it? He looked about the salon just as she had. This way and that, ensuring no one was looking directly at him. He hoped he’d find nudes and was at the same time rather worried he would.
He opened her sketchbook furtively. He turned the first page up by one corner, took a peek. And then he turned it all the way over.
He stared for a good long time at the first drawing.
She nearly bounced on her toes awaiting his verdict.
“Lady Blenkenship?”
“Yes?” she said breathlessly.
“This is a kitten. In a basket.”
She nodded eagerly.
“This is a sketch of a kitten in a basket.”
A fluffy, big-eyed kitten was sitting neatly in a round basket, paws draped over the edge.
“Do you like it?” Millicent was practically nibbling on her knuckles with nerves.
“It’s a kitten in a basket,” he pointed out slowly. As if this was answer enough.
“Look at the next one,” she urged excitedly.
He gingerly turned the page. He stared.
“It’s . . . kittens playing with a yarn ball.” Something like hysteria tinged his voice.
“Ginger, Tom, and Molly!” she announced, stabbing a brown-gloved hand over their images as she announced their names. The amber stones on her bracelet clinked together. “Aren’t they precious?”
He slowl
y turned the pages, one by one. One by one. Kittens playing with a string. Kittens lapping milk. Kittens sniffing flowers.
“Lady Blenkenship?”
“Yes?”
“Do you like kittens?”
“Oh, I do!” she confided breathlessly.
He sighed, handed the sketchbook back to her, and to her astonishment promptly abandoned her and wended his way through the crowd.
He didn’t dislike kittens. But life was too short to continue this conversation.
He needed a brandy now. Jacob Eversea had invited him upstairs to discuss a potential investment in a gas lighting endeavor.
If he couldn’t have a brandy he’d make do with three more cups of ratafia.
He turned the corner in search of the ratafia only to find Ian Eversea strolling in his direction. They froze in a passage before a small elegant marble table, over which an enormous mirror helpfully framed the two of them and reflected a goodly number of the people standing in the salon. Ian froze, darted a look at the mirror, and then seemed visibly relieved. Moncrieffe could almost read his thoughts. It meant the rest of the salon could see the two of them, and that someone was bound to notice if the duke inserted a stiletto into his torso, for instance.
The two men confronted each other silently. Fury and embarrassment and an all-too-vivid memory came at Moncrieffe in a swift wave before receding.
All Ian Eversea, all the rest of the salon would see reflected in the mirror, was cold, dangerous elegance.
“Mr. Eversea,” he drawled. “We haven’t yet had a chance to speak alone. I hardly recognize you . . . in clothing.”
“What are you about, Moncrieffe?” Eversea did look decidedly ill.
“What am I about . . . ? Well, I’m about to enjoy, or at least drink, a cup of ratafia. Or brandy if I can get it. I’m about to join your father for a brief discussion of an investment opportunity in his study. I’m about to divest your neighbors and guests of their money in five-card loo. But that’s later. More importantly, I’m about to dance with your sister.”
It was the smile Moncrieffe offered here, and the way he said “sister,” that had Ian reaching, in a reflex almost as old as time, for a sword he wasn’t wearing.
He forced his hand to ease.
For Moncrieffe had seen it; he casually placed his own hand inside his coat. A pistol was never far from his person.
“Your grievance is with me, Moncrieffe, not my family. The offer to settle my offense against you stands. Feel free to choose your weapons, your time, and your seconds. If you would leave my father and sisters alone, I should be grateful.”
Moncrieffe sighed, bored. “Grate—” He shook his head with exaggerated incredulity. “I’ve chosen my weapon, Eversea, and my time. A second won’t be necessary for what I have in mind.”
Ian stared at him with an expression uncannily similar to his sister’s. Penetrating, fixed. His eyes were blue, his hair was long and waving in the way that Byron had made swooningly popular, and the sort of reddish dark brown that would go even more auburn in the sun.
So some of the Everseas ended up with curly locks, while Genvieve was saddled with the straight ones.
The thought came from nowhere, and almost, almost made Moncrieffe smile.
“You won’t be able to stare my intent out of me, Eversea,” he said mildly. “Now, doubtless you’ll be missed at the party if you linger here. I want my drink before the dancing starts, and I hear the orchestra tuning even now. Quite looking forward to it. I’ve been promised a waltz by your sister Genevieve.”
Ian went still as suspicion took hold. And then he seemed to reflect upon this, and something like relief passed over his face.
“Not Genevieve. I know her. She’ll never look at you when she could be looking at Osborne or some other young blood. She’ll see you as more a contemporary of Father’s than of hers. And she’s cleverer than a woman ought to be.”
“Would you like to wager on that?”
“I know better than to wager with you.”
“A pity. Second to revenge I enjoy building my fortune. And besides, you really don’t know what I intend to do, Eversea. If you would step aside so I can pass?”
“I will be watching you, Moncrieffe.”
“You ought to,” Moncrieffe agreed. “But it won’t do any good.”
“I am sorry, you know.”
For a moment Moncrieffe was almost convinced. He knew Ian had served with distinction in the war. And he knew some men returned from it filled with recklessness, feeling restless and incomplete in the absence of danger to deflect. In the absence of a purpose as large as war.
But this was philosophical rumination. He didn’t care why Eversea had cuckolded him.
“I have to wonder that you haven’t learned that actions have consequences, Eversea. You did serve in the war, did you not? An excellent place to learn such a thing.”
Eversea said nothing. He touched the side of his face absently, where a slight powder burn showed beneath the skin of his handsome face.
“I keep waiting for you to be as original as the rest of your family, Eversea, and you continue to disappoint me. Of course you’re sorry. The first words out of the mouths of men who are caught doing something they’re only too happy to continue until they’re caught. It’s a . . . it’s a dull old story. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”
“You could have defended her honor. Lady Abigail’s.”
A risky suggestion.
“She surrendered her honor rather willingly, didn’t she? This is the last I will discuss it. Your father might be interested to know what you did. And I will tell him if you interfere in the . . . enjoyment of my stay. But do feel free to entertain the possibility that my presence here is entirely social in nature and that I’m simply here to torture you with uncertainty.”
“I’ve considered it,” Ian said in such a way that meant he’d considered and rejected it. “What precisely did you mean when you said the punishment will fit the crime?”
Moncrieffe sighed. “Honestly. What makes you think I’ll answer the question?”
“A man has to try.”
“I imagine that’s written beneath the Eversea coat of arms,” the duke drawled.
They were both surprised when something like a glimmer of humor sparked between them.
“If you ask the Redmonds what our coat of arms features . . . .” Ian began.
“Oh, I would wager they’d answer . . . A window, a gallows, a trellis, and the club with which you killed their ancestor in order to steal a cow.”
Ian laughed shortly. It was a pained and surprised sound, but it was genuine.
And then the spark of understanding died, because Ian’s transgression really was ignominious and they both knew it couldn’t stand without the duke addressing it.
And both were faintly conscious of regret.
“Ask yourself this: . . . What do you think the nature of the crime was, Mr. Eversea the younger? Let that puzzle divert you until the answer is revealed to you.”
He moved briskly around Ian, who stepped back to give him a wide berth, and toward the music and his goal.
Chapter 7
The ball had hardly begun and it seemed endless, but then one of heartbreak’s chief qualities seemed to be its ability to distort time and distances. And it wasn’t as though she was a stranger to anticipation. She understood now it came in an infinite variety. There was the good sort, as in the night before a birthday, and the awful sort, as in the morning they’d waited for news of Colin’s death by hanging.
This sort had got its teeth into her nape.
Genevieve was almost tempted to seize Millicent by the arm, drag her up to Harry and snarl, “He has something he wishes to say to you.”
And then stand there with her arms crossed, foot tapping, until Harry came out with the words.
She’d scarcely had time to speak alone with Millicent since the house party had got under way in earnest. But she watched Millicent through new eyes.
Millicent, who enjoyed sketching kittens and who laughed at nearly everything, and who was so remarkably pretty that the London bloods routinely sent to her blooms that rivaled Olivia’s for ostentation, if not originality. Had she missed minute clues indicating Millicent might harbor a particular passion for Harry? Had Genevieve, who was so startlingly observant when it came to assessing a painting, for instance, overlooked what was right beneath her nose?
But Millicent seemed no different than she ever had. She seemed to enjoy the banquet of male attention with the same equanimity with which she enjoyed the buffet of food. Millicent suffered no torments of emotion; Millicent had no need for control; Millicent floated on a sea of sunny contentment.
In an agony of suspicion, Genevieve watched Harry for signs of passionate devotion to Millicent, for yearning glances, in blushes or stammers, for signs of any symptoms specific to the lovestruck.
She saw . . . attention. Devotion would have been an exaggeration.
It was unbearable. It was all unbearable. The weight of the impending proposal sat on her chest like an anvil. She swung from miserably thwarted love to righteous fury and back again every time she looked at him, and it made her so dizzy and ill she’d cast accounts upstairs, discreetly.
And Harry, the Marquis de Sade of Sussex, had claimed a waltz, and she could hardly refuse him.
Nor, God help her, did she want to.
She might accidentally tread upon him, however. Hard.
But now she stood in the ballroom, a fraud in a ball gown, gaiety and music and color kaleidoscoping around her. It was intolerable that she should be expected to dance with anyone when she bore such a grievous wound. But everywhere she looked were members of her family, who acknowledged her with quick smiles or eyebrows raised. Apart from Ian, who looked, she noticed once more, nearly as ill as she felt. Decidedly pale and twitchy.
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