Undressed (Undone by Love)

by Kristina Cook

  “Indeed, though I don’t think you’ll like what I have to tell you. Sorry news. Sorry news, indeed.”

  “Well, go on, then.” Colin grew impatient. He didn’t want to risk being seen in Nigel’s company. If he meant to gain any useful information, it was imperative that it appear as if their long-standing friendship had reached an impasse, that the two no longer kept polite company. Otherwise, no one would dare speak openly in Nigel’s presence. Colin reached for his pocket watch, checking the time.

  “Hugh Ballard,” Sir Nigel muttered.

  Colin froze, the watch clutched tightly in his palm. “What do you mean, Hugh Ballard?”

  “If what my man at White’s tells me is correct, then there are rumors that Hugh Ballard was involved in your ruination, along with Lord Thomas Sinclair.”

  Colin shook his head, his insides twisted into a painful knot. “Not Ballard. I don’t believe it. Besides, he was away from Town, in Sussex at the time. How could he be involved?”

  “Trust me when I say I was equally stunned at the news. Ballard has been our friend for many years, and a good one at that. I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it. But my man vows he heard another waiter boasting of his own involvement in the scheme, claiming that Sinclair and Ballard had struck some sort of bargain to ruin you.”

  “Was he certain he heard them speak my name? God knows they could have been speaking of any number of men, with the way Sinclair goes about making enemies. What reason could Ballard have for wanting to ruin me? I’ve done nothing against him.”

  Sir Nigel shrugged. “I do not know the details. Yet my man feels certain that Ballard was indeed involved.”

  A white-hot rage flowed through Colin’s veins. “Damn that bastard to hell.”

  “I’ve one more thing to add, old boy, and it’s equally unpleasant.”

  Colin flinched. “It can’t get much worse than this, can it? Please, go on.”

  “Have you heard the news of Miss Lyttle-Brown’s recent engagement?”

  “Her engagement? Is that all? So Sinclair finally managed to win over Honoria. Well, he’s welcome to her, faithless chit.”

  “It’s not Sinclair who has won your fair maiden’s hand.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s none other than Hugh Ballard.”

  Colin clenched his hands into fists. “And there you have it. Motivation. The bloody bastard ruined me for a woman. A woman,” he spat out as bile rose in this throat. “And not even such a fine specimen, if her easy defection is any indication.”

  “You needn’t give up so easily, Rosemoor. Perhaps Mandeville can aid you in some way. At the very least he could speak with Mr. Lyttle-Brown and tell him our suspicions.”

  “I will not go to Mandeville for help.”

  “But with his connections and influence—”

  “I will do this myself or not at all. Besides, I’ve come to believe Honoria not worth the effort.”

  Nigel shoved his hands into his pockets. “And what of your name? Isn’t your name worth the effort?”

  “I’m beginning to think it isn’t. What’s the use? To get back into the good graces of the ton, where gentlemen betray one another over a woman? Where gossip is more prized than truth? Ballard was a friend.” He almost choked on the word. They’d been boyhood chums, since their carefree days at Eton where they had been housemates—Colin, Nigel, Hugh Ballard, and William Nickerson.

  “Ballard was a friend,” Nigel said, “and there is no possible excuse for his behavior. I’ll admit, I always thought he had a bit of a mercenary streak, though he hid it well. But this? No, I never would have thought any of us capable of this.”

  Colin’s gaze strayed toward the busy street, which was teeming with pedestrians. Unlike the wide streets of Mayfair, the narrower streets of Cheapside were filled with plainly dressed folk, going this way or that with a purpose beyond being seen as fashionable. “I wish Nickerson were in Town,” he said, returning his attention to Nigel. “He could be of great use to me right now. If anyone could wrestle an admission from Ballard, it would be him. Everyone trusts Nickerson.”

  “Where is Nickerson, anyway?”

  “Somewhere on the Continent, nursing the broken heart that my sister Jane inflicted upon him last summer.”

  “Ah, yes, now I remember. Poor chap. I still don’t know why she refused him.”

  “Nor I. My sister seems hell-bent on remaining a spinster. Whatever her reasons, I assume they are sound. Anyway, I should be on my way. No use risking being spied together for idle talk about my sister’s lack of prospects.”

  “True. I’m only sorry my information isn’t of more use.”

  “You’ve identified who and why, which is significantly more information than I had before. I’m very grateful for your assistance. There are few men left I can trust.”

  “You’re sure you won’t ask Mandeville?”

  “I’m sure.” Colin’s chest tightened uncomfortably.

  “So be it, then.” Nigel nodded, though his disapproval was evident in his expression. “It’s your decision, after all. I’ll let you know if I acquire additional information that might be of better use.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Nigel.”

  “You owe me,” Nigel said with a wink, then turned and made his way back to the bustling street, disappearing amongst the crowd within seconds.

  Blast it. How could he have been so blind? So stupid? Hell, he’d sent Ballard over to talk to Honoria, to plead his case, just after the debacle at White’s. He’d played right into his hands like a fool. Now that he reflected on it, Ballard had seemed a bit edgy, tense, not quite himself that day. Of course he would have been—like Judas, he’d just betrayed one of his closest allies, and not for thirty pieces of silver, but for a faithless woman.

  He wouldn’t let him get away with it, that was for certain. He would get a confession from Ballard one way or another, if it was the last thing he did.

  Brenna. Her name immediately leapt to mind, making his heart accelerate. Ballard was Brenna’s brother. He spent a good deal of time in her company at Danville House. Colin had agreed to avoid her company, but that was before he had realized that Ballard had effectively thrown him to the wolves. Now all bets were off, especially if he could winnow some useful information out of Brenna. And perhaps he could. Oh, he wouldn’t risk her reputation, he wasn’t a rogue like her brother was. He would continue to avoid her in public. But privately?

  Everton’s masquerade. Surely she would attend. Everton was Sinclair’s brother, after all, and Sinclair was now openly courting her. A masquerade would afford Colin the perfect opportunity to speak with Brenna without anyone recognizing him. He would use Sir Nigel’s invitation—he and Colin were similar enough in size and build that, in mask and costume, he could pass for his friend. The plan formulated immediately in his mind, and he sighed in relief as he ducked back into the thronging crowd and headed toward his curricle.

  It might work. It was bloody well better than sitting around doing nothing. Even if it didn’t work, at least he’d get to enjoy Brenna’s company, and that thought alone put a smile on his lips for the first time in days.

  He took up the ribbons and set off toward his lodgings, his lustful imagination racing ahead as he tried to guess just what sort of costume she would don. Whatever she chose, she was sure to look lovely, and his starved eyes could barely wait to feast upon her. Soon. In three days time. He only hoped the waiting wouldn’t drive him mad.

  Chapter 9

  “Hold still, mum. Nearly done.” Celeste took the last remaining pin out from between her teeth and tucked it into Brenna’s hair, securing a delicate white blossom into place on the crown of her head. At last Celeste stepped back, allowing Brenna to view herself in the looking glass.

  “There you are. Lovely, if I might say so.”

  Brenna blinked, staring back at her own reflection in astonishment. Celeste had worked a miracle with a scattering of fragrant phlox and some pins. In utter fascina
tion, she ran her hands along the snow-white bodice, across the rough silver filigree adorning the gown’s high waist, and down the soft folds of the draped skirts. Fingering the delicate armlets that encircled one arm, she turned slightly, enough to see the silvery feathered wings attached to her back, and smiled. She had thought the siren’s costume looked somewhat silly, hanging limply on the hook. But now, as she admired the Grecian-styled gown taken together with her flowing, flower-adorned hair, she had to admit it was truly a masterful piece of craftsmanship.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Your mask.” Celeste handed her a matching white-feathered mask, also trimmed in silver filigree.

  Brenna slipped it over her face, glad for the anonymity it would afford. If her ball gowns were a bit indecorous, then this gown was positively indecent. It clung to each and every curve, affording one a fairly accurate assessment of her figure. She felt...exposed. Vulnerable. Undressed.

  Shrugging off her misgivings, she turned to Celeste with a smile. “I thank ye, Celeste. You’ve outdone yourself tonight. No doubt Lord and Lady Danville will be pleased.”

  Celeste returned Brenna’s smile. “You’d best hurry, then, mistress. I hear the coach in the drive. They’ll be waitin’, no doubt.”

  Brenna nodded, then hurried down the sweeping stairs. She only hoped the evening would prove to be far more pleasant than she’d imagined. She did not relish a night in Lord Thomas’s company. Thankfully, even acting as her escort, he was entitled to no more than the two dances propriety allowed. Perhaps the ball would not be so disagreeable. Jane Rosemoor would be there, she remembered, brightening at the thought. Jane would see that Brenna was not in want of appropriate partners; it was her nature to see that those around her were comfortable and happy, and Brenna was tremendously grateful for her friend—truly her only friend in all of London.

  “There you are, daughter,” Lord Danville called out, turning toward the stairs as Brenna approached. Lady Danville followed suit, along with Hugh and Lord Thomas, their mouths slightly agape as they all stared up at her.

  Goodness, did she really look so different? She paused on the landing with one hand resting on the carved newel post, wishing that someone would say something, anything at all. She was being judged, no doubt. Would they find her lacking?

  Lord Thomas, wearing a ridiculous-looking frilly shirt, tricorn hat, and eye patch in what must be a pirate’s costume, broke the heavy silence at last. “Exquisite,” he said, his one-eyed gaze raking down the length of her, and Brenna felt a flush heat her cheeks.

  Hugh, like his father beside him, wore a simple dark dress coat—nothing out of the ordinary—but carried a black satin mask in one hand. He eyed her critically, then nodded. “Indeed she is exquisite. Astonishing, isn’t it?”

  Lady Danville cast a scowl in his direction. “Not at all. Why, it’s just as I supposed. That style simply suits her better than the current fashions do.” She smoothed a hand down her own colorful gown—a gypsy, Brenna supposed, judging by the kerchief on her head.

  “Hmm, so true, my dear. It does suit her well.” Her father strode to Brenna’s side and reached for her hand. “It’s a shame she cannot wear her hair like this every day, isn’t it, Harriet?” He placed a kiss on Brenna’s knuckles, and the unconcealed pride that shone in his eyes nearly brought a tear to her own eyes. More than anyone else, this man was slowly stealing into her heart.

  Lady Danville silently nodded her agreement, her own eyes shining brightly with a hint of dampness.

  Lord Thomas cocked his head toward the door. “Well, then, shall we set off? I think we’ve managed to miss the opening quadrille.”

  “Yes, yes. Capital.” Lord Danville offered his wife his arm as the butler pulled open the heavy door leading out.

  The cool evening breeze caressed Brenna’s cheek as she took Lord Thomas’s arm and followed the party out to the waiting conveyance. As she settled herself inside the coach’s dimly lit interior, Brenna’s thoughts were unpleasantly drawn—not for the first time—to her unremembered past. How awful it must have been for Lord and Lady Danville to have their infant snatched from the cradle. How they must have suffered.

  Still, it was near impossible for her to imagine that her parents, the Maclachlans of Glenbroch, had committed such an unforgivable crime. Had they been so desperate for a child that all rational thought had fled them? What other explanation was there?

  “Be mindful of your wings, dear,” Lady Danville chided, laying a hand on Brenna’s wrist.

  Not a phrase one hears every day. Brenna slid forward a bit on the smooth leather bench, twisting her torso ever so slightly. There she perched, a bit uncomfortably, but her wings remained out of harm’s way.

  At last settled, she looked up and saw Lord Danville watching her, a gentle, easy smile on his lined face. Brenna returned his smile, despite her heavy heart. No one deserved such misfortune as a stolen child. She chanced a glance at Hugh, sitting beside their mother and idly polishing his watch with a handkerchief. Had the Maclachlans supposed they were doing Lord and Lady Danville no grave ill, snatching their daughter instead of their son, their heir? Had they perceived daughters to be of so little value to the English?

  Certainly English women did not enjoy the same rights and freedoms as their Scots counterparts. The worst of it was the way the English married off daughters without compunction, with no thought to their happiness. Marriage was simply a business arrangement, and daughters were bartered off like livestock. She found the practice appalling, and if Lord and Lady Danville thought to bargain her off in such a fashion, then they’d best think again.

  Brenna winced as the coach swayed and Lord Thomas’s elbow poked her uncomfortably in the ribs. She couldn’t help but cast a scowl in his direction. More than anything, she hoped her parents could see through Lord Thomas’s polite demeanor to the man who lay beneath. Lord Thomas might not be a pirate, but he was no doubt a scoundrel. Though the debacle with Colin Rosemoor had caused her to doubt her own instincts where men were concerned, she was certain that she was correct on this count. She sighed, turning her gaze toward the window, watching London’s streets pass by in a muted blur.

  Colin Rosemoor. She hadn’t allowed herself to even think that name in so many days. Nay, the name alone brought up too many uncomfortable emotions. Confusion, anger, fear, resentment. And desire. Dear Lord, but she couldn’t staunch it, not after that kiss. It coursed through her, unbidden, at the mere thought of the damnable man. She was a fool; a silly fool, no better than the giggling debutantes who populated Mayfair’s best drawing rooms.

  But if it were true Colin had managed to cheat Lord Hampton out of his Highland estate, if he were truly the rightful owner of Hampton’s lands, then she must confront him. She must demand that he act honorably for once in his life and leave the tenants undisturbed. He must not clear the land.

  Brenna’s musings were interrupted when the coach rolled to an abrupt halt before a yellow stone town house. The lilting sounds of an orchestra mingling with a multitude of voices floated across the drive on the breeze. More than two dozen people stood assembled on the walk, craning their necks and standing on their toes in anticipation, awaiting admittance.

  “Ah, here we are,” Lord Danville said. “A crush, as always.”

  “Nothing like a masked ball to attract the cream of the ton in droves, is there?” Lord Thomas reached for Brenna’s elbow and helped her to her feet.

  Aye, thought Brenna as she stepped down to the pebbled drive below. And, of course, with the cream of the ton in attendance, Colin Rosemoor most certainly would not be. Somehow she must find a way to speak with him. If not tonight, then soon. However would she manage it?

  ***

  Colin handed his card to Everton’s butler, then readjusted Nigel’s gold signet ring. He was not used to wearing such adornments, and the ring felt heavy and constricting on his finger.

  “Sir Nigel Portman,” the butler announced, and Colin smiled behind his mask as he stepped confidently into t
he crowded ballroom.

  This would work. The plan was brilliant, and no one would see through his ruse. He’d arrived in Nigel’s coach, wearing the man’s ring and carrying his card. The only people who’d perhaps look sharply enough to see past the absurd costume and mask would be absent tonight.

  Jane had taken to her bed late in the afternoon, complaining of some sort of malaise, and Lucy had just learned that she was increasing. He did not know the details—did not want to know them, really—but knew she had been feeling poorly the past few days. She would be home, abed, not venturing out into society, and particularly not to the home of Lord Thomas Sinclair’s brother, not with her intense, and well-deserved, dislike of Sinclair.

  He’d waited till the party was well underway before making his appearance, thinking that the alcohol consumed by Everton’s guests by now would aid his deception.

  Leaning against a wide marble pillar, he scanned the vast room, searching out his quarry. She was here. He felt it. But where? His gaze flitted across the room’s occupants, many of whom were currently spinning about the dance floor in pairs, engaged in a waltz.

  A footman brushed past his elbow, carrying a silver tray laden with flutes of champagne. Colin reached for a glass, draining it with one sharp flick of the wrist.

  Not the finest vintage, but it would suffice. With a grimace, he pushed off the pillar and moved toward the row of sideboards that lined the far wall, placing the empty glass on the plum-colored satin. When he looked up, he saw a pair of young women headed his way, eager smiles on their faces below their masks. Who were they? Debutantes most likely. Blast it. He had no need to engage in conversation with anyone save Brenna. He readjusted his hat, further shielding his face from prying eyes, and turned away from the approaching women. He took two long strides back toward the dancing couples, shaking his head in frustration.

  And then he saw her. All breath left his body, and he stopped short, rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but simply stare as his heart thrummed against his ribs.