Shunned No More

by Christina McKnight

CHAPTER TEN

  Brock watched Harold twirl the miss in the putrid dress around the dance floor for a second time that evening. If his friend did not watch himself, come tomorrow morning he’d find himself ensconced in the girl’s father’s study discussing a marriage settlement. He’d barely had a moment to speak with Harold after their hostess discovered he was endowed with an estate. Lady Garnerdale had led him about the room meeting one debutante after another. Brock could not complain, as this left him to his own devices, the matchmaking mothers seemingly intimidated by the scowl that had cemented itself on his face shortly after dancing with another insipid chit.

  “Oh, dear heavens!” Lady Garnerdale called behind him.

  If the woman thought to introduce him to another sorry excuse for a lady he would pull his hair out. While he was at it, he might just rip the headpiece currently perched on her head and stomp it beneath his feet.

  He turned to stop the woman before she started the next round of introductions, and froze.

  The hostess rushed away from him to intercept a man and pair of ladies as they traversed the crowded ballroom in his direction. Brock craned his neck to see around her.

  Was that . . . No, it could not be! But was there any other explanation for Lady Garnerdale rushing across the ballroom?

  The Duke of Liperton! None other than the father of one Lady Viola Oberbrook.

  Brock searched the ballroom for any sign of the girl responsible for his brothers’ deaths. Not that he’d a clue what she looked like; he would not be able to pick her out in a morning room over tea, let alone a crowded ballroom.

  Bringing his eyes back to his hostess, Brock watched as Lord Liperton fled, leaving his two female companions behind. The man did not even pause to retrieve his overcoat as he exited the ballroom and possibly the house entirely.

  “Was that Lord Liperton?” Harold asked from his side.

  “It most certainly appeared to be.”

  “Do you suppose he saw you?”

  “I do not think he would beat such a hasty retreat if he had not.” Brock looked over at his friend and then at the dance floor. “What happened to your dance partner?”

  “She split a seam and also beat a hasty retreat,” Harold said. His monotone voice and flippant hand gestures made the announcement sound as if his friend encountered this issue often.

  Brock was tempted to laugh, but feared it would sound the delusional crackle of a deranged man. His hands shook and his heart beat erratically over his near-encounter with Lord Liperton.

  “Do you think they might have rushed off to the same place?” Harold asked.

  “Do you mean the ladies retiring room?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I think I am going to go after him. We have not had the pleasure of meeting or discussing his daughter’s hand in my family’s misfortune.” Brock made to move toward the direction the Duke had fled, but Harold grabbed his arm.

  “Is that truly wise?” Harold raised an eyebrow, and his grip on Brock’s arm tightened. “Put it behind you.”

  “Put it behind me?” Brock felt the words echo between them. He couldn’t expect Harold to understand the loss of a brother—both of his lived and breathed. He couldn’t expect him to know the guilt, the emotional anguish, of returning from war to find one’s father dead. Not only emotionally dead, as he’d been after his mother’s death, but cold and in the ground.

  Brock had expected to return home to make amends for abandoning his father while the old man dealt with the loss of his beloved wife. Then, he’d failed to return to lay his brothers to rest, further compounding his overwhelming guilt and grief.

  Brock took a breath. He could not fault his friend for his inability to grasp the pain he’d held inside for far too long. “Yes, you may be correct, my friend,” he said. He gave the only answer Harold could understand—the answer indicating that Brock was willing to try and move past the weight lying heavily upon his shoulders. “Besides, our esteemed Lady Garnerdale is making her way toward us now.”

  Indeed, the woman was headed their way. He shook off Harold’s hold.

  “Well, well, well. These women are certainly out of the school room,” Harold commented, his attention directed to two matronly women presently accompanying their hostess. “Wait—”

  “What is it now?” Brock asked.

  “That is our neighbor, Mrs. Pearl St. Augustin—Miss Ruby’s mother. Imagine the coincidence. We see her daughter in Hampshire, and now Mrs. St. Augustin in London—”

  “Will you pipe down?”

  Harold had the nerve to look affronted.

  “Who is the older woman with her?”

  “Am I able to talk now?”

  “If you get to the point,” Brock said.

  “I do not have a clue.”

  For the first time in their long friendship, Brock wanted to strangle his friend. “We should prepare to find out, because they are almost upon us.”

  “My lord.” His hostess curtsied, her headpiece nearly disengaging from her head. “May I introduce Lady Evienne Darlingiver?”

  “My lady.” He bowed over her extended hand. This was something he did not miss about polite society: all the bowing and formalities. “A pleasure.”

  “My lord,” Lady Darlingiver gave the appropriate response.

  “And this, Lord Haversham,” the hostess continued, “is Mrs. St. Augustin. I hear you are already acquainted.”

  “It has been many years, Mrs. St. Augustin.” Brock bowed while she dropped into a curtsey. “Our country seats are close.”

  “That is marvelous, my lord.” Lady Garnerdale noticed Harold standing to Brock’s left. “Oh, Mr. Jakeston, are you also acquainted with Mrs. St. Augustin? Your estate must also be—”

  “Indeed,” Brock cut her off before Harold’s story was compromised. “We grew up frolicking in the pastures between our family homes.” He looked to Mrs. St. Augustin in hopes she would not let slip the fact that Harold’s family was employed by the current Lord Haversham, as had been the past three generations of Jakestons.

  “In that time, there were many children gallivanting about the countryside.” Mrs. St. Augustin sounded slightly peeved at the fact.

  “This is true,” Harold spoke up, addressing their hostess. Turning to Mrs. St. Augustin, he said, “We had the pleasure of seeing Miss Ruby not a fortnight ago, at the estate of Lady Posey Hale.”

  “Lady Posey Hale? You must be mistaken.” Mrs. St. Augustin turned a confused look at Lady Darlingiver, who in turn shook her head.

  Brock felt that a whole conversation passed between the ladies that neither he nor Harold was privy to. Strange. “I assure you, it was indeed her,” he assured them.

  “Oh, Lady Danderland!” Lady Garnerdale fairly shrieked, startling two ladies in conversation a few feet away. “Do excuse me. I must speak with Lady Danderland.”

  The group watched as their hostess made her way across the ballroom in pursuit of a lady who clearly did not wish to be caught.

  Brock returned his attention to Mrs. St. Augustin with his most charming smile. “I dare say Miss Ruby is much as I remember her as a child. Do she and Lady Posey have plans to attend part of the season?” He could not help inquiring about Lady Posey.

  “I believe not, my lord. Will you excuse us, as well? I fear I am not feeling quite the thing.”

  The women clasped arms and started away before Brock and Harold could wish them good evening.

  “I dare say that was as close to the cut direct as I have ever seen,” Brock mumbled. “Harold, I believe it is time you collected your cane.”

  “Finally. I thought this evening would never end.”

  “Have them bring the carriage round and I will meet you in front. I am going to retrieve something before we are on our way.” Brock eyed the lords and ladies surrounding him in an attempt to locate their host and hostess. Both were occupied with various members of the ton.

  Brock strolled casually around the ball room, skirting dancers.
He passed by the refreshment table and continued on toward the hall beyond the card room. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one tracked his movements. As he thought, no one paid attention to him as he crept down the corridor leading not only to the retiring rooms, but also to Lord Garnerdale’s study.

  When he reached the end of the hall, he turned away from the ladies retiring room door and in the direction of the men’s toilet and the study. He kept his pace unhurried when he heard a group of ladies exit the retiring room behind him. When they continued toward the ballroom, Brock increased his speed and entered the door at the end of the hall, closing the door securely behind him.

  A musky, thick smell invaded his nose. Peering around the smoke-laden room, Brock searched for anyone lurking in the shadows. Convinced he was indeed alone, he moved to the sideboard and slid open the cabinets below. Bottle after bottle of premium scotch, brandy, and whiskey lined the shelves. He carefully removed several bottles in search of his real goal—a bottle of Madeira for Harold.

  “You must have at least one bottle,” Brock mumbled. He feared he’d reach the back of the cabinet and not find what he sought. Crouching on his haunches, he pulled out a tall, slender green-tinted bottle and examined the label. “Aha!”

  Brock quickly restocked the liquor cabinet. As a last thought, he pilfered a bottle of scotch for himself. It was the least his hostess could do after subjecting both men to the likes of the Unker twins. The door slid back into place on a well-oiled track.

  Now, he only needed to exit the study without anyone noticing. He placed his ear against the closed door and listened for voices in the hall. Hearing none, he grasped the door handle and eased the barrier open a crack. The hall was deserted. Brock slipped out, a bottle tucked securely under each arm. If all continued thus, he would be able to traverse the hall and instead of reentering the crowded ball room, he’d slip out the front door to the safety of his awaiting coach.

  A smile lit his face at the lark he’d pulled off—not that the Garnerdale’s would even notice the absence of two bottles of spirits. Brock looked forward to the surprise on Harold’s face when he handed him a premium bottle of imported Madeira.

  Moments before he’d made his escape, hurried footsteps sounded from the direction of the ballroom. Brock ducked into the men’s retiring room. It was most likely several ladies rushing to the women’s room to repair a ripped dress; perhaps Miss Unker’s unfortunate incident had repeated itself. At the return to silence in the hall, Brock eased the door open a crack and peeked out.

  Two ladies stood in the hall where the corridor from the ballroom ended, their heads leaned together in conversation. Brock couldn’t be certain with their backs to him, but the lemon-colored dress appeared to be that of Lady Darlingiver. He assumed that her company was Mrs. St. Augustin.

  As Brock strained to hear their conversation, Lord Liperton crept down the corridor and joined the ladies’ conversation. What could they possibly be talking about? Meeting in a darkened hall did not bode well for the direction of their chat.

  “If I had known he was in town, I would have stayed at Foldger’s Hall.” Lord Liperton raised his voice enough for his words to reach Brock, his arms gesticulating wildly.

  Lord Liperton appeared to calm when Lady Darlingiver laid her hand against his arm. The connection between the pair was apparent, even from a distance.

  “What do you mean, he has been to Foldger’s Foals?” Liperton took a step back from the ladies. His voice peaked, giving off the impression of a female screech. “I knew I should not have allowed Viola to remain on that ranch. It is bloody—”

  Something knotted in Brock’s stomach.

  “Now, do not get your knickers in a bunch, Lippy.” Lady Darlingiver’s voice rose to be heard over Liperton’s increasingly alarming tone.

  If they thought Brock cared that he had seen Miss Ruby residing in the country, they were wrong. He’d hardly given the miss a second thought. Now, Lady Posey was a completely different story.

  “Why ever not? This is possibly the worst thing that could happen.”

  “She did not give her real name.” It was Mrs. St. Augustin’s turn to soothe Lord Liperton.

  “Thank the heavens the girl holds a bit of sense inside that head of hers.”

  Brock stilled himself from barging into the corridor to confront the trio, demanding answers. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be. He had kissed her, enjoyed bantering with her… Dreamed about her!

  “It has been eight years, Lippy. Surely he has dealt with the tragedy and moved on. There is no reason we should fear he suspects anything.” Lady Darlingiver stepped closer to Liperton once again. “We had a lovely chat.”

  Brock couldn’t listen to another word, but kept his ear pressed firmly to the door, not wanting to miss a single syllable.

  “He did not mention me?” Lord Liperton asked.

  “No. Now, let us enjoy our evening. Pearl watched Mr. Jakeston leave several minutes ago, and I am sure Lord Haversham was close behind him.”

  Brock peered through the slit in the door.

  Lady Darlingiver offered her arm to Liperton. “Shall we return to the ballroom? I would so enjoy a glass of sherry before we continue on to Lady Estque’s ball.” It was hard to miss the woman’s smile in the dim hall; her teeth gleamed, catching the pale light from the candles lining the walls.

  Brock slipped out of the deserted men’s room after their steps receded down the long hall. His mind was abuzz with conflicting thoughts. All he sought was to escape this house, and slip into the safety of his awaiting carriage. With his stolen bottles of spirits again clutched under his arm, he fled down the hall, not bothered with his seemingly hurried pace and what that appearance gave off to others. His steps echoed off the walls, deafening to his own ears.

  The woman had deceived him. Deliberately and without remorse. Lady Posey! He wanted to laugh out loud at his own stupidity. Cry at the girl’s ability to hurt him, even after all these years. Lady Viola Oberbrook had misled his family again; thankfully, she’d dared to fool him and not his weak-minded brothers or elderly father. The fact hit home—there was no one else for her to fool. Only him alone, and she had succeeded marvelously.

  She’d drawn him in with her charm. Lied to his face. Taken his coin. Kissed him shamelessly in the pasture. Since that day, it was almost all he could think about. She’d given him hope for a future, full of love and companionship, maybe not with her but with someone. For the first time since his mother’s death, he’d truly thought a life of happiness was within his grasp.

  Now, that dream had been dashed to the ground.

  As he approached the end of the hall, Brock forced himself to slow a bit to allow the footman to assist him into his evening coat, though his blood boiled just under the surface. If the scarlet-clad footman noticed Brock juggling the pilfered bottles of Madeira and scotch, he did not comment. He was overheated, certain his face was the color of the Garnerdale’s livery attire.

  The cool evening air as he left the house soothed his raging mood. It helped that his carriage indeed waited outside. Brock looked around, but Harold was nowhere to be found. He hoped the man waited inside; otherwise, he may well be left behind.

  “Simeon,” Brock nodded to his own livery man.

  “My lord, I trust you have had a pleasant evening.” The man nodded in return. “Where to next?”

  “Home,” Brock commanded. His voice rang harsh above the noise of departing guests. His evening out may be ending, but he had many plans still to make this night.