There was nothing untoward about his actions, and yet… And yet they had been intimate and sensual. The neck of her gown seemed to shrink two inches. Her lips, still in the curl of a smile, trembled as she returned to the drawing room.
Sir Wallace pulled out a pocket watch and made a show of checking the time before closing it with a snap. “I must take my leave. I’m meeting Nash at White’s.”
Delilah considered the problem of Gilmore’s invitation. Under only one circumstance could she imagine her mother accepting an invitation from an avowed rake. With as much warmth as she could muster, which truthfully wasn’t enough to register as a northerly spring breeze, Delilah offered Sir Wallace her hand. In contrast to Marcus, Sir Wallace’s grip reminded her of a dead fish.
“Will you be attending Lord Gilmore’s soiree? I would be most pleased to save you a waltz. Or even two to make up for my absence at Lord Harrington’s.”
His eyes sparked—with excitement or avarice?—and his lips twitched but never reached the curve of a smile. “I will indeed be attending, and I would be very happy to claim the first waltz.”
Delilah ignored the warning she saw in her mother’s tightened expression. “We will be accepting Lord Gilmore’s most gracious invitation, won’t we, Mother?”
A refusal hovered at her mother’s mouth, but her lips re-formed and said, “Yes, of course,” albeit reluctantly. Farewells were exchanged, and Sir Wallace departed, leaving Delilah and her mother facing off like prizefighters.
“I feel as if my daughter has been replaced by a changeling. What has gotten in to you?”
Spirit? Nerve? Courage? Along with more than a dash of terror? “Nothing. Everything is fine.”
Her mother’s gaze attempted to strip Delilah to the truth, but the truth would only endanger her family. Delilah didn’t crumble or look away but pasted a vacuous expression on her face.
“When and where did you meet the earl?” her mother asked.
“Last night, at Harrington’s.”
“You met the man last night, and he lured you into a liaison?”
“Of course not! Marcus was a complete gentleman.” That was mostly true.
“Marcus?” Her mother snorted. “According to Sir Wallace, Lord Wyndam’s father is a traitor to the Crown.”
“Merely rumors.”
“Are you aware of what the whispers entail?” Anguish twisted her mother’s mouth, aging her a decade in a blink.
Fingers of foreboding grabbed hold and squeezed the air from Delilah’s lungs. “No.”
“It’s said the old Lord Wyndam was behind the commission that sold tainted gun powder to the troops.”
It was suspected Alastair had died not from heroics on the battlefield but a misfire of his rifle attributed to a bad stock of powder. His burns had turned putrid, and he’d died in a field hospital a continent away.
A lump in Delilah’s throat made it difficult to swallow, so her words emerged gruff and not at all convincing. “You can’t lay the sins of the father onto the son.”
“That man inherited money earned by selling the gunpowder that killed Alastair.” Her mother stifled a sob and left the drawing room at a quick, half-stumbling walk. If the past held true, her mother wouldn’t come out of her rooms until dinner.
Delilah paced and chewed on her thumbnail. A habit her mother had tried to quell since Delilah’s childhood. The loss of Alastair was an emptiness she confronted every day. What if Marcus’s father was to blame despite his belief in his father’s innocence? Marcus’s judgment was clouded by affection and couldn’t be trusted.
What now? Did she cut all ties with Marcus to spare her mother’s feelings? Or could she help discover the real culprit and bring justice for Quinton and Alastair and countless others who had been killed or maimed by the tainted shipment of gunpowder?
Far from discouraging her, the revelations about Marcus and Alastair only strengthened her resolve. She would continue her quest for the man in the hat, but if the information proved the old Lord Wyndam was guilty, could she trust Marcus to do what was right?
Chapter 5
Marcus smoothed the collar of his best jacket and hoped the fraying around the cuffs wouldn’t be noticeable in the crush and candlelight. Logic and self-preservation told him to leave London and pursue his plan to breed horses, but would anyone buy a horse from a peer with a sullied lineage? His estate and name were in shambles, with no clear path to redemption for either. The longer he remained in London searching for the truth, the more he began to doubt himself.
Yet here he was at a soiree with no invitation. His excuse of delivering a message to his master had gotten him through the kitchen door without the threat of a skewering. Now it was up to him to not get caught and face the same fate as the unfortunate Quinton.
Even if he managed to corner Gilmore and ask pointed questions as to his involvement, it might not prove anything. If the information did miraculously clear his father of wrongdoing, the tangle of loyalties and betrayals made it impossible to know who would even believe him. And even if he found someone to believe him, the Wyndam name would remain tainted in the eyes of Society. The rumors were too entrenched in the mud to be purified.
The killer was merely one more shadow to chase. One more lead that would disintegrate or get yanked away by whatever puppet master controlled the game Marcus had yet to learn the rules to.
While the faint hope of salvaging his family’s honor was fading, a new objective was driving him. Delilah was in danger. The inevitable approach was like a storm on a chill breeze.
He stopped on the dais leading into a large room converted to a ballroom for the occasion. It was early, but the party was already awash with lords and ladies—and some women in low-cut evening dresses who appeared to not be ladies at all—sparkling under the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers.
A man dressed in severe black evening clothes and white gloves stood at the entrance. “Your name, sir?”
Blast. He hadn’t considered being announced to the room. His title would draw a bull’s-eye on his chest. He murmured, “Mr. Ashemore.”
As his name floated over the crowd in the butler’s sonorous voice, Marcus slipped into the crowd with his head bowed. His shoulder clashed with another gentleman’s as he attempted to lose himself in the crowd.
The man shifted around, his expression supercilious and cool, like many gentlemen of the ton. Although his hair was silver, it was thick, and his face was unlined. Marcus guessed he was nearing his fourth decade.
“Pardon me, sir,” Marcus murmured, ready to duck into the crush and lose himself.
“You look familiar, sir. Have we been introduced?”
“I don’t believe so.” Marcus didn’t offer his name, and neither did the gentleman.
“Perhaps we share Etonian connections?”
“That must be it,” Marcus said even though he hadn’t attended Eton. He slapped on a smile, nodded, and excused himself before the gentleman—because there was no mistaking his blood for anything but blue—outright asked his name.
Growing up in Ireland with his maternal grandparents meant he had no connections with the lords of London. Eton had neither been offered nor desired. The village rector had tutored him in a variety of subjects. His life in Ireland had been full of adventure and love, and his only pain had emanated from missing his father during his extended absences.
He weaved through the crowd on the hunt for Delilah. Her name whispered through his head like a caress. At first, he’d thought the exotic name unsuited to her. Except for the scenario in which he’d found her, she’d seemed unremarkable. Brown hair, pretty figure, freckles.
But the moment she’d followed him out the window, her extraordinary eyes locked on his, she’d revealed herself to be the opposite of unremarkable, and he didn’t understand why her drawing room wasn’t filled with gentlemen wanting to claim her.
If she hadn’t managed to attend, all his machinations were for naught. His heart stumbled, an
d his feet followed when he spied her standing between her mother and an older lady wearing a severe frown. Delilah had forgone a snow-white gown in favor of buttercup yellow. The neckline scooped low enough to reveal the top swells of her bosom and constellations of freckles along her shoulders.
Her hair had been pulled back and weaved together in a series of braids. The elegance suited her better than the affectation of curls. Amber hues in the strands sparked in the candlelight.
She was brave and intelligent and deserved better than a clod like Wainscott. If he were being truly honest, she deserved better than a man like himself. A man whose fortunes and family name were in tatters. A woman like Delilah deserved a duke, but only if that’s what she desired.
He put the crimp in his heart down to anxiety at the night’s planned skullduggery. Squaring his shoulders and putting on his most charming smile, he circled to the front of their little group, bowing with what he hoped was the perfect amount of deference. “Mrs. Bancroft. Miss Bancroft. It’s lovely to see you again so soon after my visit.”
“You as well, my lord.” Delilah inclined her head, not bothering to hide an alluring, secretive smile, and then turned to the stately lady on her left. “Lady Casterly, have you made the acquaintance of Lord Wyndam?”
The white-haired dowager held up a quizzing glass and squinted in his general direction. She let the glass drop to swing on a thin gold chain and rapped her cane on the floor like a magistrate giving judgment. “So you’re Edward’s son. You have his look about you.”
Nothing in her tone gave him an indication how she felt about his father except for her familiar use of his given name. Marcus had managed to avoid confrontations such as this until now. “Indeed, I am.”
“Your mother was a fine lady, despite being Irish.”
His mother had died soon after giving birth to him, so the loss wasn’t as keen as it might have been. Her absence had been a gentle ache, like the residual pain from a poorly knitted bone. “Thank you, Lady Casterly. I was raised by my mother’s parents in Ireland. They were fine people.”
“Have they passed on?”
“A fever took them both last winter.”
“I’m so sorry, Mar— Lord Wyndam.” Delilah’s voice overflowed with sympathy, and she lightly touched his arm, the gesture unfitting and forward in the context of the social situation, but it was appreciated nonetheless.
If Mrs. Bancroft hadn’t been eviscerating him to the spine with her gaze, he would have taken Delilah’s hand and laid it over his heart.
Lady Casterly gave another rap of her cane. “Are you here to claim a dance from Miss Bancroft?”
He nodded. “Indeed, I am.”
“I’m afraid she has no free dances, Lord Wyndam.” Mrs. Bancroft’s tone was one of satisfaction, not regret. She linked her arm with Delilah’s as if he might try to drag her to the dance floor. “Ah! Here comes Sir Wallace, Delilah. Look lively.”
Sir Wallace performed a smart bow and jabbed an elbow into Marcus’s arm to force him aside. Marcus tempered his anger and ceded the field. Imagining planting a facer on Sir Wallace called forth a smiling grimace, but Marcus couldn’t afford to bring more scandal upon his head.
“Ladies. You are looking lovely this evening.” Sir Wallace wasn’t even looking at the trio of ladies but smiling and nodding at other guests. Finally, he swung his attention to Delilah, but it was fleeting and dismissive. “I believe I have a claim on the first dance, Miss Bancroft.”
“Yes, Sir Wallace, I believe you do.” As Sir Wallace turned away, she muttered, “Unfortunately.”
Marcus camouflaged his laugh with an unconvincing cough, earning him a reproachful glare from Mrs. Bancroft. Delilah shot Marcus a veiled, unreadable look before joining Wainscott on the edge of the dance floor, her hand on his arm.
Taking a deep breath, Marcus fisted his hands to keep from pulling Delilah away from the other man. How could Lady Casterly and Mrs. Bancroft seriously consider him a suitable match for Delilah? While his social pedigree was adequate, Wainscott had no brains, bravery, or humor. In short, he was a priggish boor.
The opening strains of a country dance swelled through the room, and Delilah took her place in the line of ladies.
“Perhaps you’d be so kind as to fetch me a lemonade, Lord Wyndam?” Lady Casterly raised an eyebrow toward him.
“Yes, of course. It would be my pleasure.”
His plan had been to scout the first-floor rooms as soon as possible. Now though, he was having trouble tearing his gaze away from Delilah. She was similarly distracted, it seemed. On every turn, she met his gaze and trod more than once on Wainscott’s deserving toes, resulting in charmingly flushed cheeks on her part.
A tap on his shoulder drew him around. He’d stepped conspicuously toward the dance floor without realizing it.
“A lemonade, my lord?” Lady Casterly nudged his foot with the end of her cane, a gleam in her eyes.
Staying in Lady Casterly’s good graces was a necessity. It seemed she had considerable influence over the Bancrofts.
“Immediately, ma’am.” He went in search of refreshments and returned with two glasses, one for each lady. Mrs. Bancroft waved hers off as if he might have spat in it and turned away in conversation with another matron.
Marcus gripped the glass too tightly and glared across the dance floor until he spotted Delilah. The steps of the dance had taken her to the other side of the room.
“Sir Wallace has shown a marked interest in Miss Bancroft. It would be a suitable match,” Lady Casterly said speculatively.
“She could do better. Much better,” Marcus said, feeling disturbingly combative.
“I’m not so sure. While she is reasonably pretty, and her dowry is certainly admirable, her family is common. Their money new. You know how Society looks down upon such things.”
He gulped his drink to cover his agitation but only ended up choking on the barely sweetened drink.
Lady Casterly took a sip, unbothered by the tartness. Perhaps because it matched her personality. “The Bancrofts are a fine family, and Mr. Bancroft is a good friend and business partner to my husband, but even under my protection, the Bancrofts will never be truly accepted by the ton unless Delilah makes a good match.”
“And Wainscott will be a good husband?”
“Heavens, no!” Her laugh was tinged with incredulity. “I imagine once Miss Bancroft provides an heir and a spare, they will hardly see one another. It is the way of most marriages.”
He couldn’t imagine marrying for such mercenary reasons. While he had no memory of his mother, his gran had weaved a love story between his parents. A dashing young lord falling in love with a squire’s daughter while on holiday and sweeping her into a life she’d never dreamed possible.
As if reading his mind, Lady Casterly murmured, “I was sorry to hear of Edward’s passing.”
The familiar use of his father’s name pricked his instincts once more. This time, there was more than a little affection in her voice. “You knew him well?”
“The Wyndam estate is only a few hours’ ride from my ancestral home. We’ve known one another since we were small. Edward was a lively dancer. An excellent horseman. There was even a push for us to marry, but then he met your mother, and I met Casterly.”
“Had you spoken to him in recent years?” How delicately did he have to tread?
“I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t believe them. Unlike some.” She swung her cane to point at Mrs. Bancroft before putting it back on the floor and leaning onto it. “Edward was still a man about town right up until his death. His illness must have taken hold quickly.”
“Indeed, it did.” The bullet to his head would certainly classify as sudden. The magistrate, an old friend of his father’s, had classified the death as a fatal apoplexy. Although Marcus was relieved the true manner of his father’s death hadn’t made the rounds of gossip, he was more interested in the other bit of news she’d imparted. “My father was a man about town?”
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“He did love a game of whist and a good laugh, bless his soul.” A fond smile softened his face.
That didn’t fit with the sober, serious man Marcus had come to know through the writings he’d left behind. “I didn’t know him as well as I would have liked.”
“You’ve been in Ireland all these years? Edward never thought to present you?”
“I suppose he assumed there would be time. But I was happy in Ireland and reluctant to leave my grandparents in their dotage. I have little choice in the matter now.”
“You have the taint of scandalous family rumors about you, and Edward left you the decrepit family estate.” Lady Casterly’s bluntness was growing on him.
“That’s the gist of it.”
“It would be better for all involved if you stayed away from Miss Bancroft, you know. You will only hurt her chances, and her parents will never give their blessing, earldom or not.”
The assessment knocked his heart into a new rhythm. One that was uncomfortable. Lady Casterly couldn’t know their association went far deeper and was more dangerous than a dance or a morning call. He faced a dilemma.
Did he selfishly use Delilah to further his own aims of clearing his father’s name and possibly ruin her chances with Wainscott or other potential suitors?
Delilah circled Wainscott, their hands touching, but her gaze belonged to Marcus. He murmured, “Lady Casterly, would you make my apologies to Miss Bancroft?”
“Wise decision, Wyndam.” The lines around Lady Casterly’s eyes and mouth deepened with what might classify as regret. “I wish you well. Truly.”
She inclined her head and shifted away, effectively dismissing him from her sphere. Marcus broke eye contact with Delilah and retreated to the entry door to survey the room. It was impossible to cull the crush of finely dressed lords and ladies for a gentleman he had no way to identify without Delilah’s help.
What he did notice was several hired bruisers wandering the edges of the crowd. Excitement quickened his nerves. Gilmore was worried enough to hire protection. Was he feeling vulnerable after Quinton’s murder? Or was he protecting something else? Could Gilmore possess physical evidence that might clear Marcus’s father? The most likely place to house such evidence would be the study.
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 7