Jane never thought she would wish for Blackburn’s return, but she would court even that adversity to stop this dreadful conversation.
“You’re the same green, untouched girl you were eleven years ago. You’re still—”
Please don’t say it, please don’t say it!
“—a virgin!” Lady Goodridge concluded.
Jane glanced at her triumphant face, then looked hopefully toward the banquet room—and found Blackburn standing close by, holding two plates and impassively listening to the revelations.
She had wanted him to rescue her. She had not wanted him to overhear.
“Ransom.” Lady Goodridge sounded demurely pleased. “You brought dinner.”
“As you instructed.” But he was looking at Jane.
“Good heavens, man, I don’t have time to eat!” Lady Goodridge hefted herself out of the fragile chair. “I’m the hostess, and the dancing has started.”
So it had. The orchestra had struck up a lilting air, and Jane had been unaware. Now she was aware of everything. The skipping dancers, the flirting debutantes, the predatory mamas. Most of all, she was aware of the insight Lord Blackburn had just been given, and she shuddered in embarrassment.
It was stupid, really, for of course she was a virgin. She was not married, so virginity was assumed. But somehow the words changed Jane from a capable spinster into a woman of physical attributes. Where before she was sure Blackburn had no notion that beneath her gown she had a waist and hips and…other anatomical features, she now saw his gaze lingering on her bosom. Her hand crept up, and she tugged her shawl tighter.
Lady Goodridge pointed to the seat she had vacated. “Ransom, you sit here and eat that food yourself. You, Miss Higgenbothem, enjoy the party. I shall look forward to speaking with you again.”
In sinking dismay, Jane stared after her departing tormentor. She would have given anything to think of an excuse to bolt, but her normal intelligence seemed to have fled under the weight of embarrassment.
“Your plate.” Blackburn thrust it beneath her nose. “I hope you enjoy my selections. Susan was so busy giving instructions about her preferences, I forgot to ask yours.”
“It looks lovely.” Jane couldn’t even discern its contents. She took the exquisitely decorated Chinese porcelain in her hand, careful not to touch him, desperate not to drop it, hoping for an obscure Oriental hex that would hurtle the holder into purgatory.
Yet when Blackburn released his grip, she was still in Lady Goodridge’s ballroom. And really, what need of purgatory when she was here?
He seated himself beside her. “The almond biscuits are rather good, and I’ve found them quite useful in settling my stomach after any encounter with my sister.”
Perhaps he was being amusing. She peeked at his frowning, downturned face.
Perhaps not. Picking up a round, flat, dry thing, she bit into it. “It’s very good.”
“That’s the apricot fritter,” he said gently.
“Well…it’s good.” Dabbing her mouth with the napkin he had provided, she braved a look across the ballroom. As she had feared, the attention of two of society’s leaders had made her the cynosure of all eyes. The flapping fans waved a gust of speculation across her hot cheeks. What had started out as an ordeal with the end in sight—that is, of returning to Adorna’s side after a circuit of the ballroom—now extended into eternity.
But she would not—could not—become the easily intimidated girl she had been before. She was no longer a foolish wallflower, but the sedate and dignified Jane Higgenbothem. Even when the ton discovered her identity, which, she hated to admit, was now a distinct possibility, her composed demeanor, her spinster cap, most of all, her advanced age, kept her safe from vulgar speculation.
Again she risked a glance at Blackburn. Two deep lines dug their furrows between his brows, his lips were turned down, and she could see the faint white tracings of his scar. Surely its appearance, while distressing, conclusively proved he was not a god.
She would not allow him to manipulate her again.
Finding a biscuit, she bit into it and even tasted it. Yes, she would continue as Adorna’s chaperone, dull and free of scandal, and any unwanted attention would quickly fade. “The almond biscuits are quite tasty.”
“Miss Higgenbothem.” Blackburn sounded as impatient as she felt. “I must apologize for my sister. She is remarkably outspoken, as though, because she is Lady Goodridge, she is above the most basic manners.”
Jane found herself answering coolly, “It seems to be a trait in your family.”
“Food has put heart into you.” He stabbed a chunk of venison with his fork. “And a rather unwanted sauce, also. If you wish me to question you about your activities, or lack of them, in the past eleven years, I find myself as curious as my sister.”
At that moment, Jane wondered what idiotic peculiarity of hers had once made this man seem irresistible.
But before she could reply, she heard a familiar voice call, “Jane.” Violet hurried toward her, looking little like Countess of Tarlin and more like the madcap, informal friend she had been long ago. The light apple green cambric skirt fluttered around her as she walked, her hair had been swept up and crimped, and anxiety rode on her shoulder.
Bracing herself, Jane rose. She’d denied even the possibility that she might be recognized; Blackburn had forced her to face the truth. It was only a matter of time, and from the expression on Violet’s pinched face, she suspected the time had come.
Violet did not even take the time to glare her dislike at him as he stood in polite response to her appearance. “Jane, she’s gone.”
Jane had braced herself for one debacle. Now she faced another, far worse disaster.
Violet’s quiet voice shivered on the breathless edge of panic. “Adorna has disappeared.”
Chapter 8
Is your entire family driven to misadventure?
The question hovered at the edge of Blackburn’s mind, but he had too much mastery to say such a thing. Miss Higgenbothem looked much as she had all those years ago when her misguided infatuation had been revealed. White and shocked, and staring at him as if she expected him to swoop in and make everything better.
Now, as if that moment of connection had never been, she curtsied. “As always, my lord, I am humbled and honored by your attention.”
Clearly she didn’t need him; she had done without him for years.
He took the half-empty plate she held out. Turning from him, she linked arms with Violet, and they strolled away casually enough to fool any of the scandal-seeking matrons. Jane straightened her shoulders, and he remembered how she made just that gesture when her sister had collapsed. It was a sign of strength and independence, and he thoroughly approved.
Approved while he suffered a pang of guilt.
And for what? He had had nothing to do with this Adorna’s disappearance.
Except that he had taken Jane away from her charge against her wishes, and dismissed her concerns as trivial. He found himself handing the two plates to a passing footman and walking after Jane as if he were a pull toy and she held the string.
The thought brought him up short. He was the Marquess of Blackburn. He was indifferent to any woman’s needs and impervious to guilt. After all, it was the missing girl, Miss Morant, who had blackmailed him into escorting her aunt on this ill-fated tour of the ballroom.
Moreover, he had a duty to England which surpassed Jane and the fate of her charge.
He glanced around the ballroom. People who had no right to even gaze upon a nobleman of his stature were staring, and from somewhere behind, he heard the hiss of words. Words that sounded remarkably like “statue,” and “scandal.”
This was worse than he had expected. In his time at war, he had been wounded, not just by shrapnel, but with the sights and sounds of battle. He had thought that when he returned to England, he could return to his old self. He had thought he would once more become careless and uncaring, but on occasion he foun
d himself being sensitive, almost…kind. It appalled him, and he hated exposing those newly painful parts of himself to this vulgar curiosity. The sooner he could find the traitor, the better.
And the revival of this old infamy could be utilized for that purpose.
His gaze darted to Miss Higgenbothem. She and Lady Tarlin stepped out of one of the many-paned glass doors that led to the garden. The month was March, the temperature cool, and as he stared at her slim figure, she shivered and clutched her shawl tighter.
If he were out with her, it would be good of him to offer her his coat. And an idea took hold of him.
If he appeared to be courting Jane, all of the ton would be so entertained to see the toplofty Lord Blackburn making a fool of himself, they would never think to examine his motives. Even the traitor himself would be unwary.
Yet to seek the whispers and the laughter! He clenched his gloved fist. He’d crushed the tattle once before with the sheer force of his personality. The recovery of his former position of glory had taken months, and his rage had only slowly dissipated. Court Jane, and the ridicule that accompanied it? He had better think long and hard before he took such a rash and painful action.
He glanced once through the windowed doors at Jane. Already she was in trouble, and at her first function! No, damn it! No, only if he had to would he use her as a distraction.
Then, just within earshot, he heard the whine of the matchmaking mosquito.
“I do so want your charming brother to meet my youngest,” said Lady Kinnard in the high, nasal tone inherited by every one of her progeny.
“Of course you do,” Susan replied with malice aplenty. “He stands alone. Shall we intercept him?”
From ten feet away, Blackburn met Susan’s amused gaze. He had been dodging a succession of Kinnard’s blond, avaricious daughters for years, and he would not succumb now.
The garden and his obligation to his country beckoned. With the swift resolution that made him a good officer, he determined to pursue Jane. Swiveling once more, he marched toward escape.
As he opened the door, he heard Jane ask fiercely, “Which of the men are missing?”
“Jane, there are hundreds of people here!” Violet said.
Blackburn shut the door without regard to Lady Kinnard’s pursuit. “Who saw Adorna last?”
Violet looked at him, startled.
“I saw her last.” Fitz stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the long, marble terrace.
Of course Fitz would be here, Blackburn thought. For all his former determination to remain single, he fell in love with obnoxious regularity. He would have to be fathoms deep in love with the inimitable Adorna.
“She danced off with Mr. Joyce,” Fitz said, “and never returned.”
“Mr. Joyce.” Miss Higgenbothem tapped her foot, an intense rhythm. “Do I know him?”
“An unsavory character.” Ransom held the door shut when Lady Kinnard tried to open it.
Fitz observed his friend’s maneuver without undue interest. “Brockway has searched the gaming chambers, Herbert the banquet hall, and Lord Mallery has completed a circuit of the ballroom. No sign of her, but Southwick was dancing with another gel, and he heard Joyce say something about sundials.”
Lady Kinnard peered through one of the windows in the door, her nose smashed flat against the glass.
“Sundials.” Ransom looked around at the darkened garden. “Miss Morant couldn’t be so foolish as to follow him out at night.”
“Adorna is not noted for her good sense,” Jane said.
“Kinnard’s moving to the left,” Fitz advised him.
Blackburn grasped the handle to the next door.
Pounding on the panel with the flat of her hand, Lady Kinnard called, “Yoohoo. Lord Blackburn!”
Jane pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Does Lady Goodridge have a sundial?”
“Near the gazebo,” Violet said.
Lady Kinnard threw her whole weight against the door, and it swayed outward.
“Shall we go?” Blackburn let go of the handle and offered his arm to Jane. She barely glanced at it and hurried down the stairs. Fitz followed close on her heels.
“Unusual for you to be ignored, isn’t it, Blackburn?” Violet clasped the still-unclaimed arm. “Jane only cares about Adorna now.”
If that was true, it would make his duty more difficult. He led Violet down the steps, and as they walked, he heard the impact of Lady Kinnard’s body on the unlatched door. It opened with a slam that shattered the small windows. Blackburn glanced back in time to see her stagger across the terrace and careen into a circle of chairs. The breakage, the shriek, and the clatter of furniture brought the music and the babble in the ballroom to a halt, and the guests moved toward the doors to see Lady Kinnard sprawled across a dainty table like a whole roasted hog.
Violet pinched his arm. “How obnoxious of you to find gratification in such a display.”
“Quite. And how do you justify your own enjoyment of it?”
“I didn’t say I enjoyed it!”
“Nor did you warn her.”
“It would have been a futile attempt.”
Jane turned on them and, in a tone he hadn’t heard since he’d left the nursery, said, “We’re here to find Adorna, not listen to your squabbling, so stop immediately!”
Blackburn didn’t believe it. She dared reprimand him!
Jane paid him, and his outrage, no heed. “Mr. Fitzgerald, do you know the way to the sundials?”
“Indeed. Know Lady Goodridge’s garden well.”
Jane took his arm, and they rushed down the darkened path.
“Well!” Violet said. “I guess we’ve been put in our places.”
Blackburn’s fledgling plan seemed impossible. He had imagined that Jane still cherished a tendre for him, and that would make courtship easy. Instead, it appeared he would have to pursue Jane, and pursue her vigorously, too.
The thought was too much to bear. “I shouldn’t have bothered.”
Violet removed her hand from his arm. “You always did quit at the first sign of difficulty.”
She tried to hasten after Jane and Fitz, but Blackburn grabbed her elbow and swung her around. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, please. As if you didn’t know. Running away from Jane after you’d ruined her life.”
“Oh, that.” He half thought she’d been talking about his ploy to use Jane as a screen. She wasn’t, of course; it was only his own conscience speaking. “I didn’t run away from her.”
“You didn’t offer for her, either, after thoroughly compromising her the first chance you got. A girl of good family—”
“Half-good!”
“So her father was a wastrel. What is your justification for your boorish behavior?” She glared. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must help my friends search for Adorna.”
He ground his teeth as she hurried away from him. He didn’t know how Tarlin put up with her. He didn’t know why he occasionally regretted the loss of her friendship, either. Lately, since his return from the Peninsula, he seemed unable to distinguish the important from the trivial, his needs from his desires.
Smoky darkness shrouded the garden. Here and there a torch smoldered, put to shame by the sheen of a half-moon on the drooping tree branches. The night breeze smelt of pinks, which Susan’s gardeners planted in profusion, and from outside the high wall he could hear the faint clatter of horses’ hooves down a busy thoroughfare.
London was out there. The city was swallowing the area around Susan’s home, but in the exclusivity of her garden, one felt no concern—unless one was worried about a young woman lured to a secluded spot by a scoundrel, there to be abducted. And if Miss Morant was taken, she might have to marry before the season had truly started, and Jane would have to go back to…wherever it was she had come from.
He had decided she would suit his purposes, damn it. She would not foil his plans so easily. They had to find Miss Morant, and at once. Blackb
urn’s long strides ate up the ground. He passed Violet and reached Jane and Fitz.
“The sundial is just ahead.” He spoke in a low tone, his gaze probing the shadows. “But move quietly. This is the hub of the garden, and a multitude of paths converge. I have no wish to pursue our prey, and less wish to quit before our obligation is completed.”
He thought Jane looked at him oddly, and he knew Violet snorted.
Touching Fitz on the shoulder, he indicated he should accompany him, then stepped forward, prepared to fight and listening with all the expertise of a seasoned warrior. A faint breeze wafted toward them, rustling the branches, but also carrying a burst of hushed French. Stiffening, he strained to hear; it was as if the gods of war had blessed him and his plot.
Turning to Fitz, he said, “Come on.”
But it wasn’t Fitz who stood by his side. Jane held herself like a long-legged doe ready to race after her fawn.
A low, breathless giggle sounded from the direction of the gazebo. Jane brushed past, and Blackburn kept stride as they skirted the sundial. Behind them, he could hear Violet and Fitz. In front and off to the left, toward the gazebo, he could hear more of those seductive giggles.
Adorna did not sound as if she were struggling against a ravisher. Quite the opposite, in fact, and Blackburn wondered if he should be prepared to cover Jane’s eyes.
Before he could make a decision, they rounded a corner and found Adorna standing in the middle of the path, her back to them, and giggling at—Blackburn strained his eyes—at a tall, dark, well-dressed gentleman. Sprawled between them on the ground lay Mr. Joyce, his eyes closed, a dark bruise marring his chin.
“J’ai un escalier,” Adorna was saying.
“Do you?” The man sounded bemused to hear she had a stair.
“And…je veux parler avec d’épaule.”
Jane sighed with what sounded like both relief and exasperation. “She would talk to his shoulder,” she murmured. “She would talk to anything.” Stopping Blackburn with her hand on his chest, she said, “Adorna!”
Without showing an ounce of remorse or guilt, the girl cried, “Aunt Jane!” She tripped forward, her hands outstretched. “You found me. I told Lord de Sainte-Amand that you would!”
That Scandalous Evening Page 6