Chapter Twelve

Evie was not at the receiving dinner.

As discreetly as possible, Weston sipped his port and searched for her amidst the sea of familiar faces. He saw the Duke of Hanover, trapped in the corner between two starry-eyed mothers with a bevy of marriageable daughters between them. He saw Lord Ellis, notable for his long white mustache and wandering eye. He saw the Earl of Crancroft, an old friend of his father's who drank like a fish, and his wife, Lady Crancroft, a tall, shrewish woman with the staccato laugh of a hyena (which probably explained the earl's drinking). He nodded in his head in greeting at Mr. Henry Greer, the eldest son of a baron whom had recently joined him on the board of Midland Railway Company. And bowed politely when the Dowager Countess of Dunlop crossed his path.

But of Evie, he saw no sign, and when it was time for everyone to take their seats around the expansive dining room table, her chair was conspicuously empty.

For the duration of the seven-course meal, Weston engaged in small talk and even managed to stretch his mouth into something that vaguely resembled the shape of a smile when Lord Ellis shared an amusing story about finding a mouse in his boot. But his thoughts were far away, and it was only due to his well-known disdain for frivolous socialization that no one noticed he was particularly standoffish.

No one except for Brynne, that is.

"What is wrong with you?" she hissed, giving him a poke with her salad fork. She was seated directly to his left, the dowager countess was to his right. Sterling, as the guest with the highest ranking, had assumed the other chair of honor at the far end of the table, with all of the other guests filling in the space between. The mood was jovial and conversation flowed freely (as did the wine), but as the dinner dragged on, the storm cloud hanging over Weston's head had only grown darker and more ominous with each passing minute that Evie did not arrive.

"Not everyone is here," he said, keeping his voice low.

"We've more guests arriving tomorrow. The Smethwicks among them, if that is who you are concerned about. Did you see I invited Lady Ellinwood and her granddaughter, Miss Rosemary? We've not traveled in the same circles as them before, but given that Rosemary's a cousin of the Thorncrofts–"

"How nice," he interrupted. "Where is Miss Thorncroft?"

Brynne brought a bite-sized piece of asparagus to her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. "Why do you want Miss Thorncroft?"

"I don't want her, I…" Scowling, he cut himself short. "Never mind. It is not important."

"It sounds important." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Did you and she have a row? Because if you cannot manage to be polite for a day, this is going to be a very long month."

Yes, it was.

But not for the reason his sister meant.

He should have been glad that Evie wasn't sitting at the table. Four days ago, he would have welcomed her absence. But that was before.

Before she'd made him smile.

Before she'd challenged him with her wit.

Before she'd tempted him with her lips.

He had hoped to settle things between them once and for all in the stone garden, but all he'd done was make an arse of himself and incite her anger. Well deserved, as he still couldn't believe he had actually referred to her as his cousin. An attempt, however poor, at tricking his mind into thinking of her as family. But the decadent things he wanted to do with Evie, to do to Evie, made her as far from family as she could possibly get.

What the devil would it take to purge himself of her?

Ignoring her hadn't worked.

Kissing her had only made everything worse.

He wouldn't disgrace her by making her his mistress…and marriage was out of the question unless he wanted to feel like this for the rest of his life, which he decidedly did not.

He could pay her to go away, as he'd intended to do originally. But that would only place her out of sight…not out of mind. A way to treat the symptoms while the virus ran rampant beneath the surface.

No, what he needed was a real solution.

A permanent solution.

As he drank his port and took a slow, measured glance around the table at all of the lords and ladies feasting upon his food and wine, the answer occurred to him.

Just like that.

He couldn't marry Evie.

But someone else could.

"By God, that's it," he murmured.

"What is it?" Brynne asked.

"Nothing," he said even as the wheels began churning in his head.

The only way to make himself stop obsessing over Evie day and night was to make her inaccessible to him. He wanted her now because there was nothing to keep him from having her. But if she was another man's wife…if she was another man's wife then he would be forced to stop this ill-fated pursuit.

It was a perfect idea. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner. And the house party was the perfect venue. Why, there are least three eligible bachelors sitting at the table right now. All he needed to do was make a few discreet inquiries, settle Evie with a modest dowry (not too much for fear of attracting fortune-hunters, but enough that she'd draw the attention of a nobleman of means), and choose the best of the lot.

Not Lord Markham. The viscount was in possession of both wealth and a title, but a worse scoundrel Weston had never met.

Lord Hendrickson was also out of the running, as his debts were as inflated as his ego.

That left Mr. Greer, who was a good candidate...but most of his investments were tied up with the railway and if that failed, how was he to adequately support a wife and children?

Weston drummed his fingers along the stem of his glass. More guests would be joining them on the morrow, and he was sure that one among them would be suitable. He needed a pleasant fellow. No disorderly rogues or rakes, but a gentleman who minded both his manners and his affairs. Certainly, he'd need to be patient. A tad boring. The male equivalent of Lady Martha, when it came right down to it. Surely that wouldn't be too hard to find.

As the cloud above him dissolved, Weston finished off his port and raised his glass to indicate he'd like another…to celebrate the end of all his American problems.

Evie could not sleep.

She had tried.

For what felt like hours, she'd tossed and turned and then turned and tossed. But while her limbs were heavy, her mind was not. It was racing, in all directions, no matter how hard she tried to curb its frantic flight.

Just shy of midnight, she gave up and tiptoed from her room so as not to wake Posy. Full from a bottle, the lamb was sleeping peacefully in a basket beside the bed.

Slipping into a pair of flat, soft-soled shoes and drawing on a long wrapper with blue bows stitched down the front, she tied it closed at the waist and padded silently into the hall. From there she descended the main staircase and, using a candle and memory to guide her, made her way out to a stone terrace.

Formed in the shape of a half-moon, it offered a clear view of the pond. Silver light glimmered on the glassy surface, but there was no sign of the swans. They, along with everyone else, were undoubtedly resting, their heads free of an earl with piercing gray eyes.

She hugged her arms close to her chest as she went to the edge of the terrace and leaned against the railing. From somewhere across the lawn, she could hear the chirp of crickets and the trickling water of the fountains. It made for a soothing melody, and but for the fractious nature of her thoughts, she might have been lured into slumber.

A good thing she wasn't, perhaps, for then she would not have heard the creak of the door on its hinges followed by the drawl of a deep, unfamiliar voice.

"Either I've successfully drunk myself into a stupor and you are a hallucination, or else I am dreaming." Wearing the lopsided smirk of someone who had imbibed heavily in spirits, the handsome stranger shared Weston's dark hair and gray eyes, although his were lighter and far less solemn. He was larger as well; broader in both his face and his shoulders. Weaving an uneven line, he tottered over to her and bounced into the railing with a grunt. "Bollocks. Didn't see that there."

"It's very dark," she said, biting back a smile. While he was obviously foxed (if his slurred speech and stumbling hadn't given him away, the scotch on his breath surely would have), the man seemed harmless enough. And charming besides, especially when he swept off his hat and lowered himself into an exaggerated bow.

"You, my darling, must be Miss Thorncroft. Or else an angel sent from heaven above." His eyebrows wiggled suggestively. "Might I have a peek at your wings?"

"The last I checked, I hadn't any of those." She canted her head to the side. "How do you know who I am?"

"A lucky guess. And Weston told me you were here. Though he failed to mention you were even more gorgeous than your sister. Then, I've always preferred brunettes to redheads. Less prone to fits of temper." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "But Kincaid seems smitten enough, so maybe I need to consider widening my horizons."

Evie was taken aback. "You-you know Joanna and Mr. Kincaid?"

"Aye. They're working on my case. Met with them right before I came here."

Had everyone known her sister was still in London except for her?

"Who are you?" she wondered aloud.

"Sterling Nottingham, Duke of Hanover, at your service." With a cheerful grin, he tossed his hat over the edge of the terrace. Then he frowned. "Did you see where that went?"

"No, I am afraid I did not."

"That was my second favorite hat," he said, peering over the railing.

Her lips twitched. "Then I'd advise you to be more careful with your favorite."

"You're probably right." With a sigh, Sterling crossed his arms. "Seems I'm losing everything these days."

"I'm not surprised, if you do to them what you just did to your hat."

His frown deepened. "I didn't toss my mistress over the balcony, if that's what you're implying."

Evie blinked. This was, she reflected, one of the most bizarre conversations she'd ever had. And it was only getting stranger by the second. "I'd never dare imply such a thing." She paused. "Was your mistress thrown over a balcony?"

"Last I checked, I dumped her in the Thames."

She started to laugh. Then her eyes widened. "You're serious."

"Yes. No," he corrected hastily when she started to slowly back away from him. "I mean, I don't know. What happened to her, that is. There was blood. Lots of it. And I was the last person to see her alive. Except for the killer, naturally. Whoever he is. But that's for Kincaid to figure out."

Evie considered his words. "I actually think I might have followed that. Maybe."

"I'm glad someone did." For an instant, the duke's countenance crumpled into misery. Then he cleared his throat, and flashed her another grin, this one even brighter than the last. "But enough about me and my misfortune. Tell me about yourself, Miss Thorncroft, and how it came to be that you're standing all alone on a terrace in the middle of the night."

She pulled her wrap more snugly around her shoulders. "I could not sleep."

"Fancy a nip?" Sterling asked, removing a flask from the inside pocket of his emerald green jacket. "Does the trick for me. Except when it doesn't."

As she eyed the flask, it occurred to Evie that this, right here, was one of the reasons she'd agreed to come to London in the first place. To find the ring and uncover Joanna's secret parentage, yes, of course. That was, without question, her main motivation for leaving Claire and her grandmother behind. But she would be lying if she didn't admit that she had also held out hope for a private rendezvous with a handsome duke. A rendezvous that would have blossomed into a courtship, and that courtship into a proposal.

Her Grace, Evelyn Nottingham…the Duchess of Hanover.

Now that would have set all of Somerville back on its heels.

If everything had gone as she'd first envisioned it, she'd be in a gown instead of a nightdress. With champagne in crystal flutes instead of scotch in silver flasks, and the strains of a waltz dancing on the air instead of chirping crickets. Most importantly of all, she wouldn't be standing in front of a duke…and secretly wishing he was an earl.

"I shouldn't," she told Sterling. "The last time I drank from one of those I found myself with a lamb."

Sterling chuckled. Tilting the flask to his lips, he guzzled down what remained and then returned it to his pocket. "Petunia, isn't it? I met the little fur ball yesterday. Never seen a sheep in a parlor before. Thought Weston had adopted a new breed of dog until it bleated at me."

"Posy," corrected Evie. "And she's very clean."

Sterling gave a jerk of his shoulder. "You don't have to convince me, darling. It's not my estate. What does our good friend Weston have to say about a sheep living in his house?"

As she turned to look at the pond, tension pulled her brows inward as if they were attached to tiny, invisible strings that automatically tightened whenever Weston's name was mentioned. "I do not care what his opinion of Posy is, and he is not my friend, good or otherwise," she said curtly.

"Well you can't stop there." After giving her a playful nudge with his elbow, Sterling rested his forearms on the railing and joined her in gazing out at the water. "What has he done now? If you've an especially heinous grievance to report, I can call him out for you. Pistols at dawn and all that."

If only it were that easy.

"While I appreciate your offer, I don't think a bullet would solve this specific problem."

"Maybe not. But surely it couldn't hurt to see him writhing in temporary agony."

Evie pursed her lips. "That's true."

"Alas, given my current reputation, I don't know if I'd be able to get anyone to stand in as my second. Besides, any bullet I fired would probably just bounce right off all that icy armor Weston wears and strike me instead." Sterling grimaced. "What if it hit this gorgeous face of mine? I'd be ruined."

"And dead, most likely."

"That, too." He contemplated the pond for a moment. "I like you, Miss Thorncroft."

"The feeling is mutual, Your Grace."

"None of that ‘Your Grace' business. Hanover if you must, and Sterling if you'd prefer. That's what all of my closest acquaintances call me." A boyish grin teased the left-hand corner of his mouth. "And plotting the murder of our host has almost definitely made us close acquaintances."

"Sterling, then." What a shame, she thought silently, that she'd met him after Weston. Especially since the Duke of Hanover was everything that the Earl of Hawkridge was not. Amusing, charming, and kind.

She stole a peek at Sterling, willing herself to feel the same spark for him that she did for Weston. It didn't even have to be a spark. Just a flicker, really. But much to her annoyance, there was nothing. The duke may have exhibited all of the behavior that she knew Weston was capable of if he'd just lower that damned guard of his, but he wasn't Weston. Her traitorous heart, against the sound advice of her head, had made its choice. And now she had to live with the consequences.

"I believe I am going to return inside," she told Sterling. "But I'd like to thank you for the company."

"Happy to provide it." His grin faded. His eyes grew serious. "I've a question to ask you, Miss Thorncroft."

"Evie," she said lightly. "Call me Evie."

There might not have been a spark between them, but that did not mean she and Sterling couldn't be friends. She did like him. In an affable, companion sort of way. Although, given his inebriated state, there was a very good chance he wasn't even going to remember that they'd even spoken come morning.

"Evie." He pivoted away from the railing and took her hands in his. "Would you–is Evie short for something?"

"Evelyn," she said, struggling not to giggle at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Standing outside on a terrace holding hands with a drunk duke whom she had no romantic interest in because she had gone and fallen in love with an earl who was incapable of love.

If she didn't laugh, she feared she'd start to cry.

Again.

"Evelyn," Sterling declared with great dramatic flair. "I–what was I saying?"

"You were about to ask me a question."

"Ah, that's right. Evelyn, sweet Evelyn…would you like to be my mistress?"

Evie stared. "Your mistress."

"Indeed," he said cheerfully. "As it so happens, the position has recently become available. I wasn't looking to fill it straightaway, to be honest. But you're you, and I'm me, and us pretty people need to stay together. In bed. Without clothes. Don't you agree?"

For the second time in as many days, she found herself rendered utterly speechless. "I…I am incredibly flattered by your offer, but…but I have to decline. I am sorry."

"Is it because my previous mistress died under nefarious circumstances?" he said glumly, dropping her hands.

"There is that," she acknowledged. "But also because…I'm not sure how to say this, actually, but…"

"You're in love with Weston." Taking out his flask again, Sterling gave it a shake. "Did you drink the rest of my brandy?"

"No. Your Grace–"

"Sterling."

"Sterling, I…how do you know that?" she blurted. "That I'm…I'm…"

"In love with Weston," he repeated.

Her face heated. "Yes. I haven't told anyone. I've barely admitted it to myself. So how do you know?" Hope kindled in her breast, slight as the breeze created by a butterfly's wing. "Did-did Weston say something? Or do something to indicate that he…he may feel a similar way about me?"

"Not a thing," Sterling replied.

"Of course he didn't," she said, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her tone as her hope was extinguished. "Why would he? I am a lapse in judgment."

How she hated those words! Almost as much as she hated that she couldn't get them out of her head.

The duke snorted. "Is that what he told you?"

"Among other things," she muttered, glancing at the ground.

"Weston's a bloody idiot, especially when it comes to anything to do with love. Due to his father, I suspect."

"His father?" Evie looked up. "What did the marquess do?"

"More like what he did not do. Men don't discuss such things, you understand." Sterling gave her a stern look. "It is a threat to our masculinity. But as my odds of remembering this conversation are slim to none, I suppose it won't cause permanent damage to my exceedingly fragile manhood to tell you that the Marquess of Dorchester was, shall we say, apathetic towards his children. And that is putting it kindly."

Evie gasped in dismay. "You mean…you mean he beat them?"

"No, no, nothing like that. But it might have been kinder if he had, as that would have shown some emotional investment. No, Weston's father was simply…nonexistent. As much as I could tell, anyway. Weston and I were schoolmates at Eton, and never–not once in four years–did I see the marquess step foot on school grounds. For some reason, Weston still believed he would be there for our convocation. It was the most excited I'd ever seen him."

Evie's heart wrenched as she imagined a young, hopeful Weston, waiting to see his father's face in the crowd of proud parents. "But the marquess never came, did he?"

Sterling shook his head. "Sent his solicitor in his place. The cold-hearted bastard. Weston never said a word. Never complained. Never even got angry, as far as I could tell. But the next I saw him, he was…different. More contained. More reserved. As if he'd decided that by shutting himself off from everything and everyone, he would never have to be disappointed like that again."

"That's horrible," she whispered. But it did help to explain the earl's standoffish behavior. The way he could burn hot one second, and freeze her out the next. The internal battle he always seemed to be fighting.

She could barely remember her mother. But her father had helped shape her into the woman she was today. If he hadn't shown her compassion, or empathy…if he'd never wrapped his arms around her when she was feeling sad, or rested his hand on her shoulder when she needed support…wouldn't she, too, have become hard? Like clay left untouched when it should have been molded, and shaped, and loved.

"Maybe if the marchioness had lived…" Sterling shrugged. "Who is to say? All I know is that Weston is who he is, and barring some unforeseen miracle, that's unlikely to change. But if you should ever like to reconsider being my mistress, I remain at your disposal." He gave another bow, even more elaborate than the last, and nearly followed his hat over the railing.

"I should think it is time for both of us to seek our beds," said Evie, reaching out to steady him. "I am glad we had this opportunity to speak, and I am grateful to have made a friend. But to be clear, I will not be reconsidering anything."

Sterling slapped a hand over his heart. "A crushing let down, to be sure."

She bit the inside of her cheek to contain her grin. "I am fairly confident that you will not be lacking for attention over the next few weeks."

"That is true," he said, brightening.

They walked through the terrace doors together and stopped at the base of the staircase. She did not know for how long they'd been outside, but the sconces on the walls had sputtered down to their wicks, causing her to reach for the railing as a guide as she made her way up the steps with Sterling trailing behind.

"Goodnight," she told him once they'd reached the top.

"Sweetest of dreams, darling Evelyn," he mumbled, his eyes closing as he leaned heavily against the wall. "The one who got away."

Rogue, she thought with the same sort of mild affection she might have bestowed upon a brother. "Evie is fine, but I'd prefer Miss Thorncroft in public lest people be led to believe I entertained or even accepted your incorrigible offer."

A gray eye slit open. "Ah, but Evelyn is going to drive our good earl mad with envy."

Her ears pricked.

Oh it would, would it?

Ordinarily, she'd never consider deploying such petty means by which to gain attention. But when Weston had reduced their physical connection to a regrettable error, he'd thrown down a gauntlet. And having purged herself of self-pity and tears, she was ready to pick it up.

"Well, in that case..." she said, a coy smile stealing across her lips. "Evelyn it is."