Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

T he day of Winterbourne's ball, a steady sea of fashionable city and country folk arrived to test propriety and passion, and forge bonds in a landscape of embellishments; wax candles in cut-glass chandeliers, lusters, and lamps illuminated rooms thrown open for the occasion. Plants from the conservatory and hot-house flowers transformed the interior of the house, teasing the senses, while politicians hobnobbed with their betters. Gossips remarked on the number of couples, the make of gowns, manners and good looks. All while music and dancing heightened expectations that the next three weeks would be a memorable experience leading into autumn.

A welcome breeze wafted from the open veranda doors, providing Lora relief from the overcrowded space. The refinement and refreshments, mockery, and merriment created a magical realm that contrasted reality, a fact she found frustrating. People brought chaos and demands. They required attention, preventing her from acting on impulse.

Pretending to be a wallflower—a pair of spectacles and a mousy demeanor her only armor—she played her part lest she disappoint Aunt Meg. Balls were feasts of artifice and flirtation, tombs of intrigue and interrogation that led women to ruin. She abhorred frippery, folly, and the foppish behavior allowed in ballrooms, preferring the splendor of nature, the outdoors, and the crisp country air to the rich and classical bouquet of beeswax and boredom. In truth, Society did not recommend her, though that had not always been the case.

Nicholas's horrific death had changed everything. Nothing would ever be the same.

Aunt Meg and Uncle Thomas led off the first set, Lady Montgomery , while everyone danced simultaneously in one singular line over the tastefully chalked floor, decorated with symbolic scenes of victory. It had been Meg's idea to honor Kingston's veterans of militia regiments and volunteers, who were flocking home in droves. Other dances followed with Juliana , a Viennese waltz, enlivening the room, providing a rare chance for the unwed to exude power and persuasion over the opposite sex. Now people who'd scarcely shaken hands had permission to affect a tender touch like an affianced lover under the watchful eyes of doting mamas.

"Isn't the waltz thrilling?" her friend Lady Elizabeth Seymore asked with a flood of enthusiasm meant to inspire Lora into a sigh. "Oh, look, there's Lady Anne. Take note of her hem as she spins. The drape and swirl of her gown adds an ethereal beauty to the dance, does it not?" Indeed, Lady Anne and those around her came to life, twirling, swaying, and gliding as gracefully as swans on a lake. "Oh, to be swept about in such a manner, dizzy with delight and dreaming about a lover's touch throughout the night."

"Eliza," Lora whispered, noticing the matrons around them blushing as their younger daughters traversed the floor in the arms of strangers, "someone will overhear."

"Let them hear. It is not as if anyone pays attention to me anyway."

"They should. You deserve better." A violent seizure of Lora's affections took hold. Although she and Eliza were childhood friends, women like them—wallflowers—sat and waited, left to rot between potted palms and partitions, their hopes of dancing face-to-face with a heroic gentleman dashed to smithereens. Reserve was not at fault for the ratio of male to female guests. Dowries and a lack of flirtation cursed those without. "I suppose dancing with an amiable partner poses an entertaining diversion, but dreaming about such a one depends on the man, his constitution, his morals, his—"

"Any man will do."

"Eliza, you shouldn't say such things." Her scandalous remark filled Lora with dread. Desperation had ruined innocents, and that was not a fate she desired Eliza to endure. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Don't be such a bird-wit. I am not wicked. You know what I mean." Eliza covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. "Oh, but I fly ahead of myself again. Of course, I would have to be asked to dance. Instead, I wait to be claimed by a worthy gentleman, which would be a Herculean feat, providing I was not—"

"A wallflower?" Pesky mark, that. "You are not. In any sense of the word. I beg, do not contemplate the idea. Why, you just danced with Mr. Grimes." She pressed her lips together to keep from grinning as the solicitor's subtle limp guaranteed he'd gotten the point. When she'd blocked Mr. Grimes's access to her uncle's property, she'd had no intention of permanently harming the man. Far from it. His blatant refusal to allow her access to his dispatches, however, followed by his cowardly actions, had got him into trouble.

Visits to her uncle had become more frequent, and with news that Samuel would return, curiosity made her wonder if the increased activity had anything to do with her cousin selling his commission. The time for glossing over Samuel's gambling habits was at an end. And based on what she'd learned, should Samuel inherit Winterbourne, he would drive the whole of it to destitution in a matter of weeks, using the estate as collateral.

"Poor old man," Eliza went on, though forty could hardly be called old. Meg was forty-two. "The effort caused him immeasurable pain."

What had the solicitor told her? She suddenly grew uncomfortable. "How so?"

"Did you not hear? He was attacked by highwaymen a fortnight ago."

"Highwaymen?" The man's ridiculous admission was not shocking. What was surprising was a sudden desire to tell Eliza the truth. If she knew the lengths to which Lora had gone to avenge Nicholas, what would her friend think of her? "The tolls have—"

"Yes. Yes, I know. It is typically safer to travel along that route now." Eliza shot her a look, her green eyes gleaming like porcelain as they locked onto Lora's. "I believe him. While valiantly protecting a woman in his care, he stated he was outflanked and shot."

Lora gasped. Not because the wound intensified her guilt, but for the inflated lies which would now become legend.

"Oh, it is a gut-wrenching tale, I assure you. The poor lady in his care swooned."

What a barrow of bollocks! Grimes's drivers had abandoned him and he had no spine.

"Mr. Grimes confronted the highwaymen, using his sword to repel them, but he was struck down from behind. Thankfully, due to his heroic actions, the damsel he rescued was there to provide him with sufficient care. And lo, he is here to tell the tale."

A warning voice whispered not to engage. Mr. Grimes's cowardice and bloated fable revealed him to be a warty frog. "Your beauty is mesmerizing, and dancing with Mr. Grimes allowed him to overcome his affliction. Take heart." Other gentlemen surely noticed her beauty and poise as she danced with a disagreeable partner. "Others will flock to your side. Wait and see."

Gathering her dearest friend close, quashing fears that Eliza may go home disappointed—yet again—she could not hold back the rush of reassurances that spilled from her mouth. They provided no solace when she was in a similar situation—a product of her own making, no less. She had no plans to show the strength of her power. She was a secondary object, the daughter of the host, nothing more. She intended to fade into the woodwork. For it was there she could plot and plan, determining the muster of men, condemning or exonerating them at her leisure.

"You are the prettiest creature present, Eliza." Which wasn't a lie. Eliza's dowry, however, limited temptation. "One of these fine gentlemen will come to his senses and fall prostrate at your feet, blathering on about the color of your hair or your winsome, tempting eyes. Perhaps I should retrieve the smelling salts."

That bit of wit produced a chuckle.

"Seriously, believe me when I say it is only a matter of time before someone sweeps you off your feet."

"The Duke of Beresford."

At that announcement, Eliza grabbed her arm abruptly. "He has come. I thought the rumors must be false. Oh, my heart is aflutter. Do you think it possible he might ask us to dance?"

"I can hardly say," Lora said unable to pull her gaze away from the handsome figure the duke posed standing there, dressed in black from head to foot, a white stock hugging his rugged jaw and a perfectly tied cravat the only adornment.

"It would be the height of rudeness to refuse him."

Yes. It was universally acknowledged that if a woman turned down a man, she must turn down all the others. A challenge Lora did not welcome, especially when Papa and Meg had such high hopes of her marrying by Season's end. No one would do for her except the duke. His handsome face frequented her dreams, and the memory of the look in his soul-stirring eyes as he'd chased her in the woods made her fear that he blamed her for his butler's death. Nothing could be further from the truth. She'd had no part in the poor man's demise and could also not afford the distraction the duke posed for her. She was determined to bring Nicholas's killer to justice. And if that meant sacrificing any future she might have had with the duke, so be it.

Eliza shook her out of her musings. "According to Wightman, we must ‘respect, cultivate, and exalt' the strength of our power. It is said to link us to angels."

Lora smiled, then looked away from the duke, fearful he'd catch her staring. "I am not an angel."

"Whatever do you mean, Lora? You are the most angelic person I know."

Which beggared belief. If her dearest friend knew her, really knew her—what she'd done to Mr. Grimes, the depths to which she'd fallen to catch a killer—she'd emerge from the shadows of their lifelong friendship and never look back.

After his name was announced, Myles entered the Marquess of Putney's ballroom and patiently waited for the games to begin. No matter the invitation, the marriage mart was an inevitable albatross hanging over every eligible gentleman's head—especially his.

To emphasize his point, the heads of peers of the realm, gentry and wealthy merchants immediately snapped to attention at the announcement of his presence, eyes rounding on him like hawks espying prey, hovering vertically, and slowly rattling teeth. Was it any wonder why he avoided the preposterous pomp, the hypocrisy, and the strict rules that held him aloft even in the country? Men weren't born great, but forged in fire and tried, earning respect from a lifetime of service to the Crown. Responsibility outweighed selfish inclinations, though there were those who sneered at their due and destroyed the living as quickly as swatting an insect from the air.

Returning the astonished stares of those who studied him, he said to no one in particular, "So, it begins."

Winterbourne.

The place where dreams ended. The home of the only young lady who'd ever tempted him, and the one he'd avoided at all cost—Lady Lora Putney. There were hints that the extravagances and details provided this country house party were plotted and planned, for all intents and purposes, to secure Lora a suitable husband. But which one had captured her heart? A nobleman? A country squire, local vicar, farmer? And why did the idea of her marrying another bother him? He had no claim on the marquess's daughter. Why, he didn't know her and, like a damn fool, had never allowed himself the opportunity to do so.

The musicians returned to their work while Grimes's accusations, the attempted robbery at Darby, and Stuart's murder, tugged at him, shifting his perspective back to important matters. There was no help to be had for this current commitment. Even at the cost of avoiding a diamond of the first water.

Bollocks! This misery was damned inconvenient, nauseating even, leaving him to wade into murky depths. One step into Winterbourne forced him to acknowledge that he could no longer ignore the facts. Against his machinations and the powers of persuasion, a wallflower owned him body and soul. Him. A duke! And the unforeseeable hiccup of their troubled past gutted cruelly, like a bayonet fixed on an attacking foe.

Except he was staring back at his own face.

Best come to terms with the decisions he'd made, a blunder of epic proportions meant to protect his heart. The damage had been done. To her. To him. The moon would fall from the sky before Lora would ever forgive his coldness, or he Fate, for the vastly different roads their paths had taken.

Too late, he'd come to the realization that he couldn't purge Lora from his soul. And now, there was no way to make amends. Her father's serious injury in a hunting accident kept her from participating in the marriage market. Then his father had died of natural causes, jettisoning his life into mourning as he assumed his new role. And woe betide them, Fate had struck again when someone murdered her brother, cutting him down squarely in his youth.

He'd made inquiries, unearthed no answers, and felt equally unqualified to offer the grieving solace. What man had the power to alter the past for himself or another? If he had, restoring a most beloved brother, indeed, the young Earl of Norbiton, to life would have been his first work. But only God had that kind of governance over mankind. So, life had gone on as it always had, in dreary fashion, season after season revolving with no resolution in sight.

How was he to know whether a young lady desired to marry the man he'd become or a dukedom? Fate didn't deal fairly. The events close to home of late were a prime example of that incontestable fact.

Nevertheless, here he was, having never attended a ball in Kingston-upon-Thames as the Duke of Beresford. Eton and Oxford, and timetables and tasks, had occupied him elsewhere as the Season and Society demanded. But current events—the haunts of highwaymen and Stuart's gruesome death—overruled despondency, disaster, and distance.

He'd best remember why he'd come to Winterbourne. Not for pleasure. And most certainly not for Lady Lora before she duly wed.

As magistrate, people expected him to wade through muck and uncover clues to the red-clad thief who was last seen leaving his property. And the only way to gradually gain favor with the locals was to reveal the identity of that despicable woman in the midst of it all. Although few people with good sense discussed peculiar matters with virtual strangers.

He focused on the sea of bobbing heads. Good manners and genuflections, flirtations and fancy were in plentiful supply as the musicians restarted Juliana , the mellifluous strains revitalizing the atmosphere.

Before too long, hesitancy to approach him waned, and a welcoming officiant advanced with a proper bow. "You honor us with your presence, Your Grace. Allow me to provide you with a warm Winterbourne welcome."

"And you are?" he asked, aware, too late, that he sounded pompous.

"Philip Stanhope, at your service, Your Grace."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "Ah. The marquess's solicitor."

"Indeed. I am honored that you know who I am, Your Grace."

"I make it a habit to learn everything about the people I have to thank for grand invitations."

Tall and lithe, Stanhope's genuine smile made the man instantly likable. "If I may be so bold, we were uncertain you would attend. It is the first time you've accepted an invitation from Kingston-upon-Thames."

"Yes," he said, bitten by regret. "Time has not been my own."

Another bow, this one more clipped. "My condolences, Your Grace, of course. May I offer you a private room in Winterbourne? It is His Lordship's hope that you will make use of it for the remainder of the party."

Though proximity to Lady Lora might be insufferably hard to bear, the situation provided him more time to investigate the happenings in Kingston. He tilted his head in thanks. "Delightful."

"If you will allow me to say so, Your Grace, your father was a good man."

He offered a quick nod as he searched the room. It did not differ from the more sophisticated establishments in London, filled as it was with matchmaking mamas, gesticulating fans and encouraging their daughters to pose to full effect. A hornet's nest. "Yes, I do say he was." He paused. "Stanhope, would you do me the honor of introductions? I have been preoccupied for far too long and I have not had the pleasure of meeting my neighbors."

An expression of wonder transformed Stanhope's face. "It would be an honor, Your Grace."

The man stepped back, gesturing for Myles to accompany him. Guests offered them a wide berth as they passed. Wives, daughters and sons, and several uniformed men bowed and curtsied reverently. All because he was a duke. Not for who he was or what he stood for, but for a hereditary title.

"If I may, Your Grace." Stanhope gestured to a group of men gathered by the hearth. "There, you will find the Honorable Thomas Hawkesbury and his son."

"Hawkesbury." Grimes's client, in the flesh. "The marquess's brother, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, Your Grace." The man's demeanor swiftly changed. "After the death of the marquess's son, he stands to inherit should—"

"Understood," he said as several couples walked past, arm-in-arm.

The pause enabled Myles to see that Stanhope was devoted to his master, Putney, and he strongly objected to the idea of losing the marquess. "From your tone, I take it you disapprove."

"Of his brother? Heavens, no. Although, if anything happens to Hawkesbury—"

"You may speak freely," he said, desiring to learn as much as he could about the dynamics of the village. "The truth is all I seek."

"I confess, Your Grace, my personal opinions are my own. I am a simple solicitor in the marquess' service and do not wish to influence—"

"But your profession endorses honesty, does it not?" He took in the merriment, recalling his youth and the occasions when Kingston had celebrated the harvest. "I insist."

"Very well." Stanhope nodded stiffly. "In the event something happens to Hawkesbury, the title will pass to the man's son. In that, I regret I have no say." He turned to reveal more with caution. "And it troubles me to admit the marquess's brother hasn't been himself of late. My concern for Lord Putney and his brother grows by the day."

"May I ask why?"

Stanhope nodded to someone he knew. "Forgive me for saying so, but I have it on good authority that young Hawkesbury is a rakehell. And if that is still the case, his return to Kingston is not in anyone's best interest, especially mine."

Myles studied the fellow with the acute ability to weed out the chaff. "Go on."

"He's been known to drink heavily, gamble excessively, offend the ladies, and the list goes on. Decorum dictates, however, that the marquess extends his family every courtesy."

"Of course." Myles examined young Hawkesbury, who stood in his regimentals, his chest expanding with overblown satisfaction. In his dealings with the Admiralty, he'd witnessed a man or two altered by wartime commissions. Was Hawkesbury such a man? "War changes men."

"Some for the better," Stanhope replied grimly. "Some not."

"And the marquess? Is he in attendance?"

"Regrettably, no. His daughter is present. She is there, modestly dressed and standing with the other young ladies assembled by the refreshment table."

He searched the bevy of young swans glancing in his direction. Pearls and ribbons adorned each fancy head, and jewels glistened around graceful necks. Hopeful expressions lit faces with curiosity and delight, but he did not plan to be swayed by fancy and flirtation. He hadn't come to form attachments. He wasn't in the market for a wife. Not when his butler's murderer roamed the countryside, and a bewitching woman in a red cloak held the key to the answers he sought.

The musicians created an ethereal atmosphere, and the wedge protecting the marquess's daughter thinned as he watched one young pen after another flock elsewhere, abandoning the last three. Before them, surefooted dancers basked in the refinement and splendor equal to lavish aristocratic events he'd attended in the city.

"If you'll follow me, I'll make the introductions."

He dragged his eyes away from Lora. "Thank you."

Stanhope worked his way through the crush. If anyone knew what was going on in Kingston-upon-Thames, it would be the marquess. Despite the man's choice not to make an appearance, it is possible that he was resting in an anti-room or library nearby, and an audience could be obtained through his only living child.

Dancers laughed gaily, their merriment contrasting wildly with the fierce impulses flowing through him to kill the man responsible for Stuart's death—the contradiction catching him off guard. His height offered advantage as they progressed, providing him an intriguing panorama the further they moved into the room, faces and speech put to memory.

Whilst players attended whist tables positioned in an adjacent room, making bets they hoped to win, men wallowed in self-importance, ignoring the disappointed hopes of women seated along the walls. A place, he noticed, Lora no longer occupied.

Candelabras illuminated the whole, beeswax and heat a heady mix. Refreshments beckoned, all manner of delectable fruits, roasted pheasant and fowl, and a profusion of flowers presented on silver, crystal, and exquisite French china. The marquess had spared no expense. Nevertheless, nothing would be more satisfying than obtaining an audience with Putney.

What would he have to do to get one?