Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"Y ou are the only fortunate female in the room," Eliza said. "You danced with the duke. Where is your enthusiasm? Tell me, what is he like?"

Lora rolled her eyes, fighting the mushrooming turmoil settling in her belly. "He . . . He—"

"Has left you speechless," Eliza said with sunny cheerfulness. "Well, isn't that something?"

"No. No. It is not what you think. He has shown no interest in me at all."

"That is not how it looked while you danced. He seemed determined to keep your attention."

"There you are correct," she admitted. "Although not for the reasons you suggest. He kept asking questions about Kingston, my father, and—"

"And?" Eliza asked, waiting expectantly.

"He offered his condolences for Nicholas's death."

"Is that all?" Eliza frowned. "How strange. From the way the two of you were looking at each other, I thought . . . Surely—"

"You thought wrongly."

A warm flush swept over Lora. She stroked her arm, recalling the duke's touch. He was a fine creature, finer than any she'd ever seen in her entire existence. His physical attributes had undergone significant alteration. He was taller in stature, with blond hair and blue eyes. A complete contrast of light to her dark. Indeed, he exuded calm authority, a take-charge-attitude that promised guidance to her worn spirit.

"He is the spitting image of his father," Eliza concluded. "I always thought the old duke was a handsome man. Though he was much too old for me."

"Eliza!"

"Old. Young." Her friend pouted. "What does it matter? I do not intend to be a burden to my parents."

"Have your mother and father ever led you to believe that you are a burden?"

"No," Eliza said wistfully. "But we all universally acknowledge that the eldest should marry first. With two sisters waiting in the wings, it is my duty to marry soon."

"Nobody is guaranteed love." Aunt Meg's hopes for her jumped to the forefront of Lora's mind. Marriage brought security and the added bonus of sweet little babes for her aunt to coddle. Pining for love set off a carillon of alarm for any wallflower. "No matter how hard we may wish for it, we cannot control Fate."

Eliza chuckled. "I will take matters into my own hands if need be."

"Take care, Eliza," she warned her friend. Lora had done things, said things, witnessed the unthinkable, and continued to take matters into her own hands. Where had it gotten her? She still didn't know who the man with the orange neckerchief was, who he worked for, or where he would strike next, and that was a constant frustration. "Be careful what you wish for."

"We are wallflowers, Lora. Wishes and dreams are all that we have."

Her gaze strayed to the Duke of Beresford, who stood out, dressed in a sea of black and cream, with his white linen stock and neatly tied cravat. During the waltz, his searching eyes had delved deep into her soul, stripping away the barriers necessary to hide her innermost secrets. "Being a wallflower is not the end of the world."

Beresford's attention was. His presence made her heart drum violently in her chest. His nearness jeopardized her cause. The attack on her defenses was a shock so rare, so sensual and seductive and strong, it brought to mind the first time she'd seen the then Lord Rutland, fresh out of Oxford, and waited for him to sign her dance card. He never did. She'd almost never recovered from the cut direct. But he was here, now, a young duke of renown, coming in all his state to confuse and charm her. Certainly, the threat he posed to the role she played—that of a mild-mannered wallflower with a saddled nose—disrupted her plans to avenge her brother and heightened the risk that her mask might slip. Being distracted frightened her more than moonless nights, armed bandits, and crossbow pikes.

Then there was this disorderly twinge in her belly. Whenever he looked her way or came near, the earth rocked beneath her feet. Oh, he was dangerous, all right. And someone needs to intervene before the ground gives away, opening and deepening ruts, and trapping her in a flood of passion in the mire.

"What I object to," Eliza complained, "is this unbearable waiting. What I wouldn't give to be able to ask a man to dance."

"I do not think the ton will ever allow that." She laid her gloved hand on her friend's arm. "Hoping for miracles is a waste of time."

"Balderdash!" Eliza snapped her fan closed, a flash of humor crossing her face. "We do not need miracles. You and I are just as accomplished as any other female in this room. And you are the daughter of our esteemed host."

"Shhh." She played a game of cat and mouse. No one could discover that she was the cloaked woman in the woods. One wrong word or look might draw suspicion her way. "I do not desire attention."

Beresford had caught her once.

He could do it again.

Would she be able to escape a second time?

No. The less she and the duke had dealings, the better.

"Honestly, I do not understand you. Your aunt took great pains to arrange this house party, but you act like you want no part of it."

"That isn't necessarily true. You are here." She flashed a winning smile to cheer Eliza's spirits. "And I will feel doubly blessed if my father summons the strength to attend." She worried her bottom lip. "The exposure to people would do him good. If only—"

"The duke knew how much you adore him," Eliza said with a sigh.

"No." Fear seized her. "He can never find out. I would die of sheer mortification."

Among other things. The world she traversed would cease to exist if the duke found out that she was in love with him. People would place expectations upon her. More eyes would watch her every move. Besides, he hadn't accepted the invitation to Winterbourne to find a wife, and she had no need for a husband . . . yet.

Despite everything, Eliza persisted and wouldn't be put off. Opening her fan, she stepped forward and shielded their faces. "Be honest. You desire him still."

"Eliza." She glanced around to make sure no one overheard them. Beresford's reasons for attending their little house party were personal and grievous, and the questions he brandished were far more dangerous. "I have outgrown such fantasies, and he has left Society to take his father's place. He desires to know the area, its people, that is all."

"I doubt he danced with you in order to get information that can be easily obtained from any man of our acquaintance. No," Eliza said, smiling. "The tension between the two of you clearly hinted at something more while you were dancing."

"You are wrong. I should be happy never to see the duke again." Liar! Strength and power were seductive forces. One word from Beresford could put everything to rights. He had connections. He could hire men, locate Nicholas's killers, and put them to the noose. But then I would not have the satisfaction of watching the life fade from my enemy's eyes. "Besides, I cannot marry until Papa has fully recovered. No, indeed. I assure you I am not under the duke's spell."

"That is not what I saw."

Smothering a groan, she hugged her friend close, hating the need for dishonesty. Until Nicholas's death, she had withheld nothing from Eliza. However, times had changed. If Eliza knew what she was up to, she would quickly put an end to her schemes out of concern for her safety.

"Your eyes only see goodness and that is why I adore you," she said. "You restore balance and beauty to the world and keep it from feeling like a dismal place."

"Oh, Lora. Though we may occasionally be blind to it, I truly believe that goodness exists. Worthy souls attract happiness." Eliza affectionately gripped her hand. "Even piqued wallflowers."

She chuckled at Eliza's play on words. "You are a bright star. Truly wonderful and wise."

"I tell myself that every morning." Eliza managed a small, tentative smile. "When I stand before the looking glass, mind you. But . . . this is my third season." She covered her mouth, mocking the absurdity. "Forgive me for mentioning it again. I know that personal matters have kept you from coming to London, and you have experienced more suffering than anyone should have to endure. But other than Mr. Stanhope, I fear—"

"Nothing." She squeezed Eliza's hand, ignoring the torrent of emotion flooding her heart. Self-pity contributed naught to one's plight other than making a person the most miserable of souls to be around. And a ball was not the place to snivel and whine, even in Samuel's presence. "The only interest required to sustain you, Eliza, should be your own."

"That is not the same thing, Lora, and you know it." Eliza trained misty eyes on the dancing bodies moving across the ballroom floor. "I want marriage and babies—"

"And you shall have them," she assured her. Even she had those earnest desires, though they hung to be pecked to the bone like Jerry Abershawe's corpse.

No one married a felon. Fine gentlemen—her liberal description of vandals of female virtue—preferred fluttering fans, coy glances, and secret interludes to the qualities that enhanced a woman's appeal; talents for something other than breeding. She was a marquess's daughter, encouraged to marry within her station. The aristocracy limited her choices, though that pool also included dandies and droll politicians, none of whom would be interested in marrying a woman destined to be hanged.

"Don't look now." Eliza gestured to the doorway. "He is coming."

"Who?" Suddenly perplexed, she searched the ballroom floor, half-expecting and dreading to see the duke approach for another dance.

"Your cousin."

Her inner turmoil heightened, her head swirling with doubt. "Do not stare. That will only encourage him."

"I shall persuade him to ask me to dance," Eliza said, fluttering her fan. "I will rid you of him in a thrice."

"Do nothing of the sort, Eliza," she hissed. "He is not a trustworthy man."

But it was too late. Unaware of the danger, Eliza pretended to look besotted, earning Samuel's broad smile as he approached, forcing Lora to reluctantly admit that her cousin appeared handsomely turned out in his regimentals. Lieutenant Samuel Hawkesbury presented himself to all and sundry as a hero, and luxuriated in the resulting praise. Nauseating. Unless war had dealt him a jarring reality and transformed the tyrant, she'd bet her life that his soul was still as black as the dead of night.

He drew closer, unmistakable derision radiating from his eyes, quickly putting to rest any ideas of alteration. His smug disdain for others stirred her instincts, warning her to stay on her guard. From his hessians to his lean, lithe figure, to his broad-shouldered epaulettes, high stock and perfectly tied cravat, it appeared the militia recommended the spiteful brat who'd vowed to make her regret rejecting him.

"Lady Lora." Her cousin's dignified air and his mockingly suave bow assaulted her senses.

Watched by a gaggle of witnesses, she dipped a quick curtsy. "Lieutenant."

"Come now. Are we not family? Surely, after all this time, you will use my given name. We Hawkesburys are immune to formality, are we not?"

"You are correct in one regard. It has been a long time." Not long enough.

She detected a twitch in his lower lip before his attention shifted to Eliza. "And who is this lovely confection by your side?"

"Do you not remember?" Instinct advised against introductions, but decorum prevailed. "Lady Elizabeth. This is my cousin, Lieutenant Samuel Hawkesbury."

"We have met previously, though you may not remember, as it was five years ago." Performing an elegant curtsy, Eliza added, "How do you do?"

"Lady Eliza," he said, infuriating Lora by using her friend's nickname. "A woman grown. You are a delight in this veteran's eyes. The pleasure is mine, I assure you." Yielding another gallant bow, he brought Eliza's hand to his lips, then peered at Lora with contrived importance and an indecent amount of tomfoolery. "Forgive me. I could not help but notice you from across the room. If you are not otherwise engaged, may I request to have my name written on your dance card?"

The dye cast, Eliza's wide-eyed enthusiasm sealed her fate. "M-My card?" she falsely stuttered.

"The very one." His broad, slithery smile rippled through Lora like an advancing tide, filling her with multiple misgivings. Given all that had occurred between them in their youth—the competition and jealousy—she had good reason to harbor distrust for her cousin. In truth, the sensation consumed her entire being for far stronger reasons than she could fathom. But were her assumptions wrong? Festooned with military honors, Samuel's uniform practically gleamed with pageantry. She had to consider whether it was possible that he had come home a different man, given that war had changed men for better or worse. "I would be honored to have the next waltz."

"As would I." Eliza's sigh ground through Lora's ears. If her friend didn't tone down her feminine wiles, Samuel would quickly catch on.

"Delightful. Only Lady Eliza just mentioned that she needed a drink. We were just about to—"

"Is that so?" Samuel bared his teeth, bent near, and whispered something only Lora could hear. "Be a good girl and get your friend a drink, and have it waiting for her when the music ends, eh? And while you're at it, see that my father gets something to drink too. He looks pale, if you ask me."

Alarmed, she shot a look at her uncle. From across the room, he appeared to wobble but was quickly put to rights by the man at his side. By the time she recovered from what she'd seen and sought out Eliza, her friend produced a theatrical parting smile.

Oh, Eliza. What have you done? It never boded well to encourage Samuel.

She watched their retreating figures and wondered how far Samuel would go to get what he wanted. Would he hurt her blameless friend to get back at her as he'd done so often with innocent animals or the tenants on the estate?

"Lady Lora, are you unwell? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Startled from her nightmarish musings, she cast a worrisome glance at the tall man who appeared at her side. Oh, why did the duke have to be so handsome? His chiseled brow and sculpted jawline housed the finest set of lips she'd ever seen, setting her heart aflutter. "You are mistaken. I was speaking briefly to my cousin."

"I've been told some men are returning from Waterloo behaving like ghosts of themselves."

Heartbreaking. In Samuel's case, however, she knew he would never put himself in harm's way. He was a coward, through and through. "My cousin appears unchanged."

"That, too, can be detrimental. If I have learned anything in my sessions in parliament, it is this. A man hides many faces."

A woman does too. "Are you suggesting that Samuel is hiding something?"

"Only you can answer that. I do not know the man."

I have every reason not to trust him. She flipped open her fan to cool the flush creeping into her face, desiring to hide any emotion she might unwittingly expose at the mere mention of her cousin. "What is there not to know? His embellishments are there for all to see, Your Grace."

He cleared his throat. "I did not come to interrogate you. You have my word as a gentleman. Rather, I came to apologize."

"What do you have to apologize for, Your Grace?"

He peered at her intently. "My previous conduct."

"I suspect it is I who should apologize to you." She fanned her face faster. She regretted jumping to conclusions, but she would never regret his touch, his nearness, or his leather and sandalwood scent. She met his stare, feeling an unreasonable desire to unburden herself of these feelings for reasons which beggared belief. "You have not offended me, nor do I believe you are capable of doing so. It takes a great deal more than a dance to bend my will."

An instant wistfulness stole his expression. "Be that as it may, allow me to explain."

She nodded, hesitantly. "Very well."

He shifted on his feet and searched the crowd where friends and acquaintances mingled, his size making it unlikely he missed a thing taking place. "There is . . . That is to say—"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, a sudden urge to shift the conversation gripping her like a vise. "It just occurred to me that I have neglected to offer my condolences, Your Grace."

Raucous laughter and snatches of music filled the air, a stark contrast to the serious turn of their conversation. "You heard?"

"News of this nature is hard to conceal, especially in Kingston." He, of course, alluded to the death of his butler, but she did not. Rather, she intended him to believe that she was offering condolences for his father's death. She clutched her neck, assuming a look of innocence, at odds with herself for tricking him into revealing what he knew about the thieves who tried to break into his home. "Since your brief return for your father's funeral, I have not had the opportunity to extend my sympathies and—"

"You misunderstand, Lady Lora."

She had him. "What is there to misunderstand?"

The look he gave her filled her with dread. "So, you have not heard."

"Heard, what? Is there something I should know? Has something happened to threaten our gathering?"

He led her to a potted palm. "There is no easy way to say this. Thieves broke into my estate several nights ago."

Wearied by indecision, she asked, "Was anyone harmed?"

"Yes." Muscles ticked in his jaw as he studied her. "Stuart, my butler, did not survive."

She no longer had to pretend. The sounds of the wood, the hunt, the urgency of that night flooded back, reminding her how fragile life was.

"No." The word barely escaped her mouth before guilt overwhelmed her. Thankfully, the duke attributed her distress to the murder. He escorted her to a nearby chair and sat down beside her. "How?" she asked, fearing the blame he would undoubtedly lay at her feet.

"I did not mean to upset you with this news, Lady Lora. I only speak of it to warn you that the countryside isn't safe. To understand why, I am determined to learn as much as I can about the area and its people."

"I am terribly sorry about your butler. Had he been in your employ long?"

"Most of my life. Stuart dedicated himself to my father, but he also meant a great deal to me."

"What happened to him?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't discuss this. I do not want to frighten you."

"I must know," she insisted.

He breathed in a long breath. "Upon my recent return from London, I arrived to find my estate in chaos. Staff were scrambling to search the woods for thieves that had broken into the house. Later, I discovered that Stuart had been stabbed while trying to stop them."

"Did he suffer terribly . . . in the end?"

"I cannot say."

A tight knot within her begged for release. "Was he able to tell you who stabbed him?"

"No. But I almost caught one villain," he said grimly.

She pressed on, eager to find out what he knew. "What did this villain look like?"

"She rode a white horse and wore a red cloak."

"She?" Her composure nearly cracked. Good God! He blames me for his butler's murder!

"Yes." He rose in one fluid motion. "She will not be easy to trap, but capture her, I shall."

She raised her fan, swallowing with difficulty.

Samuel desired Nicholas's inheritance. She wanted to avenge Nicholas. And the duke plotted to unveil her identity.

What was she to do?