Chapter 10

Normally Langley would never have been seen at such a modish ton event but now there was Miss Keating and their search through Town, his excuses for staying away were gone. In the last few days after Miss Keating and he had been shot at had rapidly devolved into a drunken mess on his part—it was not something Langley was proud of, but almost dying meant he had to make some decisions, and as someone not prone to wise choices, he had gone to his men's club. After all, it had been one of the sites on Miss Keating's map, so he thought he would also manage to check for some sight of the clock. But of course, he had to cover his tracks. In order to pass the time, he had drunk. Well, that explained some of his actions.

Langley racked his mind as he talked to the eminently pleasant if rather dull Lady Meadows and her cousin. They were clearly new to Town, or else someone would have warned them away from him.

As he was thinking that, Baron Verne approached. The debonair gentleman always unnerved Langley with his disconcerting dark looks and quizzical brow. "Langley." Verne made a quick bow, with a half tilt of his head, which reluctantly Langley returned. Turning, Verne looked towards Lady Meadows and whatever her cousin was called. "I believe, ladies, my sister desires your presence. She wishes to give you a book you requested on your last visit." Raising his hand to Lady Briers, Verne signalled to his sister, who gave a wave to the ladies.

To Langley's relief, Lady Meadows and her niece left, leaving him alone with the ever-calm Verne. His very patience made Langley wish desperately to ruffle his hair and stick out his tongue—anything to draw a reaction from the younger man.

"I do not remember reading your name on the invites," Verne said. Most gentlemen would be offended by an uninvited intruder, but Verne did not seem too bothered.

"Perhaps I got the wrong house," Langley said. "Going to throw me out?"

"I would not dream of upsetting my sister so." There was a slight pause and then Verne added, "Of course, provided you do nothing untoward to any of my guests."

"It's a dance party. I will play my dutiful part," Langley said, knowing that his standing up with any of the ladies in the ballroom would have a ruinous effect on them, his reputation was so marred.

To this provocation, Verne sighed, as if dealing with a petulant child. "I would suggest, my lord, you take yourself to the card room. Or if you do not fancy losing money, my servants would be happy to bring some water to help…"

"Are you alleging that I cannot hold my liquor?" Even as he spoke, Langley knew he was being a stick in the mud, an ass… but he was on edge, all nervous energy after the shooting, the memory of the danger he'd put Miss Keating in, and the sense she still had not told him everything. Besides, whilst he might be described as half cut, he could handle himself—he was not about to fall over.

Before Verne could make a cutting reply, Langley's eyes were immediately caught by a tall, lissome figure, whose rich sable brown hair was coiled elegantly atop her head. Her figure was beautifully clothed, in the most fashionable dress he'd seen her in, which added a grandeur to her physique, transforming her from his Amazon and giving her a regal aura. Miss Keating's gaze was challenging as she looked around the ballroom, taking everything in. Her face froze when she acknowledged him, and she blushed. He realised she knew he was here, and she had been waiting for him to see her. Hastily, Miss Keating turned back to her companion and the other guests, but Verne was not known as a spy for nothing. He, of course, had seen their exchange, but more notably Miss Keating's reaction.

Leaning closer on the pretence of taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant, Verne said, "Not anything untoward towards any of my guests."

Were Langley a better man, he would probably confess or explain the situation to Verne. After all, the baron was an honourable, good man, with the reputation of a saint—as well as one skilled at working for the state… but Langley was not so well behaved. He prided himself on being selfish, ambitious for himself and for his own betterment—besides, his curiosity was engaged, and he was not prepared to lose Miss Keating. She had come to him, asked for his help—trusted him, not Verne. Even if the baron was a better man.

Weighing his options, Langley knew that he would need to ignore his host's warnings. No matter what the consequences were for the lady. In fact, he scolded himself as he took a leisurely stroll around the ballroom, nodding at the occasional acquaintance and reminding himself that he had never previously minded the consequences—admittedly it was not normally the virginal daughter of a vicar who was at risk.

With narrowed eyes that Langley maintained had nothing to do with possessiveness, he watched as Miss Keating took to the dancefloor on the arm of a man he did not know. The smiling gentleman whose wild grey hair was tied back, and there was a scruffiness to his wardrobe. There might be a fatherly appeal to such a one, Langley reasoned as he studied the polite Miss Keating's conversation.

Spotting Lady Olivia Wilson's niece looking wistfully at the floor, he swept forward and offered the debutante his arm. The younger woman looked delighted, her Aunt less so. Despite being the occasional visitor to one or more of Langley's parties, Lady Wilson clearly wished to protect her name as much as she could.

"I will, of course, ask you to dance next, Lady Wilson, so no one will be offended," Langley added smoothly, and the widow's eyes softened a touch. "It is not the waltz, just a quadrille. Perfectly harmless, I do assure you. Your niece will be entirely safe."

Lady Wilson gave a wave of her hand to her niece, and Langley swept forward onto the dancefloor with the tiny chit. He hoped Miss Keating appreciated the sacrifice he was making on her part, damaging his own ruined name by having to behave himself now. After all, he had worked extremely hard to be thought of as a libertine. Casting that aside in a mad effort to talk to Miss Keating was not the sort of thing Langley had ever envisioned doing before. Nor, he told himself sternly, would he repeat those actions in a hurry.

His dance partner, a Miss Kitty Bradshaw, babbled that this was one of her dances, that she was freshly ‘out', and Langley thought her around eighteen, although judging by her large round cheeks she might be younger. At least no one would think he had any ill intent to such a baby.

The music began and he swept Miss Bradshaw away, his eyes drifting easily to where Miss Keating was. Thankfully he did not have to wait too long until the dance moves brought their gloved fingers together. Miss Keating's eyes bulged as her gaze settled on him, her lips pursing as she moved a step closer to him almost, he thought, unwillingly.

"I need to speak to you." Langley's voice was low, audible only to her ears, as they passed by each other.

"We are talking now." Miss Keating's response was slow, and Langley sighed. If she insisted on dragging this out it would make the whole process more noticeable. It was all very well him attempting to act honourably, but what was the point if all his plans were ruined by other watching guests?

They moved around each other, pausing to bow with their alternate partners. The notes of the dance were pleasant, jovial, and engaging, although Langley felt its very cheerfulness was rubbing him raw. What would he do if one of his friends saw him thus?

"It concerns your precious map." Langley tried again, pleased when he saw her react. "I have a further piece of information that will most definitely interest you."

To this, Miss Keating wetted her lips and swallowed. He watched as that gorgeous bottom lip of hers was dampened. It annoyed Langley no end, and he felt his cock tighten at the sight. Why did he want this blasted woman? It was not convenient; she was in danger, which meant he could hardly make any kind of seduction towards her when all his instincts were crying out to do exactly that. The circumstances were forcing him to act more honourably than he ever had before, and it did not sit well. Blinking, he forced himself to focus.

"Meet me outside," he ordered her, hoping to hand her the secret and be done with the matter. Surely the woman would not drag this blasted party out any longer than was strictly necessary.

"That isn't wise, my lord," Miss Keating said. "What if we are seen?"

Normally her question would not bother him. A woman's choice was her own, but because of the known physical danger Margot was in, Langley would not risk her so.

She moved away, her body swaying closer to her partner once more, leaving Langley to mirror this move with the blonde opposite him.

When Miss Keating finally returned, the music was coming to an end. Their eyes met, and she gave him the slightest of nods. She seemed to have changed her mind and would attempt to meet him. A small swoop of his stomach indicated his pleasure as he escorted his partner off the floor.

"Thank you, Miss Bradshaw, for the most delightful dance." He turned an intense stare on Lady Wilson. "Olivia?"

"Hush," the widow scolded, and beckoned another youthful-looking debutante forward. "Since my lord is eager for the nursery, allow me to present my goddaughter, Miss Buxton."

With a sigh, Langley sketched a bow, and offered out his hand to Miss Buxton. Supposedly he had warranted such brutal teasing from Lady Wilson, although he could not understand the cruelty. After that dance, he was fairly swamped. It seemed that now the rumour swirled that for the first time in his long and rocky career that Langley was obviously contemplating matrimony. It was a damnable lie, and it took him far too long to escape outside onto the veranda, where he looked skywards and contemplated running away through the garden. A cough behind him pulled Langley back to himself, and he turned with relief to see Miss Keating. She was standing still, staring at him across the short space; the only sign that there was a problem was the twisting of her hands.

In mock courtliness Langley dipped at the waist, bowing to her formally with all the overperformance as if she were a duchess. From inside the townhouse there was the bright sound of a quadrille—the noise of ton-ish life continuing—but it felt separate from the two of them.

With a sigh, Miss Keating moved closer to him, her voice low. "You said during the dance that you had something for me?"

"I risked life and limb," Langley said, turning and walking to the edge of the veranda, looking down into Verne's garden. There were, dotted throughout the lawn, trees and rose bushes, the shape of lanterns which created a pretty pattern to illuminate the visitor's way. Were Langley a different man, were circumstances altered, he might offer his arm to Miss Keating and escort her through the garden, discussing something light, foolish, and amusing with the hope of making her laugh. Perhaps he might even try and steal a kiss. But those were not the circumstances they found themselves in.

"Were you shot at again?" There was a touching note of concern to her question and Langley turned to find Margot standing next to him, her hands resting beside his on the balustrade.

"Would it matter if I were?" Langley watched her closely through the moonlight.

"Of course," she said, a line appearing between her brows. "I would be deeply concerned. You are the only person who knows the truth."

With a bitter laugh, Langley turned and walked down a few steps towards the garden. Getting away from the music and the sound of the ball was suddenly appealing, and putting some distance between himself and the alluring scent that Margot was wearing was a necessity. She smelt of a heady blend of jasmine, vanilla, and a rich, fragrant spice—where had a vicar's daughter found such an explicit scent that pulled up images of bedrooms, lace negligées and stockings…? It was also galling that he desperately wanted her approval—how needy of him.

Miss Keating followed him, down the steps, until she caught hold of his arm. "Are you going to tell me what you discovered, or simply leave me in suspense?"

From the pocket of his waistcoat, Langley pulled out what he had discovered at his men's club, White's. In his palm he held a small, slim silver key. He took hold of her hand, turned it upright, and gave it to her.

"It was inside the clock. On the second floor." He had checked the other clocks in the club, and found no sign of another key.

She was frowning down at it, only a step above him, so Langley could stare directly into her face. Drink in every aspect of her features. He had dismissed her as pretty, but not extraordinary previously. Now the nearness of her was so acute, it was painful. The light was coming from behind her, so the shadows highlighted her cheekbones, her sharp nose, and elegant eyebrows. There was such clarity to her green eyes it might take a lifetime to understand them. "Are you certain that it had nothing to do with the clock itself?"

Drawing nearer, now they were only inches apart, Langley tapped the key. "The Ashmore family crest is at the base."

Margot's face shot up and he caught her smile. One of relief with a hint of pleasure at the corners. "Well done."

The last time a woman had spoken to him with such a level of approval, Langley had had his head buried between that woman's legs. He forced himself to take a step back, as suddenly he wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees before Margot, lever her down onto the cold, hard steps, lift her dress over her head and rip away at her stockings and undergarments below her gown, all keenness to explore her lithe body, to know what her voice sounded like when she made the sweetest of keening noises and?—

"Langley?" She touched his shoulder, and he flinched in response, forcing himself to look back at her. There was still a limited amount of space between them, with their mouths close to each other, and he saw Margot sway just a little towards him.

"Call me Silvester," he urged. His fingers moved and he gripped both of her arms, just above her gloves.

"You know I can't." Margot's voice wavered, as if she were tempted, and he wondered how far he could push her to go until she whispered his name. If he did lean forward, press his hungry mouth against her tempting lips, would she finally moan it, say it, and acknowledge the strange, burning desire that pulsed between them?

There was a noise behind them, and Margot started. It was a lightly inflected voice followed by a heavier tone—Verne, and his dear friend Silverton. Langley watched as two members of the Oxford Set strolled out onto the veranda, both heading towards the same spot Margot and he stood in. As soon as they reached the top of the steps, they would be able to see Langley holding on to Miss Keating.

"We must move, we cannot be seen. It would not be safe," Margot said. She grasped his hand and hurried them down into the garden. As they dashed down the steps, past the lit lanterns, Langley felt a touch of satisfaction that they had reached the pretty garden without any push on his part.

Pausing finally to throw themselves behind a wide tree, which hid them from view of the path, Margot turned and looked breathlessly up at Langley. "Why do you look so self-satisfied?"

"Most ladies would not regard being trapped outside with me as a point of safety for them. At least not if they valued their good name." With a languid ease, Langley leant forward, framing Margot's head between his two hands so she was trapped there, and awaited her response with bated breath.