Chapter Nine

Perhaps it was merely the circumstances of the will addling his brain, but Nick was convinced London was far emptier than usual for this time of year. At the very least, Lord Gregory and his wife were not nearly as popular as they had been last year, with their musicale attendees being less of the nobility and more of the gentry, who apparently cared little to be on the land that had given them their status in the first place.

Although, as he surveyed the guests already congregated in Lord Gregory's music room, Nick supposed he would have to count himself among those whose land hardly appealed to them. He couldn't remember the last time he had spent more than a week at his estate.

He grunted at the edge of the room, reminding himself that his focus needed to be on the ladies in attendance tonight, not on the land he had neither the knowledge nor the funds to improve and make profitable again.

Upon entering the house, he had spotted a few young ladies he hadn't met yet. Young was a key word regarding their descriptions, however. They couldn't be older than seventeen or eighteen, and Nick, at thirty, was not comfortable with pursuing girls who had scarcely entered Society. Whoever his wife would be, she ought to be at least somewhat near his own age and would have to know how to weather the gossip storms of London that were never far behind him.

He had stalled long enough, and unless more guests were set to arrive fashionably late, Nick had seen his only options. Five miserable days in London had given him little hope for success, but he would hold his head high and face the crowd that had finally realized he was standing at their outskirts.

It was time to perform.

He had taken only one step toward Lord Gregory to garner an introduction to the ladies when a horrifyingly familiar voice cut through the chatter.

"Yes, Mr. Forester was quite convinced the ghost of a cow was wandering the corridors! Can you imagine such nonsense? A cow!"

As his blood turned cold, Nick mirrored several gazes turning to the far corner of the room. She couldn't be... But yes, Emma Mackenzie stood next to a small gathering of people, Mrs. Hatch, one of London's premier gossips, among them. And judging by the way Miss Mackenzie smirked at Nick, she knew very well that she had spoken just loudly enough to catch the attention of most in the room.

What on earth was that blasted woman doing in London?

"A... a cow?" Mrs. Hatch repeated, her eyes wide beneath the ridiculous feathered headdress she had donned for the evening. "How fascinating."

Miss Mackenzie smiled wide, and Nick tried to ignore how much he liked that dimpled smile. Her happiness could only mean misery for him. "I myself do not believe in spirits, but he was quite convinced it required his help."

Would he never live that down? It had been a ridiculous utterance to escape Miss Barton, something Miss Mackenzie knew well.

As eyes swiveled to him, Nick forced a smile. "If I recall, Miss Mackenzie, it was your idea to discover what the poor creature was lacking."

"Only to humor your concern," she shot back. "You seemed ever so upset. And after the bandit attack as well!"

"Ah yes, the village youths who thought to rob me."

"Thought to? They succeeded, did they not? You were so fearful when you arrived at the house, running from the depraved souls who frightened you into hiding when you arrived in Tutbury."

Nick choked when he realized she was speaking of Miss Barton, all too aware of the heads bouncing back and forth between the two of them. Miss Mackenzie had a knack for using the truth to her advantage, it seemed. Though it wasn't his usual tactic, he thought it might work to his benefit to do the same. "The bandits got to me after I had arrived at my destination, if you'll recall, Miss Mackenzie. I believe you are thinking of the lost child who waylaid me while I was in town. The poor thing hardly knew what to do with herself, all alone in the village like that."

Why was he engaging? Miss Mackenzie wasn't known in London, and she could say whatever she wanted; no one had any reason to believe her. He needed to stay focused and let her realize she was entirely out of her depth among the ton . These were not country folk who hung on her every word. They had spent the last three years listening to him .

He made it one more step toward Lord Gregory before Miss Mackenzie said, "It is a pity you were forced to leave Tutbury."

The murmurs of the other guests made him pause. Forced? Was she going to turn him into some sort of villain, chased back to London with torches and rifles like some unwanted beast?

"Yes," he said slowly, all too aware of the many eyes on him. "I would have liked to stay, but when I heard my good friend fell ill, of course I had to return to Town."

She pursed her lips as if deep in thought. "Do remind me. Which friend was that?"

He could give any name. Any name he wished, and she wouldn't have a clue. But the rest of the ton ... The people in this cursed city liked to think they had the right to know everyone else's business, and Nick spent far too much time perusing the gossip columns and betting books to ensure he didn't lose track of where he stood. The last three years of his life had been lived for the consumption of others, and he needed to remember that.

Emma Mackenzie knew no one in London outside her family; the rest of those in the room knew everyone .

"Mr. Mansfield, of course," he said, not quite with the confidence he hoped for. Miss Mackenzie had gotten under his skin already.

"The man you dueled?"

Oh heavens, Miss Barton is here too.

Pasting on a smile to avoid looking utterly horrified, Nick found the woman just behind Miss Mackenzie, as if the two of them had become good friends over the course of the last few days. Heaven help him if that were true.

"You have a good memory, Miss Barton," he said, hoping she didn't remember the reason he had given her for the fictional duel. He seemed to recall something about a cravat, which was a ridiculous reason for dueling someone he had now claimed to be a dear friend. Had he always been this awful at coming up with new lies? Why had Society ever believed a word he said?

He cleared his throat, standing a little taller. "The friend I speak of is that Mr. Mansfield's brother. But it seems Lord Gregory and his wife are eager to begin the evening's entertainment, so I shan't bore you all with the details."

With one nod of his head, he had the crowd scrambling to take their seats. At least he could still direct a group, which would come in handy if Miss Mackenzie was to remain in Town for the rest of his timeline. Did that mean Lord Harstone had come as well? Who had escorted her this evening?

A hand planted on Nick's shoulder as if in answer. "This will be far more entertaining than the chaos of the Season, no?" Harstone murmured before stepping past him to take a seat with his wife.

It was only then that Nick realized he should have been selecting his own seat, preferably next to the newly out ladies. But each chair had been filled too quickly, leaving one seat for him—directly between Miss Mackenzie and Miss Barton.

Both seemed all too pleased by this arrangement, for vastly different reasons. Miss Barton would surely continue her attempts to gain his affection, and Miss Mackenzie... well, there was no telling what she might do. The woman was entirely too confident this evening, and it seemed she had already made some allies. Her intelligence and friendliness could easily spell his downfall, and as Nick lowered himself into his seat, he told himself to stay strong.

This battle had only just begun.