Noting his employer’s expression, Kennilton hurried down to the cellar and returned quickly with a dusty bottle that he hastily wiped clean, opened, and poured out the first glass before backing out of the room. He then set off to warn the rest of the household that the Marquis was about to get badly dipped.
Stefton picked up the brandy glass and held it up to the light of a flickering candle. He studied the glass’s contents, absently noting the play of colors off the crystal glass. How could he have fallen in love with the chit?
It was inconceivable. Yet love her he did. He didn’t know when or how it happened, for he’d always considered himself unable to possess that weighty emotion. It wasn’t that he didn’t have an appreciation for love. He did. Perhaps too great an appreciation, for he saw it best expressed in the love his parents bore for each other, almost to his exclusion. But he knew he loved her when he saw her throw herself at Zephyrus in an attempt to protect the horse from the blows Kirkson rained down upon the animal. He realized the depth of his feelings when Kirkson leveled the gun at the horse and could so easily have hit her.
Something broke within him at that moment, and he became possessed of a rage he’d never experienced in his life. He was surprised he’d maintained enough sanity not to rend Kirkson limb from limb and enough intelligence to realize public humiliation would go farther to defeat the man than any public brawl.
He took a sip of the brandy and closed his eyes. What he had not appreciated about love was the pain it could also bring. As swiftly as he acknowledged his love for her, healso acknowledged their unsuitability. His was doomed to be unrequited love. He could accept that. But it hurt like the very devil.
He tossed off the rest of the brandy in the glass and refilled it. Now all he could wish for was an emotional numbing. He held up the glass in a silent toast to that attribute of brandy. Then he laughed harshly, his laughter echoing eerily in the spacious room. He tossed off the second glass of brandy and again reached for the bottle. It would be a long night.
Sir Philip Kirksonsprawled on the delicate settee in Lady Welville’s parlor, his hair disheveled, his cravat askew, and a wineglass dangling from his long fingers.
“Made a fool of yourself?” Panthea goaded. She sat on a matching settee placed at right angles to the first. A superior smile turned up one corner of her mouth as she considered her unexpected guest.
“Oh, cut line!”
“My, my, aren’t we touchy. The story, you know, is all over London, and quite frankly, you are not in very good odor, my friend. I swear I must have heard the first tales of it not half an hour after it transpired. It certainly would appear you’ve lost your heiress, not that I believed you ever had her.”
“I’ll have my fortune and see that she continues to pay for the rest of her life!” growled Kirkson.
“And just how do you intend to achieve this goal, short of kidnapping?”
He looked up at her and smiled evilly, causing a slight shiver of dread to skim her spine. “Why must it be short of kidnapping? To my mind, it’s no more than she deserves. She has humiliatedme enough. I’ll see her good and properly compromised first, and then I’ll be generous and bestow my name upon her. After that, she may stay in Yorkshire if she likes. I’ll not need her cutting up my peace in London. On the rare occasions I may venture north, she will be only too happy to service me.”
Panthea rhythmically tapped a long nail against the table at her side. “So, what do you want of me? I do not believe this is a mere social call.”
“You know Panthea, we deal very well together, you and I. We understand each other. Perhaps after I have snared my heiress and you your Marquis, we should consider establishing a clandestine relationship.”
She shrugged and smiled. “Tell me first what you have planned and what is my role in all this.”
Kirkson rose and slid over next to her, placing one arm around her shoulder, his hand skimming the edge of her low neckline. His other hand played with the ribbons on her bodice, the palm of his hand casually grazing the peaks of her breasts until they stood out sharply against the fabric. Quietly he told her his plan, his words interspersed with playful nips on her earlobe and neck. His sentences became more clipped, and as she covered his lips with hers, further explanations and plans were saved for later.
Lady Orrickabsently tucked a wayward silvery blond lock of hair under her lace cap and snuggled into the pale green silk pillows on the Egyptian-style daybed. Dressed in a gold muslin day gown trimmed with white lace, her plump figure looked extremely youthful and fragile, belying her six-and-forty years. A colorful, long-fringed, paisley silk shawl draped over her feet,its ends dangling to the shaded green-and-ivory Oriental carpet. She sighed wistfully, completing the girlish image, and raised her eyes for a moment from the book on her lap in order to grope absently for a glass of Carnation ratafia set among several porcelain Pekingese dogs on the Chinese octagonal table at her elbow.
She took a small sip of the sweet liqueur and turned the page of the leather-bound romance. She must remember to write Lady Bruckmaster and thank her for recommending the novel to her attention. Such excitement and the barest hint of the risqué! It was maddeningly frustrating to know she was more than halfway through the novel and had no notion of how it would end.
She had begun reading the novel before she left London to visit Marianne. Unfortunately, her daughter’s household was so frenzied, she never had an opportunity to read more than two pages during the entire length of her stay! The peace and quiet of being once again in her own home was particularly soothing. Time enough to become embroiled in the final preparations for her sister’s ball. She chuckled, laying the book in her lap. And sufficient time, she mused, to unravel the skein of Catherine’s mischief.
Penelope had never been more surprised than when Seaverness brought the Marquis and Sir Eugene to talk to her. She’d had her suspicions about Catherine on the night of her arrival. Never could she have conceived the magnitude of the error she and Alicia had made in their assumptions concerning their fourth and eldest niece. The Catherine that Sir Eugene described was a far cry from the Catherine she’d met, save perhaps for that gleam of challenge she’d seen in her niece’s eyes as she looked at Alicia. She pitied Sir Eugene. He was a man torn asunder. He had pride in Catherine and expected her to be the Belle of London. He was thoroughly shaken to learn of themasquerade Catherine had adopted, doubly so when he learned of his wife’s participation. He felt grievously hurt, though he adopted a masquerade himself, one of cold anger.
Once Penelope learned the entire story, she was quick to understand Catherine’s motivation. Together with the Marquis and Seaverness, she worked to convince the unhappy man that Catherine was not wholly to blame. She tried to place the brunt of the blame on herself and Alicia, but he would have none of that. He would blame himself for allowing Catherine too much independence, for encouraging her to fly in the face of convention by donning male attire, and for treating her as a son rather than a niece.
The Marquis broke the emotional tension by languidly disclaiming against these errors on Sir Eugene’s part. He said his only fault was not one he could control. Catherine inherited, full score, all the famous Burke stubbornness that had missed her mother.
Happily, then, while talking of inherited traits, they spoke of Ralph Shreveton and his role in beginning the masquerade by allowing his relatives to believe, without ever telling them the truth, that his bride was a young woman of a poor yet genteel family. It was the type of grand joke Ralph enjoyed, and if he were alive, he’d likely applaud Catherine’s masquerade as another facet of the joke. That notion drew a smile from Sir Eugene, for he had to agree.
To calm Sir Eugene and keep him from hying down to London had been the first step. To devise a solution for rectifying the situation--for he refused to consider that Catherine go on in the same manner--was a ticklish matter, and no conclusions were drawn. Seaverness diplomatically suggested that he and Penelope would be better able to devise solutions when they were in London, and could observe thecurrent situation at first hand. This did not totally appease Sir Eugene, but he promised to place his trust in them.
The thing that still bothered Penelope, but she could think of no way to broach the subject, was the circumstance of the Marquis’s involvement. It was so out of character for him to take any notice of, let alone interest in, any of the debutantes that yearly flocked to London. Penelope gleefully wondered if she smelled a romance. That was another situation that merited investigation and perhaps careful nurturing.
Now, however, she had a book to finish—time enough tomorrow to pick up the knotted skein of her niece’s life and begin untangling it.
An hour later, Lady Orrick sighed and dabbed a lace-edged handkerchief to her misting eyes. She’d just read a most heartrending confrontation and reconciliation scene at the close of the novel. Smiling, she ruefully considered it fortunate real-life bore little resemblance to the occurrences between the covers of a romance, for she would be a perpetual watering pot.
Hearing the distant thumping of her door knocker, she looked up, setting the finished novel beside her. She’d returned to London a few hours ago. A brief frown of annoyance at the prospect of being disturbed pulled at the corners of her pale lips. She’d anticipated at least a day’s recovery from the exigencies of travel. It was not fair that she be disturbed so soon. She placed her ratafia glass on the table. Annoyance quickly gave way to curiosity when her butler entered the drawing room and made an elaborate show of closing the double doors softly behind him.
“I beg your ladyship’s pardon, but the Countess of Seaverness is below, desirous of seeing you.” He stooped down to move a large blue Ming vase from the floor by the doorway to a more remote corner of the room.
