She paused, casting a wary glance over her shoulder at him, where he calmly smoked his cigar. “Sir?”
“I don’t reckon Ammondale would be pleased to discover you’re a member of the Wicked Dukes Society, even if you aren’t his wife any longer. I confess, I thought you’d disappeared from London after the ignominy of your divorce, that you’d run off with Waring.”
There was an ominous edge to the man’s voice now, a threat-wrapped warning. It was not Ammondale’s ire that concerned her, however. It was the impact such a scandalous on dit as her presence at a wicked house party would make upon her school.
She didn’t dare allow her trepidation to show, however. She recognized the stranger’s sort instantly. If he scented blood, he would only become determined to ruin her or otherwise have the upper hand over her.
“I’m sure I don’t care what Ammondale thinks of anything I do,” she told him coolly.
“I wouldn’t be as certain, m’dear,” he said, silken menace in his tone. “No doubt my silence is worth something. Perhaps we can arrange for a mutually beneficial exchange. I hold my tongue to Ammondale, and you grant me a favor in return.”
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He moved toward her, bringing the scent of tobacco smoke with him. “I was merely suggesting thatwe may find some way to entertain each other. A way that ensures an equal bargain for the both of us.”
Her stomach lurched. “There will be no such bargain between us.”
The sick sense of fear made the knot of dread deep inside her tighten even more. Oh, how thoughtless she had been to run from her bedroom and into the night, unprotected by a mask or anything she might use to defend herself. If the man were to attempt to force his attentions upon her, all she had was her sturdy walking boots to ward him off.
“Why not?” he asked. “I could make it worth your while.”
“I think not, sir.” Miranda grasped her ruined skirts and lifted them, deciding it was time to retreat before the man in the gardens attempted to do more than blackmail her.
She set off at a brisk pace across the gravel path, retracing her steps.
“Come back, Countess,” the man called after her, the crunching of stone behind her a warning that he was in pursuit.
Her heart hammering against her chest, she broke into a run. Miranda raced as fast as she could around the curved, meandering path until she rounded a bend where a boxwood hedge stood and promptly slammed into the unforgiving form of yet another man.
The wind was knocked out of her lungs, and she would have fallen to her rump had it not been for the man’s hands clamping on to her waist, holding her steady. But she had no wish to be caught. Her instincts took control, her palms landing on the man’s chest, pummeling him.
He grunted. “Dash it, Miranda. It’s me.”
“Whitby,” she breathed, instantly stopping the blows, relief washing over her.
She felt inexplicably safe with him.
“What’s wrong, darling?” he demanded, frowning down at her in the moonlight, concern in his voice, etched on his countenance.
“There’s a man,” she managed, breathless from her flight and the fear gripping her. “I came across him in the gardens, and he recognized me. He…he was trying to blackmail me into keeping my presence here a secret. He implied that he wanted…favors from me.”
Whitby stiffened, resembling nothing so much as a guard dog ready to attack.
“Who is he?” he growled. “I’ll beat him to a bloody pulp and then banish him from both the club and Wingfield Hall when I’m finished.”
She shook her head, still struggling to catch her breath. “I don’t know who he is. He’s wearing a mask that covers most of his face.”
“Where is the scoundrel?”
“He was in the gardens with me. He was following me. Just behind me, I think. Round that bend.”
“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice grim.
Before she could protest, he broke away from her, storming around the corner down the path, in search of the man who had recognized her. She remained where she was for a few frantic moments, fretting over Whitby putting himself in danger. What if the man hurt him? It would be all her fault.
Grasping her skirts again, Miranda hastened after him. The duke’s legs were longer, however, and he had rage on his side. He had already disappeared from view by the time she rushed down the path. Gasping for breath, she rounded another curve in the gardens and was greeted by the dull sound of a fist connecting with flesh, followed by a groan of pain, and then another thud.
Two men tussled at the far end of the pathway, and she recognized Whitby’s superior height and strength at once. He shook the other man by his lapels.
