By the afternoon of Rose’s birthday extravaganza, Lucien felt as though he were coming apart at the seams.
Keeping track of Lady Welkins and making certain the blasted woman and Alexandra didn’t come within a mile of one another was taxing enough. Making the past few days even more difficult, he didn’t want Alexandra to suspect that he might have anyone spying on her daily excursions, either.
In addition, he’d managed to evade Robert Ellis all three times the viscount had come to call. While he couldn’t imagine that Robert actually meant to offer for Rose, neither could he come up with a better reason for the lad’s persistence.
Keeping Rose single and Lady Welkins absent had kept Alexandra present, but after tonight he had no hold on her at all. At his request, Wimbole had begun checking on the stubborn chit’s activities within the house, and this morning the butler reported that she’d begun to pack. With that news, the day seemed about as dismal as it could get.
And then he intercepted the letter.
He nearly missed it, and if he hadn’t headed out the front door for a breath of fresh air, it would have bypassed his notice completely. Thank God for the frilly decorating chaos that made him flee.
“Vincent, where are you off to?” he asked from his refuge on the front steps, as the steady stream of decorators, caterers, ice carts, and bakers went around to the back of the house.
The groom hesitated at the bottom of the steps. “Delivering a few messages, my lord.”
“Doesn’t Thompkinson do that?”
“Aye, my lord, but he’s been put to the task of polishing a last coat of beeswax onto the ballroom floor.”
“It wouldn’t be a true party without someone slipping and breaking his head.” Dimly he heard Aunt Fiona calling him from the depths of the house. “My missive to Lord Daubner can wait until tomorrow, if you have other duties.”
“That’s very kind of you, my lord. I’ve a last-minute invitation going to Henrietta Street, though, for Mrs. Delacroix, so Jeffries House is on my way.”
Henrietta Street was on the fringes of Mayfair, where the newer and less illustrioustondwelled. Considering that Aunt Fiona had only wanted the most glittering members of the nobility present at her daughter’s party, Lucien’s curiosity was immediately engaged. “Who’s it for?”
Vincent held it out. “I only memorized the address, my lord. I don’t read.”
Lucien did read, but he still had to study the missive for several moments before he believed what it said. He glanced up at the groom. “Make your other deliveries, Vincent. I’ll see to this one.”
The lad doffed his hat and hurried off to saddle a mount. Anger curled up Lucien’s spine, and the longer he tried to figure the whys and wherefores of the invitation’s existence, the more furious he became. Deliberately he broke the wax seal bearing his house’s initials and read it, then he crammed the damned thing into his pocket and made his way inside.
Aunt Fiona, Rose, and Alexandra stood in the middle of the ballroom watching the mad dash of activity around them. Lucien stopped in the doorway. “Everyone, out!” he roared.
Alexandra looked up at him, surprised, her turquoise gaze trying to read his infuriated expression. “What’s wrong, my lord?”
Wimbole had appeared from another doorway, and immediately began ushering servants and workers out of the room. “Five minutes, Wimbole,” he snapped, and the butler nodded.
Predictably his cousin’s eyes filled with tears at the upset, and he gave her an annoyed glance. “Rose, excuse us for a moment.”
A tear ran down one cheek. “But—”
“Now!”
She jumped and fled. A moment later, only Fiona and Alexandra remained. He had a fair idea how Alexandra would react to what he was about to say, and after a hesitation he gestured her toward the door, as well. “You, too, Miss Gallant.”
“As you wish, my lord.” With another curious, concerned look she left, closing the door behind her.
“What in the world is the matter, Lucien?” his aunt trilled. “We only have a few hours until the guests begin to arrive.”
“How long have you been acquainted with Lady Welkins?” he asked, slamming the main double doors shut.
She paled, but kept her chin raised. “My acquaintances are my own affair.”
He remained silent and angry, waiting for her to answer his question. She had done more than gone behind his back; she had tried to hurt Alexandra—and from her response, she had done it deliberately.
His aunt shifted. “I don’t know what you’re so annoyed at, anyway. We’re just two widows, sharing our tales of misfortune.”
“If you don’t answer my question, you’re going to have more misfortune than you’ll know what to do with.” He took the invitation from his pocket and threw it at her feet. “You will not see that woman again, and she is never—never—to be allowed into this house.”
