Lorelei gasped. “Where did you get that much blunt?”
Dark red spots flagged his cheeks. “I won it off the stable boy.”
“Brandon, the servants can’t afford to lose their money,” she said, appalled. She patted his hand. “You’ll return it.”
Outrage flooded his features, followed by sheer defiance. “I won’t. He was going to gamble it away anyway. Why shouldn’t I be the one to cash in?”
“It’s wrong, Bran. Don’t you see that?” She fingered the locket around her neck. “Let’s return to the original issue.”
His spine was rigid as a stone pillar. “What was that?”
“Me going with you.”
His bottom lip protruded. “It’s not feasible.”
“Yes, it is. But we need to time it just right.”
“I’m not staying here another night, Lore. I hate it, I tell you.”
“I know, darling. I’m not thrilled about the situation myself. But we have to arrange it where we can get away without anyone’s notice. I shudder to think what could happen if you were lost in the bowels of London.”
He frowned. “I’m not afraid.”
“Well, you should be,” she snapped. “Anything could happen.” She let out a sigh and squeezed his hand. “We have to stick together, and I think I have an idea to get us away with no one the wiser. But you have to trust me.” She pierced him with a hauteur to rival that of the duchess. “Can you trust me?”
Her brother was no match against that look, and they both knew it. She’d proved years ago the lengths she would go in keeping her word to him. It was an oath between them that began when Baron George Welton had skipped out, leaving Brandon to shoulder all the punishment that day back in 1804. Lorelei did what she decreed, and she was decreeing her vow to him now.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I trust you.”
She let out a long slow breath of relief. “All right. We have a lot to accomplish before the Peachornsby rout tonight.”
Eleven
T
horne’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Lorelei was currently dancing the cotillion with Shufflebottom. In all, he was relieved to see her. All day he’d been unable to dispel the inklings of something wrong, but there she was, in her standard debutante issue of white. It irritated him. Where was the underskirt of brilliant blue or green or yellow? There was something else different he couldn’t place at the moment. He’d signed his name next to the quadrille on her dance card which was another full dance away.
The thought was lost as the cotillion came to an end and Shufflebottom ushered Lorelei to the other debutantes. The minute the man’s back was turned, she smiled, making her way in the direction of Lady Maudsley. Lady Maudsley wore a gown of rich velvet navy, her white satin gloves again went inches above her elbows, almost meeting the edges of her lace trimmed puffed sleeves. He watched the two from his discreet position near the terrace doors, the hair at his neck lifting as they strolled toward the grand staircase then up. The ladies retiring room was his best guess. Their talk was animate but low. It was clear the two had formed a bond. It was also clear they were up to something.
Keeping the two in sight from a less conspicuous distance, he followed. Just as he thought, they slipped into an empty room. Only they shut the door. A heavy oak he couldn’t hear a thing through.Damn.
It wouldn’t do for someone to catch him with his ear against the wood, least of all the two conspirators. The most important thing was that Lorelei had shown up at Peachornsbys’. Based on the augury plaguing him all day, he’d had his doubts.
Forcing himself away from the door, he made his way quickly back to the ballroom. He was slated for Lorelei’s next dance. He took up a spot near the base of the steps and watched as Lady Lorelei made her way back down, alone. He stepped forward just as her foot hit the bottom step, coinciding with the change in the music. “Ah, Lady Lorelei”—his hand splayed his chest—“I’m honored you remembered.”
Her startled expression gave lie to his statement. She hadn’t remembered. Oh, but how she recovered. “I wouldn’t dream of missing our dance, sir.”
With her hand atop his arm, he led her to the parquet. “I didn’t see the duchess this evening,” he said. “Is she hiding in the card room, by chance?”
A sharp cough erupted from her.
He glanced over and saw her biting her bottom lip where a definite sense of mirth was threatening to emerge.
“Um, no. Aunt Isobel is under the weather. Lady Maudsley kindly offered to accompany me this evening.”
Again, his inner acumen pulsated beneath his skin.
She was a cool one, making the appropriate polite small talk. All proper dignity, speaking only of weather, art, and music. Not a single scandalous subject on swimming in ponds. “Oh! I must apologize, my lord.”
