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Chapter Four

Though Bethea wasn’t doing anything wrong, alarm pumped through her, nevertheless. She could explain her presence. However, she conceded, even her presence might appear suspicious to someone with a distrustful mind.

Should she stand her ground, and clarify that she merely searched for another exit from the house because of Branwen’s ill-used toes? Or should she retreat?

God and all the saints, what if it was Montieth on the other side of the door?

In all probability, it was, and she wasn’t about to be alone with the man. He might take liberties that would compel her to accept his hand.

Never,she silently vowed.

Never would she enter into a forced or arranged marriage, or a marriage of convenience. Better to remain unwed than subject herself to a lifetime with a man she didn’t love. Or, in Montieth’s case, a man she couldn’t abide.

That thought sent her fleeing, and she’d just dashed around the corner of the adjacent chamber, yanking her skirts inside, when the door whisked open. She pressed into the corner behind the door. Her heart hammering against her ribcage, she covered her quivering mouth with one hand and pressed her fluttering stomach hard with the other.

That had been much, much too close.

“You were able to convince them to swear their allegiance? In writing?” A man asked in a haughty, English accent, his voice grating like broken pieces of china grinding together.

She gathered her skirts closer and caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. Her heart thumped so loudly in her ears, she was certain the men could hear its erratic pounding. Leaning forward a couple of inches, she squinted through the crack between the door and the doorframe.

A tall, cadaverous man with waxy, jaundiced skin and a prominent, hooked nose stood indolently, a bony knee bent and an even bonier hand on his hip. He wore stark black from his wig to his plain shoes, which made the frothy white lace at his throat and the large ruby ring on his forefinger oddly discordant with the rest of his severe appearance.

She didn’t recognize him, nor had she seen him amongst the guests tonight. Though, she reminded herself, she hadn’t seen Camden, either, until he’d appeared like an avenging marauder behind Montieth.

Her breath caught, almost choking her, as Montieth wandered across her line of vision.

Good God. I’d rather face down a charging rhino or a starving lion than encounter him.

She clapped a hand over her mouth again, lest she give herself away.

The crow-like man roved his bored gaze languidly around the chamber, and her skin prickled at the complete lack of emotion in his too-close, wintery gray eyes.

Who was he?

Were those pockmarks covering his skeletal features?

His lips thinned further, reminding her of a serpent.

Without a doubt, he was the most unnerving man Bethea had ever beheld. Even worse, impossible as it seemed, than Montieth.

Removing her hand from her mouth, she darted a frantic glance at the closed door a few feet away. She’d retreat into the ladies’ retiring room, but feared discovery. She’d done nothing wrong, yet guilt assailed her. Or perhaps it was a premonition that these two men couldn’t be up to any good, slithering away during a ball.

Never had time crept along so slowly.

“Well, Montieth?” snapped the Englishman, impatiently tapping his thigh with his fingertips. “Did you, or didn’t you? Has tonight been another waste of my time? Just like all of the others? In truth, I’m beginning to lose patience with you and your promises.”

Montieth chuckled, his belly bouncing and jowls jiggling with his jubilance. “Aye. I told ye, Etherin’ton, I had done, but ye didna credit me.”

“Where is it, then? I haven’t all night.” His eyebrows slashing low over his protuberant nose, the crow folded his arms. “As you know, my ship sails with the tide.”

“I ken.” Nodding, Montieth minced to the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace and removed four leather-bound burgundy volumes. “Ye’ll be well-pleased,” he boasted airily.

It baffled Bethea why a man his size opted to wear high heels and prance about on them. He looked utterly ridiculous.

He grunted a few times as he rummaged around in a hidden compartment behind the books, before withdrawing a cylinder-shaped leather tube. A smug grin kicking his mouth up on one side, he pulled the cap off and extracted a rolled parchment. With a triumphant flourish, he waved the scroll in the air, a grin splitting the folds of his chuffy face.

A slow, utterly sinister smile pulled Etherington’s mouth upward as he reached for the parchment. “It seems I underestimated you, Montieth.”