A Duchess to Remember (8 page)

She could only hope her fortune changed before the evening. For her next encounter with the Duke of Ashburn she needed all the luck she could get.

*   *   *

Cecily made a number of cold, hard resolutions about the evening ahead. She would take the opportunity to search Ashburn’s library while the duke and his staff were otherwise occupied. She would not join in the dancing, nor in any other pleasures that could be had at this masquerade.

Her aim was to give Ashburn the diary, discover as much information from him as she could manage in return, and then leave. If she could possibly get that confounded letter from him, too, all the better.

She would not show any sign of the embarrassing way Ashburn affected her. And she would not—most certainly not—allow him to touch her. Not even for the space of a dance.

On one hand, she was impatient for the evening to pass so that she could put her plan into action. On the other, she wished to Heaven she could ignore the promptings of curiosity and pride—not to mention Ashburn’s sly provocation—and stay far away from his stupid masquerade. There must be a less …
dangerous
way of having private conversation with the man.

Ever since Diccon the footman had left the duke’s service to become Rosamund’s butler, Cecily had been without a reliable partner in crime. Montford watched her more closely, too. In fact, all her family did, particularly Andy and Xavier. It was as if Montford had known all along about her exploits and relied on Diccon to keep her safe.

She scowled as the notion solidified in her mind. So that was it! She’d been a fool not to see it before. Lord, how that rankled. She’d thought herself so very clever, and all the time, Montford had designated Diccon to be her keeper.

Despite the difficulties, or perhaps because of them, Cecily was determined to go to the masquerade. It seemed quite impossible to allow Ashburn to label her a coward—or worse, lacking the ingenuity to escape her protectors and attend this entertainment. It seemed even less possible to let Montford win their silent battle of wills.

She shivered, recalling the unnerving intensity with which Ashburn had regarded her that night in his library. No man had ever looked at her that way before. Most gentlemen thought her an oddity because she never simpered or flirted or troubled herself to flatter them. Which just showed how silly females were, to let men fall into such complacency.

But Ashburn was different. Ashburn had made no secret that he admired her. Not only that, he had listened to her, too. She’d often complained in a joking way that men didn’t appreciate her sterling qualities. Now that one apparently did, she was at a loss to know how to react to such pointed interest.

She would go to this masquerade. But she would remain on her guard.

The spirit was willing, if conflicted. Practicalities were another matter entirely. Montford had accepted only one invitation on her behalf that night: her cousin Bertram and Lavinia’s ball. That turned out to be the most excellent stroke of fortune imaginable.

She’d planned it all very carefully, visiting her former London home that afternoon, where of course Lavinia and Bertram now resided. She’d left her costume and the diary with a maid and wheedled a promise from two of the footmen to be at hand to carry her in the sedan chair to Ashburn’s house.

Cecily bit her lip. She’d be obliged to sacrifice the India mulled muslin gown she wore, but it was a small price to pay for what she might learn that evening.

Tibby, while assuring Cecily she needed only a decent night’s sleep, said that she rather thought she was too unwell to accompany her tonight. Concerned but aware of Tibby’s dislike of fuss, Cecily left her companion to solitude, with the threat that if she wasn’t better by the morning, Cecily would summon the doctor.

All her relations had left the house to attend various engagements. After much persuasion, Cecily managed to convince Tibby that Lavinia would be an adequate duenna at the ball. Now, all she had to do was give herself an excuse to leave the ball early and immediately, rather than waiting for Montford’s carriage to be brought.

“There you are, Cecily.” Lavinia’s cool, crisp voice came from behind her.

Cecily turned and curtsied, observing with thanks to Heaven that Lavinia did not wear her pink pearls with that horror of a buttercup yellow gown.

Lavinia’s gaze flickered over Cecily, then darted away.

In a remote voice, she said, “I heard you called this afternoon. I was sorry not to receive you.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Cecily. “I hobnobbed with the servants instead. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s an age since I heard all the gossip.”

She’d meant the comment innocently but the freezing of Lavinia’s features showed she had secrets she didn’t wish her staff to pass on. Lord, did she think Cecily wanted to hear the sordid details of Lavinia’s private life? Or that the servants would sully her ears with them even if she did?

“How kind,” murmured Lavinia.

Cecily lowered her voice. “My purpose in calling was to ask for my pearls back, Lavinia.” That had been the excuse she’d decided upon, should Lavinia chance to be at home. Her real object had been to prepare for tonight’s escape.

Lavinia scratched at the back of her hand and bit her lip, sending another glance skittering around the room. “I don’t have them.”

Lavinia’s tone was so low that Cecily wondered if she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t have them, I tell you!” Lavinia clamped a hand around Cecily’s wrist and dragged her to a deserted anteroom. “I lost your confounded pearls!”

“
Lost
them?” Horrified, bewildered, Cecily stared at her cousin’s wife. “But … was the catch loose? Saunders checks it every time I—”

“Don’t be obtuse!” hissed Lavinia. “I didn’t
lose
the necklace. I mean, I know where it is. I lost it in play, Cecily! To Lord Percy.”

Cecily’s stomach clenched. Self-recrimination washed over her in a hot tide. Lavinia was right. She
was
obtuse. Thickheaded and stupid to have let those pearls out of her sight. Thunderously idiotic to have lent them to Lavinia.

She bent her formidable glare on her cousin’s wife. “The necklace wasn’t yours to stake. You must get it back.”

Lavinia’s blue eyes drowned in tears. “I can’t, Cecily! I don’t have any money to repay the debt! Bertram keeps me in penury, I swear it. And if he finds out about this, he will
kill
me!”

That might have been a little melodramatic. However, Cecily knew Bertram from old and she was aware of both his fanatical penny-pinching and the thin streak of cruelty that ran through his character. She didn’t waste her breath arguing.

“What was the sum you lost?” Perhaps Cecily might redeem the debt herself and no one need be the wiser.

“Th-three thousand pounds.” The words came out on a sob.

The air expelled from Cecily’s lungs in a whoosh.
“Three thousand?”
That was too vast a sum for Cecily’s savings to cover.

“I never thought he’d make me pay him in m-money!” wailed Lavinia.

“You stupid girl, how else would he want you to pay—?
Oh
.”

Cecily flushed at her own gaucherie. No matter how she pretended to be thoroughly sophisticated, she had little experience of real decadence. She could scarcely conceive of using her body to pay a debt. Yet, in Lavinia’s circle of acquaintances, it probably happened all the time. The notion made her queasy.

She thought furiously but she could come up with no better solution than to ask for help. “Lay it all before Montford. He will aid you. Even Lord Percy wouldn’t stand a chance against him.”

Lavinia’s eyes grew large. “Oh, but how could I? He will guess that Percy … that I…”

“Knowing Montford, he is already well aware of that,” said Cecily. “You will have to swallow your pride, Lavinia.”

“But he would command Davenport to keep a tighter rein on me, and that would be worse than
anything
.”

The fear in Lavinia’s blue eyes was not feigned. A shocking notion now occurred to Cecily. She knew of Bertram’s vicious side, but she’d always thought of Bertram and Lavinia as a common enemy and therefore that they acted in concert. She’d never considered that Bertram might mistreat his wife. The intimate, horrible ways a husband might do so flashed before Cecily’s mind.

She shuddered. She disliked Lavinia. At this moment, she could happily have slapped her for being such a bird-wit. But she wouldn’t wish the silly woman to suffer for her actions at Bertram’s hands.

“Stop crying.” She handed Lavinia her handkerchief. “You will make your nose red.”

With a soft shriek of consternation, Lavinia dabbed at her cheeks. “But what are we going to
do
?”

Cecily had no idea. She set her teeth. “I’ll think of something.”

*   *   *

Cecily had still not come up with a solution to the conundrum of the missing pearls when she realized she’d dallied far too long at her cousin’s ball.

Mr. Babbage, one of Rosamund’s swains before her marriage, claimed his dance but Cecily convinced him to take her to the refreshment parlor instead.

Obedient to her command, her escort procured her some ratafia and champagne for himself. Cecily preferred champagne, too, but ratafia would serve her purposes better.

Lavinia had converted what she now called the green salon into the refreshment parlor this evening. She’d decorated the chamber in the Egyptian fashion, in a glaring combination of gilt and green and yellow, with so many crocodile-footed furnishings, Cecily half expected them to spontaneously animate and scuttle away.

Cecily declined a lobster patty with an inward grimace. If her appetite hadn’t already deserted her, the bilious décor was enough to turn her stomach.

But that didn’t matter now. What she needed to do was put her plan for escape into action.

Cecily swirled the ratafia in its glass and waited for her opportunity.

A glance at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece told her it was nearly midnight. She made herself sip her ratafia and listen and nod and make polite conversation with her companion as her heart accelerated and her breathing quickened.

Silently, she apologized to poor Mr. Babbage for what she was about to do. As someone moved behind her, she stepped back and allowed her elbow to jog.

“Oh!” With a flick of her wrist, she sent sticky chestnut-colored liquid splashing over her white muslin gown.

“Lady Cecily!” Mr. Babbage reddened with embarrassment. “Oh, how unfortunate. Here, let me.” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and began pawing awkwardly at her bodice with it.

Then he seemed to realize what he did, for he snatched his hand back, with abject apologies.

That was the excuse Cecily needed. She could not possibly remain at the ball with a great brown stain on her gown. With assurances to Mr. Babbage that her own clumsiness was the cause of the accident, Cecily excused herself from the party.

She refused to have Montford’s carriage called. It was but a step to Montford House. She was positive her cousin would lend her the sedan chair.

Finally, she managed to escape the refreshment room. But it was not a demure debutante with a soiled gown who gave the footmen the order to take her to Ashburn House. It was a mysterious lady in a purple taffeta domino and mask.

*   *   *

Rand knew he appeared cool and aloof from the guests who filled his vast public rooms and spilled out onto the terrace.

Well, he was aloof, certainly. He had no interest in engaging with anyone here tonight. But he was far from cool. Frustration burned so hotly inside him, he was likely to incinerate before the night was through.

Damn it, where was she? Surely she should have arrived by now.

Had he missed her in the throng? But no, he couldn’t have. Costumed or not, he would know his fair housebreaker anywhere. He must have considered and rejected every lady here tonight—and remembering Lady Cecily’s predilection for breeches, some of the men.

Besides, she’d have no reason to attend the masquerade unless it were to approach him. To that end, he’d taken care to don only the lightest of disguises—a black domino and the narrowest black velvet strip of a mask. She couldn’t fail to recognize him. For good or ill, he’d made an impression on her. Of that he was certain.

He might be forced to accept that the lady had been sincere in her refusal to come tonight. The notion whipped up his annoyance every time it struck him.

He’d planned for this evening, quite meticulously. The possibility that the intrepid and resourceful Lady Cecily Westruther would not find a way to be here had not occurred to him.

He’d relied on the challenge of it to pique her interest as much as her desperation to know more about the Promethean Club. He thought he’d discerned in her a fascination for him that reciprocated his growing obsession with her.

She couldn’t have remained oblivious of what had lain thick in the air in his library that night. Each flare of those dark, velvety eyes, every nervous gesture seared themselves upon his memory.

Those reactions had not denoted fear, but an awakening desire in an innocent but otherwise remarkably self-possessed young woman. The contrast was delicious, intriguing. He couldn’t get her out of his head.

Had she thought about him in the intervening days?

So many duties and pursuits had occupied him in the week since they’d met. Yet, Lady Cecily’s face, so vivid and striking, was rarely absent from his thoughts. He turned over their conversations in his head, took them out and viewed them with the critical appraisal of a playwright watching actors perform his work.

He wished now that he could rewrite that script, that he’d taken what he wanted instead of holding himself so sternly in check.

But no. His instincts about Lady Cecily Westruther’s interest in meeting him here might have been faulty, but his judgment about her lack of experience was accurate. He needed to take her in slow measures, to hold back every ounce of his own desire while he teased hers forth slowly, delicately, like silk thread from a cocoon.