Surrender the Stars (36 page)

"Two of the Regent's bitterest enemies!" Taylor laughed and rubbed his hands together.

Ryan searched his mind for a few more anecdotes, which he delivered in confidential tones. Listening with relish, Taylor picked the carcass on his plate until there wasn't a scrap of meat left on it. Then he poured the last of the claret into his glass and leaned forward.

"I suppose you heard about the row at the opera, where the Regent and his wife were both present—in separate boxes?"

"Yes, I did."

Taylor continued as if he hadn't heard. "There was great applause when the Princess of Wales appeared in her box. The czar bowed to her, which forced her husband to follow suit and prompted an absolutely wild reaction from the audience. Would you not think that England would give up hoping for a happy ending for those two? In any event, Prinny pretended that the cheering was for him and bowed repeatedly until it ceased. One might assume that there was an end to it, but when Princess Caroline left, the mob surrounded her carriage, offering to burn down Carlton House if she wished!"

Ryan couldn't have cared less. Sipping brandy, he chose his words carefully. "That's quite a story, Mr. Taylor. You would seem to be privy to all sorts of information!"

The older man signaled for a brandy. "I might be."

Taking a pinch of snuff, he regarded him languidly. "Lord Chadwick was with us at Grimley Court this past week. I suppose you are well acquainted with the man?"

"Well enough to know that he thirsts for power. Francis intends to become the next prime minister, and he might achieve it. The past year or two, he's given Prime Minister Liverpool and Foreign Secretary Castlereagh a good deal of information that has proven quite valuable in carrying out our struggle with—" Taylor broke off, suddenly remembering, and mumbled, "America..."

"Don't worry, old man," Ryan exclaimed, chuckling in a way that suggested he was not very bright. "I don't bother with politics. Such a bore! Besides, I feel much more at home here than in America!"

"Who could blame you, dear boy?" Taylor took a huge bite of apple tart and chewed contentedly. "It's not terribly civilized there, is it? Of course, your family has turned out splendidly, but you've spent a great deal of time abroad, hmm?"

"That's true. We've had our house in Grosvenor Square as long as I can remember, and of course my sister has been married to Sir Harry Brandreth for some years...." He took a sip of brandy and pretended to search for something else to say. "You must know Harry, being in the House together, what? How is his career progressing? I do hope that my sister Mouette can look forward to a secure life with him...."

"Oh, well, I don't think you need to worry about Harry," Taylor replied rather distractedly. "He's coming along nicely. I'd say that he's quite ambitious, too, but because he's lazy he takes a different approach. Harry may not be in constant attendance in the House, but he's ingratiated himself with some of the powers that be. The Earl of Chadwick, for one!" Plate cleaned and brandy drained, he consulted his watch. "I don't mean to rush off, dear boy, but my wife's mother is visiting and I ought to put in an appearance this evening."

"I understand." Ryan rose with a lazy smile. "Thank you for dinner, Mr. Taylor."

"Not at all, Raveneau! I do hope your father won't be put out about your losses today." The older man got to his feet and patted his swollen belly. "Good night, then!"

Ryan watched Michael Angelo Taylor weave slightly as he left the room. His own thoughts were far away until he sensed that someone was watching him. Turning, he met Beau Brummell's perceptive gaze.

"I wonder, Raveneau, whether you are having us all on," the Beau drawled.

Relaxing his body, Ryan raised his quizzing glass. "My dear Brummell, what
can
you mean?"

* * *

Leaving White's, Ryan nearly collided with Sir Harry Brandreth, who was looking slightly worse for wear. His curly blond locks were tousled, his blue eyes bloodshot, and his breath smelled of strong spirits.

"My brother!" Harry exclaimed, slapping him on the back. "Dear brother! Come and join me in a game of faro!"

"I'd like to, Harry, but I've already lost my limit for today." That in itself was a lie of sorts, for Ryan had allowed Michael Angelo Taylor to win. "I hope you won't think me impertinent, but are you certain that you're up to gambling? I wonder if you might not regret it in the morning?"

Chuckling, Harry leaned against his brother-in-law for support. "Can you keep a secret, Nathan, old boy?"

"Certainly." He was hard-pressed to remember the role he was supposed to play. Apart from his growing suspicions about Harry, he felt an obligation to Mouette and the Raveneau family. However, to be on the safe side, Ryan took out his snuffbox and delicately indulged. "Do you want to talk to me outside?"

"Why the bloody hell would I want to do that? I just came in!"

"The air might do you good."

"Nonsense. All I need is a brandy and a good game." The sentence was slightly slurred. "Don't worry about me, though. I can afford it. Look!" He pronounced the last word in a loud whisper and withdrew a thick packet of ten-pound notes from his coat. "You see? I can afford to lose a bit. Mouette'd only spend it in any case, so what's the difference? Don't tell her, though. I know she's your sister, but the truth is that she can be a terrible shrew when she puts her mind to it!" Harry laughed as an afterthought, slapped Ryan on the back again, then staggered away toward the tables.

Ryan raked a hand through his hair, wondering what to do. Out of the corner of one eye he glimpsed Raggett, the proprietor of White's, and motioned to him. Raggett was an honest sort who was known to sit up with club members during all-night games.

"My good man..." Ryan pretended to stifle a yawn. "I realize that this must be a terrible bore for you, but could you possibly look in on my brother-in-law from time to time? I'm not certain that he's responsible for himself, and I'd hate to hear that he's gambled away his home and family |"

"Certainly, sir." Raggett made a small bow, even though he considered himself superior to this ridiculous dandy. "In fact, I'll try to encourage Sir Harry to go home as soon as possible."

Ryan's dark gaze was distant. "Thanks, old man."

* * *

The windows of the town house on Grosvenor Square were ablaze with light as Ryan approached. He'd walked the mile or so home, lost in thought, oblivious even to the stars that gleamed above like diamonds against a dark velvet background.

Arabella Butter met him at the door. "Hello, sir! How are you tonight?"

"I'm fine, Arabella. And you?"

"Quite well, sir!" The sight of him still sent shivers of pure female lust down her spine, but even that sensation had lessened since Harvey Jenkins had begun to pay his attentions to her. "The rest of your family is upstairs in the ballroom."

"Pardon?"

"You've missed all the fun, sir. They're
waltzing!"
She pronounced the word as if it were some exotic, though enticing, tribal dance. "My mother's outraged, but personally I think it looks quite fun!"

A slow smile spread over Ryan's face. Trust the Raveneau family, he thought, to provide the perfect antidote to his overserious mood! "Arabella, is there any champagne in the house?"

"Why, yes, sir."

"Bring me a bottle, would you? And four glasses."

Moments later, after shedding his jacket and waistcoat, he took the stairs by twos and approached the third-floor ballroom. A lilting waltz drew him onward, and from the doorway he glimpsed Devon sitting at a beautiful piano. Stepping inside, Ryan saw Lindsay turning rather haltingly in the arms of her father. In spite, or because, of her unsure movements, she was giggling softly.

For a moment, Ryan leaned against the door frame, champagne in one hand, a cluster of glass stems in the other, and watched. Lindsay wore the simplest of white muslin gowns, cut rather low over her breasts and tied beneath them with a yellow ribbon. The short puffed sleeves showed off her graceful arms, and the loose Grecian knot of bright hair atop her head displayed the beautiful line of her neck to perfection. Ryan's eyes warmed with love and longing. They had scarcely been alone since returning to London. He was determined to unravel the mystery they had come to solve so that he could speak openly to her father, and Lindsay had been busy with engagements of her own. Viscount Fanshawe continued to call, but Ryan wasn't worried. Even when hours passed without a word between them, he could gain instant reassurance by looking into Lindsay's expressive gray eyes.

"Ah, Ryan!" Andre Raveneau called, dancing in his direction and then coming to a halt. He gasped for breath, laughing. "Just the man I'd hoped to see! I've been dancing with this girl all evening, and I think it's your turn!"

Across the ballroom, the piano music had trailed off. Hoping to allay Devon's fears, Ryan held up the champagne and glasses. "I'll have my turn with Lindsay, if she'll let me, but first let's drink a toast. Come and join us, Devon!"

The ballroom was lovely and delicate without being too grand. The pale pink walls were decorated with raised swirls of white plaster, while the arched ceiling continued this fantasy. There were gilt chairs lining the walls, and all four of them sat down in them, feeling very small and somehow decadent as Ryan eased the cork from the bottle of champagne.

He poured frothing portions into each glass, then said, "I would like to propose a toast... to the people I love better than my own family."

Devon was shocked to feel tears sting her eyes. Seeing the emotion in her daughter's face, she murmured, "And to the successful completion of our task here in England."

"Hear, hear," said Andre, raising his glass. They all drank, and then Raveneau looked at Ryan. "Any news?"

"Yes, but it can wait until morning. Right now, I would love to relax and perhaps learn to waltz with my friend, Lindsay."

Raveneau put his head back against the wall and laughed softly. "More welcome words were never spoken! We've danced until my legs ache, but she cannot quite relax. Perhaps you'll have better luck."

Finally, Lindsay turned almost shy eyes to Ryan. "It seems that we're going to attend the assembly at Almack's this Wednesday. That means I only have two days to learn to waltz!"

"I'm sure that you wouldn't be the only person who couldn't waltz, brat," he replied gently. "If the czar weren't so fond of that dance, I suspect that most of those very proper people at Almack's would still be unsure whether it was at all seemly to waltz at all!"

Andre poured more champagne all around, draining the bottle, then stood up. "I suggest, my darling wife, that you and I take our glasses to bed and leave these two young people alone to debate the merits of the waltz." Gazing at Devon, he arched an eyebrow suggestively. "Shall we?"

There was little she could do beyond darting a brief warning look at Ryan. "Certainly, darling." She kissed their cheeks. "Good night, you two. Behave yourselves." Then, in the doorway, she paused. "But wait! How will you dance without music?"

Ryan's laughter sounded dangerously warm and low to her. "Oh, don't worry," he replied. "We'll manage somehow."

When they were alone, he longed to take Lindsay in his arms, and kiss her endlessly, but he held himself back. "How've you been, angel?"

She gazed into his dazzling blue eyes, sipped her champagne, and swayed in his direction. "I'm wonderful... now. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too. But at least we see each other every day. You realize that I'm concentrating on solving this matter so that we can come out in the open? Your mother was right, you know. We can't go on deceiving your father, and I cannot go on pretending to everyone else. I'm grown tired of this masquerade, especially where it extends to you."

"Ryan, have you learned anything? I wish that you would look into my suspicions about Harry and Lord Chadwick."

"I have been." He stared past her for a moment. "And I fear that you may be right. In fact, though I couldn't say so then, I've had my doubts about Harry for some time. That was part of the reason I came along to Oxford."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ryan laughed and kissed her hand. "And, of course, I wanted to be with you. But be serious for a moment, Lindsay. If it's true, how can I ever tell your parents? It would destroy them—and Mouette, of course. What would become of her?"

"Mama and Papa have never been overpartial to Harry; I've always sensed that. As for Mouette, she's a Raveneau. She's strong—and if this is true about Harry, she'll survive." Then, like a woman in love, Lindsay's thoughts returned to the matter at hand. "You don't talk as if you've missed me at all!"

He grinned. "Of course I have. How do you think I feel when I see you go off with that twit Fanshawe?"

She touched a slender forefinger to his mouth. "Shh. You know that I am not encouraging him, Ryan, and neither can I brush him off so quickly. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I trust you. That's not the point."

Lindsay smiled in a new way; it was the smile of a woman in love. "You needn't say it. I know what the point is."

"Let's toast to that, then." His eyes slanted up a bit at the corners in a slightly devilish manner that Lindsay had come to adore. "Here's to the day when we can tell your father and all the world how we feel." Leaning forward, he grazed her lips with his.

They toasted, sipped, and then he stood and held out his arms to her. "Shall we practice your waltz?"

Lindsay giggled softly, then put her hand over her mouth to conceal a tiny burp of champagne bubbles. "But, Ryan, there's no music! Besides, how do you know the waltz?"

"Trust me, angel. There's very little that I
don't
know!"

She loved the sight of him in his champagne-hued breeches, snowy shirt, and artfully tied cravat. His ebony hair was wind-ruffled, his sculpted face rakishly irresistible. When he held out his hand, Lindsay put her own slim fingers into it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Ryan smiled down at her. "Can you hear the music?"