The Marquis At Midnight (6 page)

Considering the crush of people that were
circulating through the large, spacious rooms, that might prove
more difficult than he had first thought. Instead of locating
Grace, he encountered all manner of people he had no desire to
speak to, his family being the first of them, for almost
immediately after arriving he came across Judith.

‘Sherry,’ she exclaimed, catching sight of
him. ‘I thought you had decided not to come.’

‘I changed my mind.’ His sister was standing
with a group of females her own age. He nodded to them politely,
not in the least bit interested in being introduced.

Judith, who had more sense than her brother
gave her credit for, smiled at this turn of events. She had noticed
that he had been more preoccupied than usual ever since the
masquerade and she had her suspicions as to the reason; his
mysterious dancing partner. The romantic in her thrilled to the
idea, even while she thought it extraordinary that her brother, the
least romantic man she could conceive of, should be afflicted by
Love’s Passion (in her head, Judith always capitalized those two
words).

‘Perhaps you might enjoy some dancing,’ she
said, all innocence.

He gave her a frowning look. ‘I doubt that
very much. If you will excuse me.’

Watching him stride away, two of Judith’s
friends shook their heads and sighed. ‘He looks a little like Mr.
Byron,’ Miss Merryweather said doubtfully. ‘So tall and dark and
brooding. And really very good-looking.’

‘And he certainly acts like something out of
a novel. By Mrs. Radcliffe, perhaps.’ Miss Andover murmured,
watching the tall, straight figure thread its way through the
crowd.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Judith said dryly.
‘My brother has not got a romantic bone in his entire body.
Although,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘perhaps his presence says
otherwise.’

‘Oh?’ Miss Merryweather enquired
curiously.

‘Indeed.’ Judith murmured and wondered how
Sherry would fare with his mystery lady tonight.

It took some time and a great many
unnecessary conversations before Morvyn spotted Grace on the dance
floor, engaged in a gavotte. He paused to watch her. She went
through the intricate steps flawlessly, every bit as graceful as he
remembered and doing a great deal better than her partner, a large
young man who wore an expression of intense concentration. He half
closed his eyes, trying to recall the man’s name. Oh yes. Mr.
Bertram Coslowe. Like Morvyn, he was a member at Waiters, although
a few years younger. The marquis fancied Coslowe was Lady
Woodward’s cousin or some such thing. They had stumbled across each
other at the odd boxing match for young Coslowe liked a mill.
Perhaps, Morvyn reflected with a wry smile, Grace Pemberton made a
habit of dancing with ungifted partners. She was certainly very
graceful. In fact, he realized with sudden discomfort, she was
altogether a fine looking woman. He’d taken note of the fact on his
brief visits to see Pemberton, but, preoccupied with other matters,
the knowledge hadn’t stuck.

It was odd how he could not stop thinking
about it now.

For the first time, he
wondered how she would react when he stood before her once more. As
she had virtually run screaming from the building the last time he
had seen her, he had the uneasy feeling that she would not be
delighted to extend their acquaintance, but it was either dream
about her or do something about his ridiculous behavior and, of the
two, he was not a fanciful man. He was damned if he was going to go
mooning over some woman without trying to discover
why
he was mooning over
her.

As the dance ended, he watched as her
flushed partner led her off the dance floor, managing to trip up
several times as he went. Not, Morvyn decided, a serious contender
for Lady Pemberton’s affections. Coslowe still had the look of a
young cub about him for all his size. Morvyn was reminded of an
oversized puppy.

He began to walk around the
perimeter of the dancers slowly, trying to think the matter
through. If he went and spoke directly to Grace there would be
talk, of that there was no doubt. His distaste for these kinds of
affairs was well known. He was not a vain man but he knew that his
actions would be watched with interest and if he singled out a
particular lady, then
she
would be of interest.

Did he really want that? Perhaps he should
have sought her out earlier, paid a morning call or something, but
he was unsure where she was staying and he had stubbornly refused
to find out, convinced that this unexpected fancy would pass.

He paused, suddenly
indecisive. Damn it, this was
not
the way he was used to conducting his business.
Sometimes subtlety was a useful tool, but he preferred a more
direct approach in his day-to-day affairs. Not like Justin
Pemberton, he thought suddenly and with a quick grimace of
distaste. Pemberton had been very fond of subtlety. And
dissembling, if their last conversation had been anything to go by.
Morvyn might have forgiven his old friend a lot of things, but his
stubborn naivety had been exceedingly irksome, especially when
Pemberton had refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
Morvyn shook his head as if to shake away the memory. He had taken
a great deal of care, over the past eighteen months, not to think
too deeply about Justin.

As he’d completely managed to forget his
wife, clearly the marquis had done an excellent job.

Grace had gone to join Lady Woodward and he
recalled that somebody had said the two ladies were great good
friends. The overly large gentlemen did not merely escort Grace
back, but joined the small group as well. Morvyn stared at the
three of them for a moment longer then, exasperated with himself,
moved forward.

He could not predict the manner in which
Lady Pemberton might greet him, it was true, but he was damned if
he were going to stand around for half the night speculating on
it.

It was time for action.

‘I say, thanks for the dance Lady
Pemberton,’ Mr. Bertram Coslowe said, adding sympathetically,
‘Sorry about your foot. I’m a bit buffle-headed when it comes to
taking a turn.’

‘Not at all. I’m sure my
foot will recover,’ Grace assured him although truthfully, Bertram
Coslowe was a very big man to land repeatedly on a relatively small
foot. ‘Thank
you
for the dance.’

They had returned to Hester’s side by now
and she looked at them both impatiently.

‘Yes, yes, very nice, but we need to talk to
Bertie somewhere private.’ She had been dodging Lovington for
nearly an hour and it was becoming decidedly wearing.

‘What’s to do?’ Bertie demanded. At four and
twenty he was almost the same age as Hester and Grace and yet he
still had a vaguely unformed look about him, as if the clay had not
quite set yet. Hester had always gotten on with him famously as he
enjoyed whatever was going, the more absurd the better. Most
importantly, he didn’t ask too many questions and was, as Hester
said (not unkindly), as thick as a lump of wet turf.

‘Not here,’ Hester hissed, glancing around
her.

Grace rolled her eyes and patted Bertie’s
arm. ‘Come along. We’ll find somewhere quiet to talk.’

She had spied a small antechamber earlier, a
modest sitting room leading off from the main reception area and
was hoping that it wasn’t currently occupied by trysting couples
looking for privacy. Fortunately, it was empty and she led her two
companions inside.

‘This is better, I think.’

‘It is.’ Hester drew a deep breath, ‘Bertie,
I want you to do me a… a great service.’

Bertie seemed to cock an ear at this. ‘What
kind of service?’

‘The kind that could land us all in
trouble,’ his cousin replied grimly. ‘Do you, perchance, know Lord
Lovington?’

Bertie wrinkled his nose. ‘I do believe
we’ve met.’

‘You don’t like him?’ Grace inquired.

‘Well, apologies if he’s a particular friend
of yours, but the man’s a loose fish and no mistake. He has his own
smoky set and frankly, I don’t mix with ‘em.’

Bertie went up a few notches in Grace’s
estimation. He certainly appeared to be a better judge of character
than she had anticipated. ‘I’m glad you think so because the thing
is, Lord Lovington has something of Hester’s and we want you to
help get it back.’

Bertie looked perplexed. ‘Something? What
sort of something?’

There was a little pause. Then Hester
sighed. ‘You know how I like to gamble sometimes Bertie?’

‘Devil a bit, I do! You got yourself in a
proper hole before you married Woodward.’

Grace gave Hester a quick glance. This was
the first she had heard of Hester having difficulties before her
marriage, although the knowledge did not surprise.

‘Yes, well,’ Hester bit her lip,
‘unfortunately I’m in a… a hole again.’

Bertie shook his head in sympathy. ‘Bad
show. Nothing worse than landing in Queer Street.’

‘No there isn’t,’ Hester agreed with
feeling.

‘My pockets are pretty much to let, at the
moment, but I daresay I could raise a few groat if that’d help.
Under the hatches, are you?’

‘No. That is to say… It’s very kind of you
Bertie, but it isn’t just money that I owe. I… Well, I wagered a
piece of jewelry and I have to get it back.’

‘What sort of jewelry? Can’t you just get
Woodward to get you something else?’

‘It wasn’t that sort of jewelry. It was
important. A family heirloom, in fact.’ Even now, Hester was
reluctant to say just what it was, as if by speaking of it she made
the whole thing more real.

Bertie grimaced. ‘Rum show. Still, can’t you
pretend you lost it or something?’

‘Good heavens no! Porter would be
furious.’

‘Oh no,’ Bertie said encouragingly. ‘Ladies
lose things all the time. Well-known fact. Just tell him the catch
broke and it fell off. The man will swallow it. I mean,’ Bertie
smiled at his cousin, ‘lady has lots of trinkets and some of them
are bound to go missing sometimes. It’s not as if it’s the Woodward
necklace or anything.’

There was a horrible little
pause. Then Grace sighed. ‘I’m afraid it
is
the Woodward necklace, Bertie.
Therein lies the problem.’

Bertie stared at them, eyes switching from
one to another. ‘I say! That’s… that’s…’

‘Lady Pemberton?’

Like marionettes performing in a puppet
show, all three of the room’s occupants turned in unison to face
the door. The Marquis of Morvyn stood there, looking at Grace, who
stared back at him, appalled.

Hester, who knew nothing of her friend’s
history with Morvyn, recent or ancient, looked at the marquis in
surprise. ‘Lord Morvyn.’

Grace could think of nothing to say. Not one
word. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged so she shut it
again, rather abruptly. He looked… Good Lord, he looked remarkably
handsome in his coat of blue superfine and biscuit-colored knee
breeches. He wore them with hessians rather than the more formal
ribboned shoes, but they looked well on him.

They looked
well
on him? Grace was
disgusted with herself. This was Morvyn and he was
not
her friend. She did
not care how he looked. Just the same, the lighting was far better
than it had been at the masquerade ball and she could not help but
notice the way his dark hair sprang in thick waves that would have
been curls had he favored the longer styles still being worn by the
older set. Or the fact that his dark brows arched appealingly. Or
that the aquiline nose and strong, firm mouth (do not think of his
mouth!) all combined together to make up an exceedingly find
looking man.

She refused to allow herself additional
study. What was he doing here, anyway?

The marquis took a step forward, ‘Lady
Pemberton, if I may have a word?’

‘There you are!’

Three heads swiveled at this, Hester
uttering a small shriek of surprise. Porter had followed Morvyn
into the room and was looking at the assembled group rather
quizzically.

‘Porter,’ Hester managed, her voice
faint.

‘I’ve been looking for you. If I hadn’t
followed Morvyn here to say hello, I would never have found you.
Funny place for a party. What are you all doing in here?’

What were they doing in here? The three
would-be conspirators looked at each other rather helplessly.

That was actually a very good question.

Chapter Four

As if on queue, three voices spoke at
once.

‘Actually we were just discussing the best
way to pickle pig’s trotters…’

‘I had a bit of a headache and we thought we
would find somewhere…’

‘It’s so warm in the ballroom, we found a
place to…’

There was a pause. Porter looked at Bertie
with raised eyebrows. ‘Pig’s trotters?’

Bertie smiled weakly, but it was Grace who
saved him. ‘He’s very fond of them, apparently. We were all quite
warm and decided to find a place to cool down. And Hester had a
slight headache. Such a nuisance.’ She tried very hard to ignore
Morvyn, hoping he would disappear. He showed no signs of moving,
however.

Porter strolled forward, clapping a hand on
the marquis’ back as he moved past him. ‘I see,’ he said, sounding
amused, ‘but I’m sorry to disappoint you Bertie. I doubt that my
wife knows how to pickle a pig’s anything. Perhaps we could apply
to our cook for a recipe.’

‘That would do the trick,’ Bertie agreed
heartily, relieved that he didn’t have to explain his extremely
off-the-cuff explanation any further. Bertie hated having to
improvise.

Hester was eyeing her husband doubtfully.
She had not seen him since the previous evening, when they had
shared a particularly strained meal. To say she was surprised to
see him was putting it mildly. He smiled at her and her heart
seemed to catch. How she had missed that smile! ‘I came to find
you. I hope your headache does not mean that I will not be able to
secure a dance?’