Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
The Mysterious
Lady Whispers
Lady Whispers
First Chapters
Chapter 1
“We are there to watch the Duke of Atherley carefully.”
Sophia repeated Grace’s instructions with a quiet, measured voice, as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The ball, to be held at Grace’s aunt’s residence, was fast approaching, and she took a moment to study the effect of her attire before turning toward the door.
Her gown was deliberately plain; a long muslin ballgown in creamy white decorated with a modest floral pattern and featuring the fashionable Empire waist. Sophia wore no hair-adornments in her honey-blonde curls and no jewellery. Her grey eyes held her own reflected gaze steadily, their expression keen and assessing as she studied her appearance.
Her own squarish face looked back at her; her neat features and pale skin shown to good advantage by the simple hairstyle and the patterned dress. She was a young lady of average height with ringleted curls and a piercing grey stare, which, with her neat chin and short nose, lent her a pretty, quizzical look.
Despite her father’s status as a baron—Baron Alwood—her choice of gown and hairstyle was restrained and simple, but not so that it might convey fashionable elegance. It was chosen to be ordinary and nondescript because that was how Sophia wanted it to be. She was not there to stand out. She was there to investigate the Duke of Atherley. Nobody would suspect someone who looked so easy to overlook. Nobody would even notice her hovering at the edge of their group, taking in everything they said. It was her disguise.
She reached for her shawl—plain white without a pattern—and draped it around her shoulders, then walked swiftly out of the room. Grace—Sophia’s best friend—would be at the evening’s ball with more information and instructions as to their investigation.
“Daughter! The carriage is waiting,” her father greeted her briskly in the entranceway as she walked lightly down the stairs of their London townhouse. Sophia nodded.
“I apologise for my tardiness, Papa.” Her gaze moved to her toes.
“Think nothing of it. We must hurry. We shall be late,” he murmured, barely glancing at her or at her outfit. He walked swiftly down the stairs to the street, pausing only to take Sophia’s hand and help her up into the coach before swinging in and slamming the door shut. The coachman lifted the reins, and they headed through the Kensington streets towards Lady Whitmore’s home.
“It is dashed warm in here,” Papa complained as their coach rattled down the street.
“Yes, it is,” Sophia murmured, allowing her shawl to slide down her shoulders in the hot coach. Her dress had puffed sleeves that reached the middle of her upper arms, and she was glad for that. It was a warm evening in late springtime. Papa wore a blue velvet tailcoat and a high-necked shirt, and she was sure that he must be sweltering.
She dismissed the thought as the coach rattled on. She and Papa sat in silence. They had fallen into a pattern of barely speaking to one another in the years since Mama passed away. It was not through any sort of mutual dislike—Sophia had respect for her father, though she often felt as though she barely knew him, and she was also certain that he did not dislike her. It was simply because Mama had been the thread that tied them together and without her, they were both too quiet and too uncertain to breach the gap.
Sophia’s heart twisted as she thought of her mother. Mama had passed away nine years ago, when Sophia was sixteen and had just made her come-out into London society, attending the Season there. It had been a terrible shock, a blow that had rendered her speechless, unable even to think or feel for weeks. A memory from her first Season raced into her thoughts unexpectedly.
“…she’s so dull,” a young baron was drawling to a friend as she stood in an alcove, clearly unseen by the two.
“Miss Rutland? Yes. Barely a word out of her,” his friend replied, a mocking expression on his face.
“She’ll be a wallflower, mark my words.”
The words had twisted Sophia’s heart. She had left the ballroom, tears in her eyes. Afterwards, at home, where the hurt had tormented her—the first feeling she had in weeks since her mother had passed away—she had come to a conclusion.
She would be a wallflower. But not the way they thought.
She would choose to be a wallflower, because being one placed her in an ideal position to spy.
Just as she had once overheard their idle chatter without their slightest awareness of her presence, she would now use her own seemingly unremarkable, dull character as a guise—an innocuous mask behind which she could listen in on the gossip of the ton. The world of the ton was not, after all, a pleasant or congenial place. Beneath its glittering surface lay corruption and exploitation, festering in every corner. Schemes and unscrupulous bargains were struck under the very noses of the unsuspecting.
And Sophia, ever watchful, would be the one to uncover it all. She would expose the hidden secrets and the dark deeds in an anonymous scandal sheet that she planned to publish.
She just had to remain unseen.
“Here we are,” Papa murmured, bringing Sophia’s thoughts back to the present. She shook herself, clearing her head, and shrugged her shawl back over her shoulders.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said demurely as he helped her down. The stone pavement was cold under her thin-soled satin dancing shoes. She walked up the steps towards Lady Whitmore’s manor. The sky was the soft blue of twilight. Pine torches burned to light the way for the coaches, but it was still light enough to see. Sophia gazed up at Lady Whitmore’s elegant townhouse and her heart lifted with excitement.
Grace—the co-author of their scandal sheet, called “Lady Whispers”—would be there, and they had a mission to accomplish.
Her heart lifted in delight as she spotted her friend straight away. Grace was in the entranceway of the townhouse, standing with her aunt, Lady Whitmore, to welcome their guests. Lady Whitmore—a countess, with grey hair drawn back into an elaborate chignon and intelligent blue eyes—regarded Sophia thoughtfully.
“Good evening, Miss Rutland,” she greeted her warmly. “Welcome to our ball.”
“Good evening, Lady Whitmore,” Sophia greeted her. “Thank you for the kind invitation.”
“Of course, dear. Of course. I would not have it any other way. My dear niece would not either.” She smiled fondly at her niece. Grace grinned back.
“Indeed, Aunt,” she said warmly. “Good evening, Sophia,” she added, turning to her friend with her brown eyes sparkling merrily. “I am truly delighted to see you.”
“Thank you, Grace,” Sophia murmured.
She gazed into her friend’s bright brown eyes, feeling an immediate sense of warmth and affection. Grace’s auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon; the locks so thick and long that it was less of a chignon and more of a big round bun. She wore a cream-coloured silk gown. Her dark eyes and slim face radiated gentleness and intelligence. She was taller than Sophia and slimmer, and she, too, had done her best to cultivate a nondescript, withdrawn character in society, though Sophia privately wondered how anyone believed it. Grace was the liveliest of characters, her big laugh and clever observations were one of the things that had drawn both Sophia and Lady Whitmore to her, and that had made Lady Whitmore choose Grace as her companion. They were both astute, clever women.
“I will see you in the ballroom,” Sophia murmured as she stepped down the stairs, politeness requiring that she move along so that the guests behind them could enter too.
“Of course. At the refreshments table,” Grace replied with a grin.
Sophia drifted down the stairs beside her father.
Papa walked with her into the ballroom, which was already crowded, the bright light of the chandeliers overhead falling on dark tailcoats and pale dresses, and the high vaulted ceiling making it at least slightly cooler than it might have been. But even such a spacious room grew stifling when filled with so many guests, and Sophia found herself longing to retreat to the cool solace of the terrace.
“Not yet,” she reminded herself quietly as she drifted across the room towards the refreshments table. Before she allowed herself to seek any refuge, there was still much to observe.
She reached the back of the ballroom and positioned herself there. People were chatting nearby, and she began to listen to them, pretending to study a pulled thread in her shawl.
“…and she debuted into society just last week!” a woman with greying brown hair in a rich brown velvet dress was saying.
“I know. Lady Charlotte is exemplary. A fine lady. Pity about her brother. He’s a strange one,” a tall man with chestnut brown hair commented. He had a thin face and a hard gaze and something about him repelled Sophia, even as she meandered closer to listen.
Lady Charlotte, she thought consideringly. That was the name of the sister of the Duke of Atherley. There were rumours of some corrupt business that his late father, the former Duke, had been involved in; unscrupulous deals that had somehow been involved in his death. It was for that reason that she and Grace had decided to investigate the Duke of Atherley. There was something interesting there, some dark secret. Some story of unimaginable corruption right at the heart of the ton. And they wanted to find it out.
I wonder who that is, and why he thinks the Duke of Atherly is strange, Sophia thought, studying the man with the reddish hair. He was, she guessed, at least twenty years her senior. He should have been handsome, with a firm jaw and a well-formed profile. But something in his expression, mayhap the hard, set line of his mouth, was repellent and something about his careless, offhand manner suggested to her that he was an uncaring man. If he found the duke “strange”, she had to find out more. She leaned closer.
“Are you studying the curtains, Miss Rutland?” a voice said beside her. Sophia whipped round, then grinned.
“Grace!” she giggled, seeing her friend’s big smile. “Yes, in a manner of speaking,” she replied enigmatically.
Grace chuckled. “Did you find a good vase?” she asked. She inclined her head towards the man with the reddish hair. In the course of their investigations, they often found themselves in places where they could not risk being overheard. Their identities as the authors of their scandal sheet had to remain secret because their job of exposing corrupt nobles was far from well-received. There were those who, had they known the source, would not hesitate to see them silenced. To maintain their safety, they had devised a code of sorts. In their coded language, a “vase” referred to a source of information.
Sophia nodded. “Mayhap,” she said lightly. “I shall need to see what it contains.”
“Mm.” Grace inclined her head. “As you should.”
Together, they moved through the ballroom, their steps measured and unobtrusive as they followed the man at a distance. He eventually made his way to the refreshments table, where he accepted a glass that appeared to contain spirits, lingering there as he engaged in loud conversation with another man, whose breath suggested he had indulged a little too freely.
Sophia wanted to get closer, to hear what they were saying, so she stepped forward but, before she could, Grace rested a hand on her arm, inclining her head towards the door.
“There. Now that is a vase that I think might be worth pursuing.”
Sophia frowned. Grace’s cheeks were faintly pink as she spoke, and that was something that never happened. Grace never blushed. She was able to hide almost all her expressions behind the neutral, considering facade that her own father—a Cambridge professor of Mathematics—had perfected. Sophia’s eyes drifted across to the man.
He was tall, with dark brown hair and a noble bearing. He was, Sophia noticed, dressed in a military uniform. Her gaze sought out the lapels of the uniform, trying to identify the rank and regiment they indicated, but he was too far away across the room. Her gaze moved to Grace, and she grinned to see that her friend was staring at the man, that soft, pinkish flush still visible in her cheeks.
“Who is he?” Sophia asked.
“He is James Wentworth, Baron Shipton.” She paused. “He is a Captain in the Hussars.”
“Oh?” Sophia’s brow lifted. “And what makes him so interesting?” she asked. Grace grinned, then quickly masked her expression, though the amusement was still evident.
“He is the Duke of Atherley’s cousin and confidant,” she replied mechanically. Her expression was shuttered, neutral. Sophia felt guilty for teasing her friend. “And, well…he is quite striking,” Grace added, the grin bursting forth again.
“Grace!” Sophia giggled in delight. In that moment, they were not merely two determined investigators unearthing the hidden sins of the ton, but also two friends enjoying the fleeting joys of a ball. Grace chuckled.
“He is. Quite striking.” She allowed her gaze to follow the baron across the room and Sophia smiled to herself.
I wonder what it is like, she thought distantly and a little sadly, to feel that way. To find a man striking, as Grace puts it. She had truly never met a man who made her feel the same evident interest that Grace had felt in the baron. Her father had, thankfully, not forced her to pursue any suitors over the intervening seven years—not that any had presented themselves—and she had never really contemplated, until that moment, what it might be like to feel excited to get to know someone.
She shook herself, annoyed that she had let her thoughts wander so far from the topic at hand. Grace was watching the door, clearly focused on their mission. She needed to focus too.
“Where did the…” she began, about to ask where the baron had gone, and to suggest that Grace follow him, but before she could find the words, Grace lifted her hand, gesturing her to silence.
“His Grace, the Duke of Atherley,” the butler was announcing from the top step where he announced the guests, “and his sister, Lady Charlotte.”
A murmur ran around the room. Sophia tried to hear what was being said, but her gaze was on the duke, and she watched him, distracted by his fine bearing.
He was not a tall man—no more than average height—but his upright posture and measured walk held the eye, making him seem taller than he actually was. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and his profile was well-formed and elegant. He wore a dark grey tailcoat and charcoal knee-breeches, a high-collared shirt tied with a simple cravat around his long neck. He was too far away for her to see any details, like the colour of his eyes, but his dignified bearing was striking.
“He will go and greet his aunt,” Grace murmured, clearly a step ahead and working hard to follow their target. “I will go over there to listen.” She inclined her head, indicating an older woman in a dark blue velvet dress near the door. “Mayhap you could go and listen over there?” Grace gestured towards where the duke’s handsome cousin was standing at the refreshments table. Sophia shook her head, grinning.
“No, cousin,” she said swiftly. “You go there. I will observe the Duke and his aunt.”
“Sophia…” Grace began, her brown eyes widening, a big grin lifting her lips even as she protested. Sophia grinned.
“I would much rather do this part,” Sophia insisted. “You’d best hurry, the Duke’s cousin is just there,” she added, and swiftly turned away before Grace could protest. She was smiling to herself as she walked across the room towards the duke and his sister.
The duke and his sister were, indeed, greeting the older woman in the dark blue dress whose white hair was styled in a simple, yet stylish chignon. They were standing near a convenient alcove and Sophia drifted over to it, positioning herself just beside it. From that vantage point, she was no more than two or three yards away, and the view was perfect. Hearing, however, proved more difficult—there was a large crowd, and even if someone stood nearby, their words would be scarcely audible. But with time, she could ease closer. They had all evening.
The older woman, their aunt, was smiling warmly at the Duke and his sister. Lady Charlotte was speaking with her aunt, a big smile on her pretty face. She was, Sophia guessed, at least seven years younger than herself, about eighteen, since she had made her debut just a week before. She had a lively, heart-shaped face and wore a white silk dress, the sleeves delicate gauzy puffs, her rich dark-brown hair decorated with pearl-tipped pins. She had a bright, wide smile and her brown eyes sparkled with happiness.
She seems such an innocent, lovely young lady, Sophia thought sadly. It seemed almost impossible to believe that such an apparently sweet person could come from a family of corrupt, exploitative people. As she watched, Lady Charlotte stepped back a little swiftly, almost stepping into a chair. The duke leaned forward protectively, resting a hand on Lady Charlotte’s arm.
He does not seem that terrible, either, Sophia thought lightly. The gesture was brotherly and gentle. His green-eyed gaze was full of care and tenderness as he gazed at his sister. Yet, Sophia reminded herself crossly, appearances could be deceptive. She watched him more closely, doing her best to be critical.
“…and we should host the annual ball next month,” a woman in an expensive-looking brown velvet gown said, almost walking into Sophia and blocking her view of the duke and his sister. Sophia blinked in surprise. The woman did not apologise, but shot Sophia a hard look, as though it was her own fault for being in the way, and strode past, chatting away to a man who Sophia abruptly recognised as the red-haired man with the unpleasant stare. She paused, briefly, wondering if she should listen to them instead.
No, she told herself firmly. Grace had sent her to listen to the Duke and his sister—or, rather, she had volunteered herself for that service—and she could not allow herself to be distracted.
She turned to where the Duke and his sister had been. Their aunt was still there, but she was chatting to a lord and lady and the Duke had disappeared.
Sophia winced, feeling annoyed. She had let them get out of her sight. She looked around and caught sight of Grace, who was across the room near a wall where some paintings hung. A brief glance showed the baron, standing beside Grace. Sophia grinned to herself.
I hope Grace is enjoying this investigation, she thought wryly. She scanned the room with her gaze and spotted the Duke’s firm posture and dark head of hair near the refreshments table.
“Excuse me,” she murmured politely, drifting through the crowd. She had to reach the duke and his sister and listen, and the refreshments table was a perfect spot since there was no reason not to linger there and they would be a mere foot away from her. She hurried her pace, stepping lightly around guests, footmen and chairs, heading towards the refreshments table.
She was almost there, and her gaze narrowed. She had lost sight of them. Lady Charlotte’s white dress stood out among the dark-dressed male guests, but many young ladies were wearing white, and it made her hard to spot. She stared over at the table, sure that they were there, that she was just missing them. She had to hurry.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, startled, as she collided—rather solidly—with an obstacle that, she was quite certain, had not been in her path but a moment ago.
She gasped again as her gaze drifted upwards, and she quickly realised, first, that the obstacle was, in fact, a person—a male, and one with a remarkably broad, muscled back—and second, that she recognised him.
The Duke of Atherley was staring down at her, his green eyes cold and unreadable.
Chapter 2
The young lady who had walked solidly into Henry turned and stared up at him; grey eyes wide and shocked. She was rather pretty, Henry noted absently, with a small, squarish face, a delicate nose, and those striking grey eyes. He quickly dismissed the thought.
He was annoyed for many reasons—the oppressive heat, the obligation to attend a ball where he knew few of the guests, and the constant worry over his younger sister—and the added irritation of being walked into was too much for him. He tried not to scowl, but it was hard.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said softly. She dropped a curtsey, her grey eyes still holding his gaze.
Henry blinked confusedly. The young lady did not seem frightened, or even daunted. Her apology—while sincere—did not sound in the least worried. That was strange. Since he had barely attended a ball since his father’s passing, people had whispered about him. The whispers, which ranged from allegations of corruption against his father, to bizarre tales about himself and whatever dark dealings he was said to be involved in, tended to make women afraid.
But this woman was not afraid at all.
“Think nothing of it,” he murmured gruffly. “Nobody was harmed.”
“No,” the woman said lightly. “Though I might have been.” Her tone was slightly accusing, and, to his further annoyance, he blushed. He had not thought to apologise himself, and he had been as much in her way as she was in his.
“I trust you were not hurt, madam?” he managed to say. It was polite, though he was annoyed at himself that she had to remind him of that.
“No, I was not,” she said softly.
“Good.” He inclined his head, turning away. As he did so, the footman who was serving drinks at the refreshments table, bumped a glass that balanced on the edge of the table. Henry reached out to grab it; a reflex from when he was younger and helping to look after Charlotte, who is nine years his junior. As he grabbed the glass, he blinked in surprise. Someone else had grabbed it at the same instant. It was the grey-eyed young lady.
“Apologies,” she said hastily, withdrawing her fingers from his own.
“No matter,” Henry said in a tight voice. His heart was thudding. Her fingertips were cold and very soft, and their touch raced down his nerves like fire. He withdrew his hand, nodding briefly at the footman, who was, for some reason, apologising profusely though he had done nothing.
The grey-eyed young lady smiled. Henry stared at her. She was pretty when her face was neutral, but when she smiled, her smile stole his breath. Her pretty face seemed to light up and those eyes, which had seemed cool and distant, now sparkled with an intriguing mystery, as though they held depths he hadn’t yet begun to fathom.
He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the stillness. The air had grown unexpectedly tight around him, though he couldn’t quite place why.
“May I inquire as to your name, my lady?” he asked. He was not sure why he felt such a deep desire to know it.
“My name is Miss Rutland, Your Grace,” she murmured.
“I am Henry Alford, Duke of Atherley,” he answered.
“Your Grace,” she said again, dropping a formal, slightly stiff curtsey. He bowed.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rutland,” he murmured. He found himself searching for something else to say, an unfamiliar desire to continue the conversation growing within him. It was strange, considering the many balls he had attended in the past week—far more than he had in years—and yet, he had felt no inclination to engage with anyone.
“As am I, Your Grace,” she replied. Her eyes held his with an intensity that both surprised and intrigued him. There was a wry lilt in her voice, and a peculiar look in her eyes—both assessing and a touch playful. He could not quite decipher the meaning of either, but he was aware, with some irritation, that she had addressed him as “Your Grace” even before he had introduced himself. It was not unusual for a duke’s reputation to precede him, and he found himself wondering just how much she already knew of him. He was about to ask when Lady Brookshaw nearly collided with him.
“Your Grace!” Lady Brookshaw said in a theatrically loud tone. “Why! I do apologise.” She swept a curtsey that he had to admit would not have looked out of place in St. James’ Palace. While he disliked Lady Brookshaw intensely, he had to admit that she was always a model of elegance and style.
“Think nothing of it,” Henry grunted. It was, it seemed, becoming almost fashionable to walk into him. It seemed everyone was doing it. He looked around, about to share that thought with Miss Rutland. Something told him it would amuse her.
She had vanished.
That struck him as annoying, though he could not quite place why. He had been looking forward to conversing with her. In a room filled with faces he barely knew, hers had been a rare, interesting, and rather pleasant one. He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering as if he might catch sight of her once more.
“Your Grace,” Lady Brookshaw said in a low, cultured tone. “May I tell you how ravishing dear Lady Charlotte looks? Why, she is the essence of a young debutante!” She smiled a wide smile that struck him as entirely false. He did not like her, and he was absolutely sure that she did not like him either. She was always hinting that his father had been involved in some dark scandal, and that made him angry. His father was no longer there to defend himself.
“Thank you, Lady Brookshaw,” he replied tightly. Lady Brookshaw was close to the age that his own mother would have been—had she lived—and though she tried to act as though she had some interest in his family, he always felt as though that interest was malicious. He bowed to her formally. “Pray, excuse me,” he murmured. “I must consult with my cousin, James.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Brookshaw replied, dropping an elegant curtsey and smiling her false smile.
Henry hurried off. He was sure he had been barely polite to her, but he could not help it. He needed to get away. He looked around the room, heart thudding. He was not looking for James, his cousin, so much as for Charlotte. She was a young debutante—as Lady Brookshaw had pointed out—and it was his duty to protect and chaperone her. He had lost sight of her and his gaze swept the room, fear for her making his heart race.
His gaze caught on a head of glossy dark hair near the doorway, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Charlotte was there, talking to two young women whom he thought he distantly recognised as her friends, Lady Henrietta and Lady Emsley. He hurried through the crowd, shouldering his way through towards her.
“Ah! Your Grace,” a voice said at his elbow as he approached them. He spun round to find the Earl of Edgefield standing at his side. He winced. Besides Lady Brookshaw, the man was one of the people in high society he trusted least.
Around Henry’s own age, Edgefield had a notorious reputation as both a gambler and a frequent visitor to the more disreputable public houses of London. He was the sort of rakish figure many found fashionably amusing, but Henry had always suspected there was something far more sinister beneath the surface—something his reputation alone did not quite capture. He gave the man a hard stare.
“Lord Edgefield.” He inclined his head, the merest bow.
“Lady Charlotte,” Lord Edgefield said, his voice low and melodic as he bowed to Henry’s younger sister.
“Lord Edgefield,” Henry said tightly. He could barely contain his anger and he put himself forcibly between the disreputable man and his sister, blocking him from approaching her. “I was about to escort my sister to the refreshments table. If you will excuse us?” His gaze was hard. His tone bristled.
Lord Edgefield lifted a brow, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “Of course, old chap,” he said lightly. “Of course.”
Henry scowled. He was not on familiar terms with Lord Edgefield, though the fellow had been part of the circle that had gathered around Henry’s late father, and the fellow took liberties calling him “old chap”. Lady Brookshaw was also involved in his circle, and that was one reason why he disliked them both so profoundly. He had always had the suspicion that whatever underhand dealings his father had become involved in—if that was true, and he had little enough proof—they were involved in the same dealings. Lady Brookshaw certainly knew something about it, because she lost no time in hinting at it every time she saw him. Henry was less certain about Lord Edgefield and his involvement in it, though the two of them were so often together that he felt sure that if Lady Brookshaw knew, then Lord Edgefield must do so also.
“Come, Charlotte,” he said lightly, trying to hide the anger in his tone.
“Brother? Have I done something wrong?” Charlotte asked softly as they crossed the floor towards the refreshments table. Her large brown eyes were full of concern, her brow creased in a frown.
“No. No, sister. Of course not,” Henry said swiftly. “You did nothing. I just…” he sighed. He could not shelter Charlotte from certain notions, though he wished that he could. “I simply do not believe that Lord Edgefield is the sort of man who should be conversing with young debutantes.” He tried to explain, feeling awkward.
“No! Nor do I,” Charlotte said with a giggle. “He smelled strange, and I did not care for his tone of voice.” Her sweet face crinkled.
Henry breathed out. He should have known that his sister would have noticed something like that. The strange smell was brandy, and Henry had noticed too. And he should have guessed that the dangerous tone in the fellow’s voice would communicate itself to Charlotte before even he would notice it. She was a highly sensitive and intelligent girl.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” he said lightly. “Yes, you are right on both counts.”
She giggled again. “May I go and find Henriette and Juliana now?” she asked swiftly. “I promise we shall keep well away from such horrid men.” Her gaze held his, her brown eyes asking him solemnly for permission.
He grinned. “Of course, Charlotte,” he said swiftly. “But pray do not go out of sight.”
“Hurrah!” she exclaimed, her expression shifting instantly from the seriousness of a debutante to the bright, carefree joy of a young lady. With that, she dashed off across the ballroom, pausing only to flash him a dazzling smile before twirling toward the doorway where her friends awaited her.
Henry sighed again. He wished, as he did often, that his mother were still with them. She would have been the right person to protect and guide Charlotte through the world of London as a debutante. He felt confused and drained. He knew he had to strike a balance between shielding her and granting her the freedom she deserved, yet he had no clear sense of what that balance looked like, nor how to achieve it.
He gazed around the ballroom. True to what he had asked her, Charlotte remained in the doorway, within sight. The three young ladies would offer protection enough for each other, and Lady Emsley’s husband would doubtless also protect them. Charlotte was safe and he allowed his gaze to drift around the ballroom, the knot in his shoulders loosening a little with the knowledge that Charlotte was protected. His gaze moved tiredly over the crowd, then stopped as he blinked.
Miss Rutland was a few paces away from him, by the wall near the alcove.
Before he could think too clearly, his cheeks lifted in a smile. She saw the smile and her eyes flared wide; shock apparent on her features. He bit his lip, not wanting to grin again; this time in amusement. The shocked expression on her face was utterly at odds with her calm exterior.
He drifted closer to her, his gaze shifting toward James, who was standing nearby, conversing with a woman who had thick auburn hair. Henry hoped to speak with his cousin—James could help him keep a watchful eye on Charlotte.
However, as he neared, he heard James speaking earnestly to the young woman. From what he could catch, they were discussing the history of democracy in Ancient Greece. Henry frowned, perplexed. Surely not! He must be mistaken. He shook his head to clear it, then took another step closer.
“Miss Rutland,” he greeted the lady, who was standing close to James and the auburn-haired woman; too close for him to walk past without acknowledging her presence. It was only polite, he reminded himself. His cheeks glowed faintly as she dropped a curtsey, that same unreadable smile on her face.
“Good evening, Your Grace. It seems we are fated to cross paths more than once this evening.” Her tone was cool.
“Not quite literally, this time,” Henry replied lightly, his lips curving into a wry smile.
Miss Rutland grinned. Her smile was bright, amused and genuine and it lit her eyes in a way that knocked the wind from him. He gazed at her, astonished.
“Well said, Your Grace.”
He smiled back. He could not help it. She was amusing and clearly intelligent, and those were qualities he could not help liking. All the women in his family were intelligent and amusing, and even had they not been, those were things he looked for in friends.
“I seem to have become a favoured target for collisions,” he began, recalling that he had wanted to share the story of Lady Brookshaw.
She giggled. “How so?” she asked warmly.
He shrugged. “No idea. It just seems that people bump into me with alarming frequency of late.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Mayhap you’ve been positioning yourself in rather awkward spots?”
He chuckled. Her boldness amused him. Nobody else he knew would have addressed him so honestly.
“Mayhap,” he acknowledged, inclining his head.
“Henry!” a voice called out, interrupting him. “Why! There you are! I was searching for you and dear Charlotte.”
Henry turned to find his Aunt Margaret at his elbow. He beamed at the older woman, feeling genuine warmth in his heart.
“Aunt Margaret.” He bowed. “I believe Charlotte is over there by the doors, should you be seeking her?”
“Oh, good.” Aunt Margaret smiled. “I had thought to join you both as we exit the room for dinner. It’s frightfully crowded in here.”
“Of course, Aunt. Of course,” Henry replied, nodding briskly. He would be pleased to escort his dear aunt to dinner. He bent his arm at the elbow to support her arm while they walked towards the doors. She smiled up at him, her dark eyes sparkling with warmth.
“Thank you, dear nephew,” she murmured. “You always were such a dear.”
Henry’s heart twisted. His aunt was his father’s sister, and in some ways, she reminded him of Papa. Her dark brown eyes—so wise and knowing—reminded him of his father’s own level stare. Papa had been so warm, so intelligent, so full of life. Henry could barely believe that he had been involved in corrupt dealings of any sort. But there was some tenuous evidence of that, and Henry had hired a man to investigate it further. He had to know the truth.
He glanced around to see if Miss Rutland was there, but she was talking to a grey-haired lady whom he recognised as the host, Lady Whitmore, who was also a dear friend of his aunt. He shook his head, trying to ignore Miss Rutland’s bright smile at the older woman, and focused on finding Charlotte. It was time to escort his aunt and his dear sister to dinner.
Chapter 3
Sophia gazed across the table in the dining room. The Duke sat directly opposite her. She and Grace had orchestrated their arrival so that they, along with the duke, would enter at the same time, providing an ideal opportunity to observe him closely. Lady Whitmore, Grace’s aunt, was known for her informality, and as such, the usual protocols of entering the dining room in order of rank were not observed at her gatherings. It had been an easy matter for them to slip into line behind the duke and his family.
Sophia stifled a grin. Grace was seated next to the duke’s cousin, Baron Shipton. She had not overheard their earlier interchange, but it seemed as though the two of them had much to discuss. From what Sophia could catch, Grace was expounding on the early philosophers’ views on mathematics, and, surprisingly, the baron was keeping pace with her.
Sophia raised her glass of cordial and took a sip, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched the bright, animated conversation unfold just across the table.
The sound of chairs being pushed back brought her attention back to the moment and she pushed back her own chair and stood. The ladies would go to the drawing-room and the gentlemen to the billiards room for an hour after dinner.
Grace and the baron were still chatting as Sophia fell into line close to them. She did her best to keep an eye on the duke, not wanting to miss any interchanges that might give her clues about his character and motives.
The red-haired man who she had noticed earlier and disliked walked casually up to the duke. The duke’s posture stiffened, and Sophia stepped forward, her interest heightened, pausing in line behind them as if she were adjusting her shawl. Her ears strained to listen to their conversation.
“…and you might consider investing. It’s a passage to India! Cannot help but bring forth all manner of riches, eh?” The red-haired man sounded lighthearted. The duke, who was listening, looked unsure.
“Ships can sink, my lord,” he said tightly.
“Yes, yes! But this one has an experienced captain. Makes it a bit more reliable. Think on it, Your Grace.”
“I shall consider the venture. Thank you for the information,” the duke said in a hard tone that, Sophia thought, conveyed the sense that he would not consider it at all. The red-haired man shrugged.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The duke turned and walked off down the hallway towards the billiards room, going inside. Sophia felt the tension in her shoulders ease. The business of the evening was, for the moment, concluded. With the duke playing billiards, she and Grace could not very well observe him, and their task for the evening was as good as done. She mentally set aside the information about the Duke’s sceptical response to the red-haired man. For the first time in the three hours since she had arrived at the ball, she felt a sense of ease—she might finally enjoy herself.
“Sophia! How grand to see you!” Grace enthused, appearing beside her. “Did you find the gravy to your liking?” That was another code expression, referring to information that they had found out.
“It was very satisfactory, though a bit thin,” Sophia told her. She inclined her head in the direction that the men had taken up the hallway. “Do you know who the red-haired man is?”
Grace frowned. “Red hair, you say? Did you notice anything else about him?”
Sophia described him as best she could, and Grace nodded.
“That is the Earl of Edgefield. Well-spotted!” she beamed at Sophia. “That fellow has a horrid reputation. Gambling, mainly.” She shrugged. “No worse than many young nobles, mind.” She wrinkled her nose. “So, I suppose there is no scandal there.”
Sophia frowned. The impression she had gotten was that the duke viewed the earl’s business dealings with scepticism—perhaps even suspicion.
“Look,” Grace whispered, clearly sensing her distraction. “Lady Brookshaw. Talking to Lady Charlotte.”
Sophia turned and spotted an older woman with grey hair whom she was sure she recognised. The woman wore a brown dress in rich, costly velvet. She felt desperate to hear what the woman was saying.
“Your aunt is with them too,” Sophia murmured, getting inspired. “One of us could join the group and engage her in conversation, perhaps include ourselves in their discussion.”
Grace beamed. “Grand idea.”
Sophia’s heart thudded and she drifted lightly across the room towards Lady Whitmore. As she had thought, it was an easy matter to slip into the group of ladies beside their host, and soon she was standing across from Lady Charlotte.
“…and, of course, all of you must be careful,” the older lady in the brown dress said to the group around her, who were, Sophia noticed, mostly young debutantes in their white or pastel gowns. “Your reputations are your most precious treasure. Even those whose families may have secrets—or less-than-ideal reputations—must focus on guarding their own names.” Her gaze moved to Lady Charlotte and stayed there as she spoke. Lady Charlotte looked away, her big eyes wide with confusion and hurt. Sophia’s breath caught in her throat and her temper flared, a wash of protective feeling for Charlotte flooding her. She glared at the older woman but then recalled her need to be nondescript. She stepped out of the group; certain she did not want to hear any more.
She took a breath, trying to calm down. Lady Charlotte’s family did, indeed, have a bad reputation—or a secret. Evidently, that was widely known in society. Or, at least, the brown-dressed lady knew of it.
Who is she? Sophia wondered. She was ready to enter the group again and find out the older woman’s name, but before she could do anything, Lady Whitmore cleared her throat.
“Ladies! The gentlemen will be joining us at any moment.” The clock struck on the mantelpiece as she spoke, causing a flurry of whispers and motion as women straightened their shawls, adjusted their hair and checked their appearances. “Card tables have been brought in, should any of you wish to play.”
Sophia stepped back as the group of young debutantes streamed towards the card tables, checking their reflections in the mirror and chatting excitedly. Sophia felt a little sorrowful. She wished she could have been like them at her debut—excited, scared, full of anticipation. She scanned the room for a glimpse of Grace and spotted her standing with Lady Margaret—the Duke’s aunt—probably trying to gain information. She wandered over to join their group. When Grace saw her, she beamed.
“Sophia!” Grace greeted. “Will you play at whist?”
Whist was one of Grace’s favourite things—card games, in general, were one of Grace’s favourite things. She was uncannily good at following the cards and usually won. Sophia chuckled.
“I know I shan’t win if I play against you,” she teased.
Grace chuckled. “You have a small probability of winning. You might be dealt the best hand.”
Sophia made a wry face and they both laughed.
Sophia’s gaze moved to the door, and then she tensed. The gentlemen had arrived, and an air of studied nonchalance settled suddenly on the ladies who had been watching the doorway from their seats by the fire. On the threshold stood the red-haired man, the baron, and the Duke.
Grace looked at Sophia. Sophia looked back, blankly. They needed to follow the Duke and his cousin and ideally, to talk to them. But how? It would be entirely indecorous to approach them directly, and Sophia could think of no way to approach them indirectly without drawing unwanted attention.
“Ladies!” Lady Whitmore appeared and addressed them, drifting over to Grace’s side. “Will you not play a game of Whist?”
Grace nodded. “Gladly, Aunt. But we need four players.” Her gaze moved to the two gentlemen by the door and Sophia’s heart soared, even as her body tensed apprehensively. They could not play cards with the baron and the Duke, could they? Her heart was thudding with some strange, intense emotion that felt a little like when she galloped with her horse around the field. It was exhilarating, but also frightening and dangerous.
“Yes. Quite so,” Lady Whitmore agreed. Her eyes sparkled and Sophia hid a smile as the older woman indicated the two gentlemen by the doorway. “I believe the baron and his cousin are keen card players. I shall make the suggestion, if you would like me to…?”
“Why, thank you, Aunt!” Grace replied, her grin bright. “We would be most obliged to you.”
Sophia murmured her thanks and Lady Whitmore drifted across the room. A minute later, she returned, with the two gentlemen in tow.
“Miss Devereux,” the baron greeted Grace, bowing low. His big smile suggested to Sophia that he had as much interest in Grace as Grace seemed to have in him. “I believe that you young ladies are in need of two more players for whist? Might we join you?”
Grace’s eyes widened, her cheeks turning pink as she curtseyed. “Lord Shipton,” she addressed him politely. “We would be delighted.”
“Thank you.” The baron smiled, his sudden, bright grin making Sophia notice that he was, indeed, quite striking. She forgot that thought as her gaze moved to his shorter, more muscular cousin. The duke was watching her coolly. She forgot any thoughts at all as he bowed low.
“Miss Rutland,” he greeted her in that resonant voice as he straightened up.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, dropping the lowest curtsey she could. She stared into his eyes, unable to look away. They were striking—a mesmerising pale green, like the water of a forest lake under clouds. She realised someone was speaking nearby and tried to focus.
“I suggest that I shall partner Miss Devereux, if I may?” the baron suggested, turning a little shyly to Grace. Grace smiled.
“Of course, my lord.”
Sophia returned to staring at the Duke, who looked back, apparently equally at a loss. If Grace played with the baron, that meant she would have to sit opposite the Duke. Tension and amazement collided in her mind, rendering it a whirling blank.
“Miss Rutland?” the Duke said gently, indicating the card table beside them.
“Oh. Yes,” Sophia murmured, blushing as she heard her own strange comment. What, she thought a little crossly, was the matter with her? She never had trouble thinking or concentrating, and yet when the duke was nearby, she had trouble remembering her own name.
She sat down as he drew out a chair for her. The baron sat down and lifted the pile of cards that was on the table.
“If I may, I will take it upon myself to deal the cards,” he said, grinning at his cousin.
The Duke shrugged. “As you wish, cousin,” he replied lightly.
“Very well. Here,” he stated, beginning on his right, where the Duke sat. He put a card down in front of the Duke, then in front of Grace—who sat opposite him, as was customary for whist teams—and then in front of Sophia. Sophia glanced at the back of the card, not lifting her gaze to the Duke’s face.
The baron dealt all the cards, retaining an extra for himself, which he turned over.
“Diamonds are the trump suit!” he announced, then beamed as he turned over his own hand of cards, holding them towards himself so that nobody could see. Sophia tried not to smile as she turned over her own hand of cards. She had a few good cards, and she did not want to make that fact obvious.
The Duke placed the Ten of Spades, making Sophia smile. Trust him to be unconventional and choose to open with a card that was not of the trump suit. She frowned. She had no idea what had given her the impression that he might be unconventional—everything about him suggested that he tried to conform, from his short-cropped hair to his sombre grey tailcoat. Yet there was an air of being outside society, of flouting its norms without even trying.
His gaze moved to her face, and she blushed. She had been staring. She looked down at her cards, trying to decide what to play. Grace went next. She played a low-ranking card from the Diamonds suit. Sophia smiled to herself. It looked like Grace had terrible cards—her choice suggested that she was hard-pressed to find anything worth playing in her hand. But Sophia knew her, and she knew that Grace was probably bluffing. She looked at her own cards, drawing the Queen of Diamonds out. She put it on the pile and the baron groaned.
“Oh…” the baron said with a big grin. His expression was playfully regretful. He put down the Nine of Diamonds. “The first hand goes to Miss Rutland and my cousin.”
Across the table from him, Grace raised a brow. Sophia chuckled silently to herself. She was sure that Grace and the baron would win the entire game, but it would be fun to make it difficult.
Sophia looked up to find the Duke staring at her again. She blushed, cheeks flooding with heat. Whatever is the matter with him? she asked herself a little crossly. His green-eyed stare was unreadable, and yet it sent shivers through her.
The Duke played a low-ranking card from the Hearts suit. Grace, beside him, produced a much higher-ranking one and shot the baron a quick grin.
Sophia hesitated, then put down a card that trumped both of theirs. Beside her, the baron whistled.
“You win again,” he said swiftly, throwing down a low-ranking card.
Sophia watched as Grace consulted her cards, seemingly unbothered. Her team needed to win the next five hands in order to win, while Sophia and the Duke only needed another three hands to win. She gazed at her cards. She had used up some good ones, but there were still a few strong cards left. She watched as the Duke produced the Ten of Spades.
With a grin so radiant that it seemed it could have lit the entire street, Grace put down the King of Spades. Sophia grimaced and produced a low-ranking Spades card. She did not have many Diamonds left and she wanted to save them. The baron chuckled and put down the Two of Spades, since it did not really matter—their team had won that hand with Grace’s card.
Sophia’s gaze moved to the Duke. His eyes met hers. She wished, silently, that she could talk to him. Conversation among pairs at Whist was not possible because the two players playing together sat opposite one another. Anything they said was heard by everyone.
“Well, then,” the baron said happily. “One hand for us.” He wrote down the score and turned to the Duke. Wordlessly, he produced the Ten of Clubs.
Sophia looked at her hand. She had a few Clubs cards, and she waited to see what Grace would do. Her friend played the Eight of Diamonds.
Sophia winced. She had the King of Clubs. She also had one Diamonds card left, but she had decided that she still wanted to save it. She put down the King of Clubs.
The baron put down the Ace of Clubs and grinned at Grace, who beamed at him.
“We win again,” the baron declared happily.
He wrote down the scores and Sophia glanced at the Duke. She decided on something, and she scratched her nose, a signal that Grace would have understood. If it were Grace, it would have meant that she should play the highest card she had. The duke’s eyes widened and he looked down at his cards. Evidently, that gesture had meant something to him, too. Sophia watched as he chose a low-ranking Diamonds card.
She grinned to herself. It had not been the move she had intended him to make, but her smile widened as she understood what he had done. The players would have to follow suit—in this case, the trump suit, or Diamonds, was the only choice they had. That meant that she had the ideal opportunity to play the highest card she had, the King of Diamonds. She watched as Grace grimaced, then put down a low-ranking Diamonds card herself.
Beaming, Sophia produced her trump card. The baron made a face and threw down a low-ranking Diamonds card.
“A point won by my dear cousin and Miss Rutland,” the baron said with a small smile at the Duke.
Sophia gazed across at the Duke. He seemed to have understood something from her secret gesture. She smiled at him, appreciative of the ideal opportunity that he had afforded her. He smiled back.
Sophia looked down shyly. His smile was magnificent. He had thin, well-formed lips and when they lifted at the corners, his expression part-pleased, part sorrowful, her heart twisted, and her head spun and it felt as though her blood was sparkling and tingling in her veins. She looked up again, doing her best to focus on the game.
The next three rounds went to the baron and Grace, and the baron grinned delightedly as they won the last round. Their team had won overall.
Sophia grinned at her friend, who was beaming with delight. Across the table, the baron was staring admiringly at her and Grace was pink with happiness. Sophia pushed back her chair, wanting to give her friend and the baron some moments to talk with each other.
To her surprise, the Duke pushed back his chair and stood, too.
“Miss Rutland,” he murmured as Sophia crossed around the table to his side. “That was an impressive play.”
“Unfortunately, our opponents are both truly fine card players,” Sophia said with a wry laugh. He inclined his head.
“Indeed. But you demonstrated some very good strategic play.” His green eyes studied her carefully. Sophia’s cheeks flared with heat as she looked shyly down for a moment.
“Thank you. As did you,” she replied.
The Duke’s gaze held hers for a second and Sophia’s cheeks heated again, her heart thudding loudly. It felt as though he was the only person in the room. She looked away, confused.
“Miss Rutland?” An older woman, who was an acquaintance of Lady Whitmore’s, approached her. Sophia turned.
“Yes, Lady Albury?” she asked, recognising the lady.
“Have you seen Adeline?” the woman asked, referring to Lady Whitmore. “I must speak to her.”
“She is over there,” Sophia told her, gesturing.
“Oh! There she is! Thank you,” Lady Albury replied and hurried off.
When Sophia turned around again, the Duke had departed.
She could not stop thinking about him, even as she wandered across the room to find Grace. The words had been brief, but he had made such a strong impact on her.
“Well done,” Grace murmured as she joined her.
“I did nothing. Well done to you,” Sophia said, shaking her friend’s hand. Grace chuckled.
“That was rather pleasant.”
Sophia smiled.
“Have you managed to find out anything?” Grace asked as they drifted down the stairs to the hallway. Coaches were starting to arrive. It was almost time to depart. Papa was always very particular about being punctual. She would need to be in the hallway and ready to return home because he would probably be there waiting.
“Not much,” Sophia told her swiftly, spotting her father in the group downstairs. “I will work on the article tonight. I promise,” she told Grace hastily, not wanting to be overheard.
“Good. I will call on you tomorrow morning,” Grace promised.
Sophia squeezed her friend’s hand in a fond gesture and then hurried to the door to where her father was waiting. She shrugged into her brown pelisse and followed her father down the stairs to the coach.
Papa was silent, as she had expected, and that gave her time to think about the article. Oddly, despite her attempts to think about the Duke and his apparent misdeeds, all that kept on returning to her mind was his smile. She pushed the thoughts away, confused and a little cross with herself.
I will work on the article tomorrow morning, she promised herself. It was quite clear that she was too tired to focus on it before some rest. That must be why her mind kept on returning to the Duke’s smile. It could not be because she was interested in him as a person. Certainly not.
She could not let that happen.