Chapter Seventeen #2
“I know what kind of man he is.” There was an edge to Edward’s tone. He forced a smile. “Say, my boy. Did I ever tell you of the time I was a prisoner in a French castle?”
Ned blinked as the conversation veered in a startling direction. “W-what?”
“Oh yes.” Edward’s voice rose just a notch. “We were working for the Home Office during the war, Transom and I—”
Ned’s throat worked. “Transom? The butler?” And then, “I didn’t know you worked for the Home Office.”
“Ah yes. During the war. The frogs caught us and tossed us into a dark hellhole.” He turned to Ewan. “Miserable, wasn’t it?”
Ewan’s heart tightened as he realized what Edward was doing. He’d told very few people about that time, hated talking about it. But Ned should know. He nodded, looked down at his feet.
“You were there too?”
Edward raised his glass. “Saved my life, boy.”
Ewan forced a smile. “I beg to differ. I remember more than one instance when the roles were reversed.”
“So,” Edward clinked their glasses together, “we saved each other.” He shot Ned a meaningful glance and indeed, the boy seemed chastened. Although there was still the hint of a mutinous expression on his face.
The men standing near all crowded around to ask one question and then another and before long Ewan was surrounded by a coterie of noblemen, all of whom hung on his every word.
Edward, of course, slipped away to pour himself another drink, leaving Ewan to suffer all this attention alone.
The bastard.
On a high note, he took Ned with him.
Upon prompting from his companions, Ewan was in the midst of the tale of their brash escape from their prison, when he chanced to look up. Words stalled in his throat as he set eyes upon the man who had just joined their circle.
Because his face was shockingly familiar. It was the one he saw every morning when he peered in the glass. He was shorter than Ewan but not by much, and while he lacked the brawn Ewan had gained through hard years of manual labor, he was hardly a sprig.
And he was gaping at Ewan as well. “I say,” he said. “Have we met?”
“I don’t believe so.”
William stepped forward. “Allow me to make introductions. Robert Granger, Ewan St. Andrews.” They had agreed to use his given name rather than the moniker he had adopted, as the mere whisper of the name McCloud might cause the ladies of the ton to faint dead away.
“Granger.” A familiar name. Where had he... Ah yes. No wonder Hortense had mistaken him for this man. The resemblance was striking. Indeed, even as he pondered the thought, the men in their circle were murmuring amongst themselves.
“St. Andrews.” They shook hands. Granger’s grip was firm. Ewan liked that in a man. “I take it from your accent you hail from Scotland.”
“I do.”
“Odd that.” Granger grinned. “Our family has a hunting lodge in St. Andrews.”
“Is that so? I’m from Dundee. I have my home now in Perth.”
“Ah. Perth.” They both took a sip of their drinks. “Beautiful area.”
“Indeed.”
Silence riffled and then William broke it. “Well, do go on. You were saying you slipped through the woods...”
“Yes. So. Met by the privateers, we made our way through the woods...” He continued the telling as though he had shared the tale a hundred times before. But his mind reeled.
He had no idea who this Granger was to him, no idea what kind of connection there could be between them, but his gut told him it was a significant one.
And his gut was never wrong.
––––––––
Ewan had disappeared.
Violet hovered behind a potted palm and scanned the ballroom once again, barely able to restrain her impatience.
Hiding had become necessary to avoid Lord Dittenham, who had, upon meeting her, determined she was the woman of his dreams. He had haunted her ever since.
And then there were the others. Barkley and Ponce and Sheffield.
All handsome men and, from all accounts, eligible partis. She wanted nothing to do with them.
For one thing, their perfume turned her stomach—it was probably the scent of their pomade but it hardly mattered.
The stench was revolting. Their soft white hands made her want to laugh.
Their effete expressions and oh-so-proper conversations were deadly dull.
Not a one of them set her heart to racing with a look, a word, a touch.
They hounded her in veritable herds, forcing countless glasses of lemonade upon her. If she drank each one, she would explode. She hoped she hadn’t killed any of the palms Hortense had been so delighted to bring in. They were now all swimming in lemonade.
And still they stalked her, those men bearing glasses of vile brew.
Hence, her skulking.
“There you are.”
Violet nearly leapt out of her skin. Her heart chattered as she whirled on Kaitlin. “You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry, darling.” Her gaze narrowed. “I take it you’re not having a good time?”
“These men! They’re like hounds with a scent.”
Really. There was no reason for Kaitlin to laugh. “Did you expect something different? You are rather lovely. And the cousin of a wealthy duke.”
“I’m hardly a tasty rabbit.”
“I beg to differ. You are quite the prize here tonight.”
“But Sophia—”
“Sophia is lovely as well,” Kaitlin said, as an older gentleman spun her by in a reel. She fairly glowed; her gown belled out around her. “But we both know your connection with Edward is what these men are after.”
Violet snorted. “So flattering.”
Kaitlin grinned. “You know what I mean. On your own you’re quite a catch, but with a duke behind you...you’re irresistible. Sophia’s brother is wealthy but not a lord. He doesn’t have a title. She will have to work a little harder to attract a Dittenham or a Sheffield.”
Violet wrinkled her nose. “I shall advise her to be lazy.”
“Hmm. That bad?”
“Hideous. Although Dittenham assures me, when I am his wife he will allow me to buy any dress I like, so long as his mother approves.”
“Quite generous.”
“And Sheffield has expressed a keen desire to teach me how to speak like a true English lady.”
“Oh?”
“Without the savage brogue.”
Kaitlin nibbled her lip. “So they’re both top contenders then?”
Violet tried to swallow her growl but failed. “Have you see Ewan?”
“I was wondering if you’d ask. I saw the two of you head out to the garden.”
“So, apparently, did Ned.” Violet crossed her arms.
“Oh, my. Well, he’s in the study with Edward.”
“Coward.”
“All men are when it comes to evenings such as this.”
Although Edward had stood by Kaitlin’s side, proudly presenting her as his new duchess to all the harpies.
Harpies who had come to gawk at the woman who had finally tamed the Dark Duke.
And to appraise her waistline. They’d been sorely disappointed.
Kaitlin was still extraordinarily trim. But to those who knew her well, the new glow was unmistakable.
A man—one who was not a coward in the slightest—spotted her and scurried in her direction. Violet tamped down the urge to run.
“Ah, Miss Wyeth. There you are.”
Her eyes crossed as Dittenham bent over her hand and his fragrance wafted to her nostrils.
“May I beg another dance of you? Oh, do say yes.” He glanced at Kaitlin. “With your permission, Your Grace.”
Kaitlin—the traitor—dipped her head. “Naturally, Lord Dittenham. I am certain Miss Wyeth would be delighted to dance with you.” There was truly no call for her to say those words accompanied by such an evil smirk.
She had to wonder if Kaitlin was, indeed, a friend at all.