Chapter 3
Argyll didn’t just enjoy a good hunt. He craved it. The greater the challenge, the greater the satisfaction. For this one, he’d even caught up a glass of French champagne to toast the night’s eventual success.
And when it came to securing time alone with Miss Emmy Caldecott, what a hunt it was.
Or it had been. The chase the beautiful wallflower led him on ended this night.
Decades of women falling over themselves to earn a place in his bed, the title of duchess, or both, gave Argyll an added appreciation for the rare ones who took greater cajoling.
The soft slap of Miss Caldecott’s slippers striking Italian marble floors marked, clear as a dueling pistol fired at dawn, Argyll’s path.
You’ve led me on quite the chase, Miss Caldecott. When it came to Argyll’s name, certainly Craven and the lady’s sister together instilled the fear of God Almighty in the child. Their rightful suspicions of Argyll accounted for their keeping the lady away from any functions he attended.
Or the ones they’d known he accepted an invitation to.
Argyll’s guards led by Severin Cadogan, the Earl of Kilburn, proved superior in discovering details the Craven’s took as secret.
He remained a dozen steps ahead of them.
If he were capable of pity, he’d have actually felt badly for his childhood friend and current rival.
As always, his choice prize’s rapid steps gave her away. Argyll trailed at a safe distance. Let the lady believe she had control. From the moment she made her Come Out, he’d allowed the lady a false sense of security.
He could count on one hand—four fingers, to be exact—the number of women who’d rebuffed him.
Well, three now, given his stepmother’s embarrassing performance this evening.
Lady Faith—now married to his partner, Rex DuMond—and only because DuMond decided to claim her, which put an end to his seduction.
Edith, formerly Miss Edith Caldecott—now married to Argyll’s rival and enemy, the Duke of Craven—came alive in Argyll’s arms.
And now, her—Miss Emmy Caldecott, his bride to be. Craven’s innocent, surprisingly lovely sister-in-law.
He’d have married her if she had a horse face—painfully and regretfully—but in the name of coming out on top of the gaming hell war, he’d have made the noble sacrifice. Her comeliness came as an added bonus.
They neared the most northern wing of the marquess’s residence.
His ears picked up on the slight break in Miss Caldecott’s treads. For the lady had reached the end. In every manner of the meaning.
Why, he might almost believe the lady a coquette who’d led him on the chase.
Lord and Lady St. Cyr’s many-levelled terrace overlooked prized gardens.
The veritable Eden marked the perfect place for a nighttime seduction.
He’d shatter her defenses. Leave her hungry, craving for more.
When he was done this night, she’d be more than half in love with him and well on the way to being his Duchess of Argyll.
Click.
A predator’s grin that would have sent the beautiful chit into the flight of her life curled his lips.
Argyll counted. Waited. Allowed the na?ve chit to believe herself safe, a victor yet again in the game of cat and mouse they played.
Taking a small sip from his flute, he savored the bright crispness that coupled with the scents of rose, tuberose, jasmine and orchids outside. A former rake of Argyll’s ranks, the since-reformed Lord St. Cyr, would know precisely the effects those flowers would have.
Then Argyll set after the lovely chit. Unlike the telltale click of when Miss Caldecott let herself outside, Argyll did so with nary a sound. As it was unseasonably cold for the season, his breath left a small cloud of white in the night air.
Argyll did a slow, silent sweep of the terrace, sipping as he went.
It took but a stealthy trace along the stucco tiers to ascertain the chit had again got the better of him.
Bloody hell.
Striding over to the stone balustrade, Argyll set his glass down and peered out.
He scoured Lady’s St. Cyr’s grand gardens.
At its center stood the recently erected one-acre deep, Humphrey Repton high-hedge maze.
It’d take him a bloody eon to find the fleet-of-foot chit.
His former rake compatriot, St. Cyr, conspired against all the former chaps he’d once kept company with.
Silently cursing, Argyll yanked his gloves off and slapped them together. Even the thick shroud of clouds blanketing the night sky and shrouding a full moon conspired against Argyll.
Where are you, Miss Caldecott… Where are you…? “For, if you be not mad for love, you are mad for a hunt-up and the sport…”
A soul-empty murmuring stole across the silence. “O, what may man within him hide, though an angel on the outward side?”
Argyll’s eyes lifted slightly and then narrowed into focus. He wasn’t one to be taken by surprise, and certainly not by any woman. As a rich duke, he’d honed his senses. Otherwise, he’d have been trapped by some avaricious chit with the title “duchess” on her mind long before now.
With measured steps he faced his unwanted visitor. A second wave of shock hit hard.
His lashes swept low. The young woman had taken the ton by storm…
and not for any reasons that recommended the lady.
The painfully salt-white miss before him had nothing to recommend her.
Her stark coloring was made more pronounced by the widow’s weeds she went around wearing.
The ghastly black gown she’d donned did nothing for her figure.
In fairness, the young lady didn’t possess a form of any note. “The Lady in Black.”
“To many,” she said, with an unnerving lack of intonation. “Miss Kearsley to others. Daria to my friends and family.”
As she was nothing to him, other than someone whose company he needed to rid himself of fast, he opted for no greeting.
Argyll stuffed his gloves inside his jacket. “Run along, Miss Kearsley,” he said frostily. “Adults are playing outside.”
“I applaud adults who still play games. My sisters and I do.”
Mad. The chit was madder than a hare.
To not draw the lady’s notice, Argyll collected his glass.
“Which adults are playing?” she asked.
He frowned.
From anyone, that impertinent question would have carried a challenge, mockery, even confusion. This Friday-faced miss could’ve been mistaken for a blank slate.
“Do you mean Miss Caldecott?” Miss Kearsley cocked her head. “If so, she does not wish to play any games with you.”
Knocked off-balance by this one’s knowing, he spoke before he could stop himself. “What do you know about Miss Caldecott?”
“A good deal.”
He shivered. Perhaps he need just issue Miss Caldecott a warning that the Lady in Black had an eye on her and promise his protection. That’d be enough to secure a match. Clearly, but not unsurprisingly, Craven hadn’t done that service to his sister-in-law.
“You are the Duke of Argyll.”
“I am.”
There came neither the usual sigh or simper. But what did one expect from a bloodless, colorless sort like this one?
“I know.”
“Then why in blazes did you ask?”
“I didn’t ask. I stated.”
Argyll rocked back on his heels.
He’d always done the unnerving of people. He’d never found himself on the other end of it—until Miss Kearsley. He quite loathed the experience.
“You’re searching for Miss Caldecott. You will not find her.”
Actually, he hadn’t been. “I was considering the quickest path away from you.”
“It’s obviously that one.” She pointed a bloodless finger at the southernmost doors. “But first, we are to marry.”
We.
The lady nodded. “You and I.”
He drew back.
Well, never say she hadn’t done him one favor this night.
Argyll moved with measured strides for the exit Miss Kearsley still gestured at.
He made it in a single pace.
“You are leaving?”
The pitter-patter of slippered feet echoed along the terrace, frantic where Argyll walked with a slow purpose.
“Wait!” Miss Kearsley put herself in his path.
She held a white palm at him. Her huge, dark eyes filled her face more than the full moon ever could the sky.
The spring wind stirred; it lightly tossed the lady’s gauzy black skirts. The jet crystal beading that dangled from her sleeves tinkled eerily in the night, transforming the debutante into some evil enchantress.
“This is not progressing how I saw it.”
Which meant someone orchestrated this little interlude between them?
The coiled muscles in him contracted. “How did you see it play out, Miss Kearsley?”
Argyll took a drink.
“In truth? I only saw the end part, when you agreed to marry me. We are meant to wed one another.”
Specks of champagne exploded from his mouth. Gasping, his eyes watering, Argyll strangled to breathe. “God.”
A surprisingly capable palm landed hard on Argyll’s back.
“Shh. Shh.” Her thumps came timed with her monotone assurances. Or he supposed they were intended as assurances. “Do not worry. This is not how you die, Gregory.”
Gregory?
The bizarre chit sent him into a fresh paroxysm.
While he choked, she continued on in her toneless way. “Your death will—”
“My God!” he blanched. He tripped over himself in his haste to put distance between them.
Miss Kearsley bowed her head. “My apologies.” She didn’t sound bloody remorseful. She didn’t sound anything. “I should have asked if you wanted to know about your death. I often forget people fear death. You needn’t worry. I do not have the details.” The tip of her button nose moved up. “Yet.”
His death. He narrowed his eyes. He’d gotten his confirmation. Unfortunate for his enemies, Dynevor and Diggory, they’d enlisted a mad woman’s services. “A threat, Miss Kearsley?”
“A threat?” she echoed. “Why would I threaten you?”
Argyll fixed an icy glare upon the weird chit. “Who sent you?”
The lady cocked her head. “Gregory?”
“Craven?” he snapped.
Her gaze revealed nothing. “No.”
“Dynevor?” he peppered, searching for a glitter of recognition.
“No one.”
“Latimer?”
“I said no one, Gregory.”
Good God, her tenacity.