Lord Something (Unexpected Heirs #3)

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

C elia straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and began to struggle through the crowd alone. If there was one thing that she’d learned since Wilkes had forced her to leave home, it was that it was important to look as though she knew where she was going—especially when she didn’t.

She pushed her anxiety down. Of course Keynsham was here. This was his house! They would be reunited at any moment. And then her fears would fade into nothing. The whole tone of the evening would change. Her worst problem would become something trivial… like… like trying not to forget anyone’s name.

No doubt, when she looked back, she would feel very foolish at how she’d allowed herself to panic—and how she’d allowed her imagination to run away with her, and fancied that she’d seen Wilkes.

She tried to edge past a large group of chattering people. “It is quite intolerable!” cried a lady. “One feels as though one was invited simply to make up numbers! I should like to leave. Indeed, if I can ever locate Lord Gray, I shall ask him to order our carriage immediately!”

“I must admit that I should like to see the daughter, now that she is returned from Germany,” said another lady. “It is said that she is a bluestocking—and quite plain.”

What an unkind thing to say of Keynsham’s sister! Celia wished that she were not being forced to eavesdrop. But she seemed to be trapped.

The first lady tutted. “No doubt Lady Alford wished as many people as possible to be here for the announcement of her son’s engagement. Though of course, everyone knows that it is a patched-up affair that has dragged on far too long.”

Celia’s heart began to pound. Patched up? Dragged on far too long? That seemed very unfair!

“It is indelicate,” pronounced a gentleman. “Everyone is perfectly aware that she would not be marrying Alford at all if the old duke had not interfered—or if Lord Lotion hadn’t objected to the other fellow.”

Old duke? Lord Lotion?

“Are you certain that it is back on?”

“Well, she would hardly be here otherwise. I saw her not five minutes ago. Togged out in pink, with too many jewels, as usual.” The others laughed.

Celia began to feel sick. Surely they couldn’t mean…

“Ah, well,” sighed the first lady. “People have short memories. The scandal will be forgot soon enough. And Alford will need every penny of Miss Spry’s thirty thousand pounds, from the looks of this ball.”

They all laughed again, and began to move away.

Celia stood frozen to the floor. No . Keynsham had made promises. He’d talked of the future. He’d asked her to marry him! He was too honorable to treat her in such a way.

But… was he? What might have happened at the inn, if she hadn’t discovered the engagement ring? The engagement ring that had been meant for… Miss Spry? He’d admitted that he’d been under an obligation to her. Then yesterday, he’d claimed that he scarcely knew her.

It had seemed plausible at the time. But had he been telling the truth? If only she could find him, and ask him for an explanation.

But what if the very fact that she couldn’t find him was all the explanation that she needed? If Miss Spry was here, Keynsham would be with her. He would not be looking for Celia.

And the gossiping gentleman had been quite certain that she was here. And, as he’d pointed out, Miss Spry wouldn’t have come unless she and Keynsham were still engaged. That was the most damning argument of all.

Celia’s heart was racing faster and faster. A drunken man bumped into her and stepped heavily on her toe. She wanted to burst into tears. She bit her lip and limped toward the nearest wall. If only she could have a moment’s peace and quiet in which to think through all of this! There had to be some misunderstanding. She didn’t see how, but… well, there simply had to be. Keynsham had talked of fate bringing them together. She would have known if he’d been lying.

And yet… for the first eighteen years of her life she’d lived in a web of lies. And she hadn’t known that, had she? She’d never suspected that her father had been cheating Wilkes—or that he’d tried to steal her inheritance. How could she trust her judgment when she hadn’t seen the truth about her own father?

Perhaps, with Keynsham too, she’d been seeing only what she wanted to see.

The noise, the heat, the lack of air… her head was beginning to pound. She leaned against the wall for a moment and tried to collect herself. But it was no use. Whatever else she told herself, she couldn’t explain away the fact that the other lady—Miss Spry—was present tonight. She didn’t think that she could bear to see Keynsham with Miss Spry. Her heart would break.

If only she could think! If only she could leave the party! But she was trapped, in a short-sleeved cream-colored satin ballgown that didn’t belong to her, with a thunderstorm outside.

By creeping along the wall, her foot still throbbing, she made her way back to the entrance hall. Fortunately it was less crowded than it had been before. She looked around, at a loss. Opposite the front door, where latecomers were still arriving, was another door. She made her way to it and—checking to be sure that nobody was watching—slipped through it and into an empty corridor.

She took deep gulps of cooler air. But she could feel a sob rising in her throat. She tiptoed across the corridor and opened a door. It opened into a large room set with tables, where a servant was placing a tray upon a crowded sideboard. She shut the door quickly, before he could turn around.

Fortunately, there was another pair of doors farther down the corridor. She hurried to them and tried the handle. The doors were unlocked. And they led exactly where she’d most hoped that they would: the quiet dimness of a library.

She slipped inside, shut the doors as silently as possible and leaned against them, no longer able to hold back the tears that overflowed from her eyes.

She’d had to discover the ring for herself—and only then had Keynsham admitted that he was all but engaged. Then he’d claimed that Miss Spry had thrown him over—despite the fact that he’d compromised her. But she was at this very ball, and people were gossiping about the forthcoming announcement of their engagement.

If Celia weren’t capable of putting such large and obvious pieces together for herself, then she was a fool indeed.

She must find some way to leave—ballgown or no ballgown. “You have developed a certain expertise at running away,” Keynsham had said to her, only yesterday. Well, now she’d have to use that expertise.

She rested her forehead on the door for a moment, took a steadying breath, and was reaching for the handle when there was a noise behind her. She whirled around, her hand at her throat.

And out from the shadows, into the firelight, stepped Wilkes.

“Good evening, Miss Talbot.” His face twisted into a smirk. “I did not expect to see you here tonight. Are you not enjoying the ball?”

If Keynsham had learned anything at all, he’d learned that it wasn’t wise to go to a library on the invitation of an anonymous note. He turned the piece of paper over in his hand. “ Come alone to the library at eleven o’clock—or you will regret it.”

He didn’t have time for this nonsense. And he didn’t see what else this ridiculous threat could be. He was already late to find Celia, and his feeling of dread was growing. He was about to crumple the paper in his hand when he saw… Miss Spry.

With her dark hair curled into ringlets and piled high, she strolled through the crowd as though she were the only person in the packed ballroom. People stepped out of her way, and she appeared to be unaccompanied.

Of course, her chaperone—as Keynsham knew all too well—was always conveniently somewhere else. The self-satisfied expression on Miss Spry’s face was the only sign that she was aware of the stares and gasps and whispers that followed her. She was shocking the ton —and she was reveling in it.

His mother must have invited her. But then, she’d invited most of London. And it was possible that the invitation had been sent before Miss Spry had thrown him over.

Still, Miss Spry herself must know that it was in the worst possible taste for her to attend this ball after she’d cried off from their engagement. She must know that her appearance here, tonight, would cause talk—and that it would make everyone think that they were engaged. There could be no innocent explanation for her behavior.

The only saving grace was that she was so busy being the center of attention that she hadn’t yet seen him.

Somehow, he must make her leave. Because the second she put on some display of rushing to him, or whatever she was scheming to do—everything that he had with Celia would be in jeopardy. And he couldn’t allow that.

A public confrontation with Miss Spry would accomplish nothing except to cause further talk. Besides, she’d twist anything that he said to make him look like a brute, and gain the sympathy of bystanders. A private meeting, however…

Oh. Of course . The realization struck him like lightning. It was Miss Spry who’d written the note. Or you will regret it . Yes, that was precisely the sort of language that a young lady of her dramatic tendencies would use.

Anger began to build in him. He couldn’t be rude to her, of course. That would be ungentlemanly. But Miss Spry must truly think him a fool if she thought that she could use exactly the same trick that she’d used to dupe him before.

He’d held back before. But now he had Celia’s peace of mind to consider. If Miss Spry wanted a meeting, she’d get one. It just wouldn’t go the way that she expected it to. He’d leave the library door open—so that she couldn’t claim that he’d tried to kiss her, or any other nonsense—and he’d have her carriage brought round to the mews, so that she couldn’t turn her departure into a dramatic scene.

He began shouldering his way through the crowd, back toward the entrance to the ballroom. The only person who would regret this meeting would be Miss Spry.

“Good man. Set them down there, on the sideboard.”

Good man ? Fenton, who’d just carried two heavy trays of cold roast pheasant in aspic up to the dining room, was warmed by the praise. He couldn’t remember the last appreciative word he’d had from Wilkes.

Or if he’d ever had one.

He rubbed his shoulder and gazed at the buffet table. He’d never seen anything to beat this spread. Meat pies, fish pies, pigeon pies, cold ham, cold roast fowl, cold roast beef, cold sides of salmon, salmagundis, blanched asparagus… all of the dishes that weren’t served hot had been brought up from the kitchens and arranged along the sides of the room on huge white linen-draped tables.

His stomach growled. Despite the fact that he’d had nothing to eat today, he’d worked nonstop. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow. The long buffet of desserts at the far end of the room was crammed with pistachio macaroons, almond biscuits, ratafia cakes and cherry biscuits, towering cones of pastry puff balls encased in clouds of caramelized spun sugar, syllabubs, thousand-layer cakes and raspberry creams, almond pastries, savoy cakes, apricot tarts, chocolate tarts, dishes of almond prawlongs… Or at least, that was what he’d been told they were called. There wasn’t room for even one more plate.

Supervised by Mr. Brock, the butler, the footmen had arranged all of it into a sumptuous display that made anything that Fenton had ever seen in a confectioner’s window look pitiful by comparison. Towering above it was a large molded sugar ornament, tinted and gilded, that bore the legend WATERLOO.

What Waterloo had to do with dessert, Fenton couldn’t imagine. But he considered himself a patriot, and appreciated the sentiment.

The footman slapped him on the shoulder. “Well, we shall have a grand supper of our own, once this is over! Cook says we have double the food that’s needed. But of course, there was no telling her ladyship that.” He leaned closer and laid one index finger beside his nose. “Now, a word to the wise: Whatever you do, if you see her ladyship, don’t say a word. Don’t even look at her. And stay out of her way .”

This sounded ominous. The young lord’s fists were bad enough. “Is—is her ladyship the… the young lord’s wife?”

“Young lord…?” The footman frowned. “Of course not! Lady Alford—the dowager viscountess, that is to say—is Lord Alford’s mother .” He glanced about and lowered his voice. “And a perfect termagant she is too! We’ve had to rearrange the house three times—just so her ladyship could invite more people to this ball. You see this room? It’s the state drawing room.”

“But…” Fenton looked about. There was no indication that it had ever been a drawing room.

“She’s been at it for a month! She had us remove every stick of furniture. All these dining chairs are rented. We had to carry them in yesterday—in the rain.” He sighed and rubbed his lower back. “But it might have been worse. She’d talked of emptying the library as well and putting more tables in it. It’s just through there, you see.” He motioned at what appeared to be a solid wall. “We were only saved because Lord Alford had objected to furniture being placed in his room, and she knew that he’d catch on if she started crating up the books.”

Fenton was still trying to imagine all of this. “ Rented chairs? ”

“Three hundred of them!”

The idea of rearranging an entire house for an evening party would never have occurred to Fenton. What these gorgers got up to!

“I don’t mind telling you that we shall all be very glad when this is over.” The footman folded his arms and sighed. “Well, we are only waiting for the prince now. Once he arrives, the dancing will start. And then at one o’clock, supper will be served.”

“The prince ?” This tale just got more and more astounding. “You mean the real one? Or one of them foreigners?”

The footman frowned. “The real one . I assure you that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent will not snub an invitation to Alford House!”

“Our own prince! Think of that!” Fenton was a great admirer of the royal family. “I shall be pleased to drink his very good health!”

The footman was called away to do something with the wines, and for the first time since Mr.Brock had mistaken him for one of the extra servants hired for the evening, Fenton was left without a task.

Which meant that he must stop wasting time, and do what he’d come here to do: Kill Wilkes.

The only problem was… how?

The one thing that he knew was that there hadn’t been any outcry. Which meant that Wilkes hadn’t killed the young lord… yet.

But how could he find Wilkes? He hadn’t expected that there would be so many people crammed into the house—though the place was more like a palace than a house, in his opinion. Even if he’d had a plan in the first place, it wouldn’t have worked. And he’d never had a plan.

But then, that was just like him, wasn’t it? Dick Fenton—the man who could never manage to finish any job. The man who couldn’t do anything right. The man who’d staged a carriage accident on the wrong road. The man who’d let Wilkes tell him what to do and when to do it, because he was too weak to think for himself.

It was time to face facts: He had another week of life ahead of him at best. Then it would be a knife in the ribs—or worse.

Alone in this heavenly room, with its celestial blue walls and high white plaster ceiling, he could have wept. He’d done a lot of bad, bad things… and in a few short days, he was going to pay for them with his life.

It was time to get out of this house. At least the footmen thought that he’d done a good job. He should leave before he could disappoint them, too—the same way as he’d been disappointing everyone his whole life.

His stomach growled as he turned away. He paused. Since he was nothing but a thief and a failure anyway—not to mention as good as dead—there could be no harm in stealing some of this food.

He glanced around to be certain that he was still alone. Then he snatched a choux pastry filled with almond cream from a silver tray, stuffed it whole into his mouth, bit down, and closed his eyes in rapture as the rich, silky filling exploded into his mouth. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

He ate another... and another. He crammed an apricot tart into his mouth. He wolfed down shortbread biscuits. He eyed the cakes, trying to decide what to try next. It almost seemed that the more pastries he ate, the worse his hunger got. He longed to cut himself a substantial slice of one of the meat pies. But that would ruin the display that the footmen had worked so hard to assemble.

He surveyed the dessert table again, and reached for the almond prawlongs.

And then he heard a voice.

For a moment, it seemed to be coming from nowhere. Then he remembered that the footman had told him that the panels behind the dessert buffet were doors that led into the library. He shrugged to himself, and was about pour as many of the prawlongs out of a silver bowl as would fit into his jacket pocket, when the voice rose.

The voice was both angry and familiar. He trained his attention on it.

The voice belonged to… Wilkes.

Celia was too terrified to move or speak.

“Well, well.” Wilkes looked her up and down. “I did not expect to see you here tonight. I must compliment you on that lovely gown. It is even finer than the clothes that you used to wear in your father’s house. Not that it was his money that was paying for them. Practically speaking, it was mine.”

It was as though she were looking at two different people superimposed onto one. The outline was the old Wilkes: tall, fair-haired, smirking, dandyish… and a thug to the bone. The details were the new Wilkes: the expert London tailoring, the jeweled fobs and ring and stickpin, the fashionable hairstyle, the languid manners of a habitué of the ton .

“I—I knew that it was you.” Her voice came out as a croak.

“You knew that it was me? What are you babbling about?” He leaned against a bookcase and examined his fingernails. “Well. Never mind. It cannot be at all interesting. And I must say, your arrival in this library is particularly ill-timed.”

She put her hands behind herself and felt for the door. If she could just turn the handle…

“Why, Miss Talbot! Surely you cannot wish to leave before we have a little chat—now, can you? You will hurt my feelings.” He smirked.

Her mouth and throat had gone dry. She stopped feeling for the door handle. “Why… why are you here?”

Instead of answering, he pulled out an expensive-looking watch and consulted it. “Ah, you see? The mantel clock is slow by a good five minutes. I thought so.” He tucked his watch away again. “Well. As it happens, I am expecting your friend Lord Alford to join us at eleven o’clock. There is a matter that he and I must… discuss.”

He was here to kill Keynsham.

She knew it. He wouldn’t have risked everything to come here otherwise. And if he’d arranged to lure him to the library… then he must be intending to murder him here.

“Lord Alford is your friend—is he not?” Wilkes studied her. “Dear me! I do hope that he is not the reason that you are crying. You have never been quick-witted, Miss Talbot, but even you must have known that he would not marry you. Why, he is to marry the heiress! Everyone is talking of it.”

He shook his head, tsking. “And yet, here you are in a silk gown. Why, anyone who did not know the truth would think that you are a lady.”

She forced out a quavering sentence. “I am a lady.”

“But are you really?” He strolled casually to the fireplace and stuck out his chin as he turned his face from side to side in the mirror over the mantel. “It is an interesting question. After all, your father was no gentleman.”

He sighed. “It is a hard world—is it not, Miss Talbot? So often, people are not what they seem. Take this ball, for instance. Any number of gentlemen present tonight are believed to be rich! Yet as it happens, they owe me money. The rich man is me.”

He leaned closer to the glass and adjusted the large diamond stickpin amidst the snowy folds of his neckcloth. “What a mistake you made, Miss Talbot, when you rejected my offer of marriage.”

She tried to conceal her surprise. Was it possible that she’d wounded his pride? His bragging about his money made her suspect so.

In that case she must flatter and soothe him. She’d done it with Mrs. Ellesmere, after all. She could do it now. “I beg your pardon if that was your impression, Mr. Wilkes.”

He froze for a moment. “ Impression ?” He gave a short laugh. “Oh, I recall it perfectly well, Miss Talbot. You fobbed me off with some cant about my proposal being flattering—but so very unexpected . But what you really meant was that you thought yourself better than me. And yet look at you now—cast off by the viscount.”

She must not take his bait. “Of course I was flattered by your offer of marriage, Mr. Wilkes. But I had suffered the sudden blow of losing my father. I… I believe that I was in a state of shock.”

He stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. The only sound was the rain lashing the windows. Then he turned back to his own reflection and made another minute adjustment to the jeweled pin. “Oh, Miss Talbot. Oh dear.” He studied himself, his eyebrows raised. “How awkward this is. I find myself embarrassed for you. You are not even a good liar.”

He sighed. “Your claim that Squire Talbot’s death caused you to be overset by grief is…” He shook his head. “Well, the sentiment is very pretty, but it is also quite ridiculous. Even I knew what your father was—and that he had not wanted a daughter, and had not the slightest regard for you.”

He leaned closer to the glass. “Why, he resented you. You, his own child! And if you had not been such a simpering little ninny, you would have seen that for yourself.”

Did Wilkes expect that his words would crush her? That she was still the spiritless girl that she’d once been? He didn’t know that she’d been to see her father’s solicitor, and that any illusions that she’d had had already been shattered.

But Wilkes thought that she was stupid. If she could use that blindness against him… if she could get him out of this house before he could kill Keynsham...

He’d already destroyed her future. She wouldn’t let him ruin even one more life. “It is your own behavior, Mr. Wilkes, that has caused me to avoid your courtship.”

For a moment he seemed caught off guard. “ Courtship , Miss Talbot?”

Her heart was beginning to pound—but with fury, not fear. She struggled to push down her anger and keep her voice even. “I refer, of course, to your thugs chasing me in the public streets.”

He recovered his composure and smirked. “‘Thugs?’ I prefer the term ‘associates.’”

“I have no doubt that you do.”

His self-satisfied smirk faded slightly. He seemed to be trying to work out whether she’d just insulted him. She must be more careful. But she was running out of time. It was almost eleven o’clock. “However, I shall accept your proposal, Mr. Wilkes.”

He stared at her. “You mean…?” Lightning flickered outside, casting ghastly shadows across the scene. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “This is a surprise. I never imagined that you could be so… so flinty-eyed, Miss Talbot. It does not accord with my idea of you.”

“Flinty-eyed, Mr. Wilkes?”

He continued to frown. “Miss Talbot, I… What I mean to say is that I should have thought that you had the, er… conventional feminine notions about love.”

She smoothed down the skirts of her gown. “Conventional, Mr. Wilkes? Why, I believe that I do. After all, most ladies understand that marriages are business arrangements, even if they do not say so aloud. I have had time to consider your proposal, and I am now minded to accept it.”

There was a silence, underlined by the muted hubbub of the ball and the rattle of rain on the library windows. He blinked. “You… you… This is not…” He stopped.

He’d wanted her to blush, and be flustered and shy. He’d wanted to feel that he’d overcome her girlish reluctance. The idea made her feel sick.

“I suppose that I find it difficult to believe that you have had such a drastic change of heart, Miss Talbot. Are you certain that it is what you want?”

“Oh, Mr. Wilkes. We both know that what a lady wants is unlikely to matter much in this world.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “What I want is to have some peace. Indeed, I should like you to escort me out of this ball. It is far too crowded, and I find myself with a terrible headache.”

“Hm.” He clasped his own elbows and rocked back on his heels. “I see. You wish to leave immediately. With me.”

She tried to force her face into smoothness. She felt as though he must be able to hear her heart pounding and see her knees shaking beneath the skirts of the borrowed satin gown. “Yes.”

“But Miss Talbot, I have told you that I have important business here tonight. You seem in a great hurry to leave before I am able to… conclude it.” A smirk began to play around his mouth again. “Why is that?”

He didn’t believe her. “Surely your business may be postponed. After all, if you are to be my husband, I must be able rely upon you to care for me when I am unwell.”

“Ah. I see. In sickness and in health. Is that it?”

She put a hand to her forehead. It wasn’t even a lie. Her head was pounding.

“You do look very pale.” He moved closer. Her skin began to crawl. “But you see, Miss Talbot, there is something missing. I had always imagined that this moment would include—oh, tender kisses, I suppose. Murmurs of passion. That sort of thing.” Now he was beginning to smirk again. “Unless, of course, you are lying.”

He reached out and caressed her cheek with his fingertips. Involuntarily she jerked away.

“Well, well, well.” His smirk faded. “I begin to suspect that the apple does not fall far from the tree after all. Although I must say that your dear papa was far more convincing.”

“Mr. Wilkes”—

He tut-tutted. “Oh, Miss Talbot. Were you really attempting to sacrifice yourself for the viscount? You have never been clever, but… well, that is simply pathetic. The viscount does not want you. Why, you are not even a lady.”

Not a lady . It was the same thing that she’d been telling herself. Yet as the poisonous words came from Wilkes’ mouth, she realized that they were lies.

“Is that so? Well, your views on who is and who is not a lady are certainly interesting, Mr. Wilkes, particularly when we both know that you are not a gentleman—and never will be one.”

It wasn’t much of a retort. But to her surprise, Wilkes’s face twisted with rage. “Why, you little… How dare you! You think that because you were born into your position that you are better than me ?”

She drew herself up. “No. I think that I am better than you because I am not a criminal.”

He grabbed her arm. “Oh yes? Well, your dear papa Squire Talbot was one. And look where that got him !”

His hand tightened. She tried to pull away. “Let go! You are hurting me!”

Wilkes’ smirk widened. His fingers dug into her arm. The clock on the mantel began to strike eleven.