Chapter Four
Oliver was surprised the Countess of Blackhurst wasn’t combusting right here, in the entrance of the Wainwright’s ballroom, so intense was the focus of the assembled crowd around them.
This is what it must be like to stand in front of a firing squad, he thought.
Heads turned in ripples across the room as the word spread of their arrival.
It reminded him of the quiet before the battlecry.
The nervous energy that would surround you until you could not stand still.
Every muscle would contract, tense, ears straining to hear the command that would send you riding down the hill and into the mêlée.
Despite his own resolve to feel nothing for the Black Raven, a small dose of respect stole over him, until he recalled their encounter in the carriage. He felt her fingers tense on his arm and then release.
The hosts scurried over, their expressions wary. Lady Wainwright looked a little pale and in need of some smelling salts, but was rallying. Wainwright bowed and babbled like a fool.
Beside him the Black Raven kept her chin high, her gaze regally down her nose, and stared at the assembled crowd with a chill that made him shiver.
Released at last from the formalities, the Countess of Blackhurst inclined her head and sailed off in the manner of a war ship heading straight for the enemy, all cannons primed and ready to go.
What exactly her mission was still needed to be determined because he didn’t believe for a moment that she just wanted to have an excuse to wear a pretty gown.
A few in the crowd gave her the cut direct, turning their backs to her, but most were too caught up by their curiosity to act so hastily.
The infamous Black Raven was in their midst, and they were all no doubt wondering why.
A lesser woman would have swooned from the lack of air in the room and the amount of eyes watching her every breath, but not the Black Raven.
Their whispers billowed up behind her like the dust of a racing coach but she remained stoic and her step never faltered. The music resumed and everyone scurried to take up their places on the dance floor or resume the best vantage points in which to view the goings on.
She sat then in the style of a queen taking her throne and looked around the room.
Oh, bravo, Countess.
He stood then at her shoulder for a few minutes, counting familiar faces and their varying expressions. They were all watching intently on what might happen next. He had to admit, he was too.
Later, they took a few turns around the room in which she asked him general questions regarding those who were new to her. She seemed intently interested in the standing of several gentlemen but paid surprisingly little attention to the women.
“What, no snippy comments about the dampness of the debutantes’ gowns, Countess? What about the latest hair styles or the ridiculous amount of feathers protruding from their heads?”
She gave him an annoyed look but said nothing.
“I agree,” he went on. “There must be bald ostriches all over Africa. What a sight that must be.” He could have sworn he’d seen her lips twitch slightly at the edges.
When he returned her to her seat, she took out a small notebook from her reticule and began scribbling down a list.
“Taking notes, I see,” Oliver said, handing her a glass of champagne.
“Yes.”
“Notes on?”
“None of your business.” She closed the notebook, returned it to her reticule, and resumed her study of the ballroom and its occupants.
“You cannot write a list in front of me and then not tell me the nature of the list. You are a cruel tease.”
“You expect me simply to hand over my private thoughts?”
Well, no, he supposed. Still… it was damn annoying. Now he was going to have to steal it from her, read it, and decide whether it was worth worrying about. He just hoped it wasn’t a list of, ways to kill Bellamy, slowly and painfully.
The strains of a waltz started. This would be the perfect time to take care of his wager. He’d snag her little notebook later. He hadn’t spent nearly a decade as a soldier and code breaker and learnt nothing useful. “The pleasure of a dance, Countess?”
“No, thank you.” She turned her eyes back to the dancers, her hands folded in her lap.
“Perhaps later then. Let me put it on your card.” He went to take up her dance card.
“I do not enjoy dancing, Bellamy.”
“Never say such a thing,” he joked. “Next you will be admitting you don’t like kittens.”
She turned towards him then and regarded him with thinly veiled irritation. “Would you like me to confess to such a crime, Bellamy? Would you like me to embellish further by adding that I detest flowers, spring rain, and chubby-cheeked children?”
He chuckled. “It is just a dance, Countess. It is not like I am asking you to hitch up your skirt and do a jig while balancing two mugs of ale.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your imagination is immeasurable. One would think you had actually witnessed such a scene.”
He took the seat next to her. “Yes, once, in Germany. They are very skilled and well balanced dancers in Germany, you know.”
“So it seems,” she said flatly. She looked around and then took a sip of her drink he had fetched off the refreshment table for her earlier.
He figured he’d lost her somewhere between skilled and Germany. It was actually a most amusing story but certainly not one for ladies’ ears, even the Black Raven’s, so it was probably just as well.
He realized she had neatly ended the subject of dancing, with her, at least. Still, he could wait. He imagined dancing with the infamous Black Raven was going to be a most interesting and entertaining business—eventually.
*
Lisbeth decided she disliked him immensely.
It mattered not that Bellamy was as handsome as any man in the room.
He was acting like a love-smitten pup. A hand on her waist here, a brush of his fingers on her shoulder there, a faint breath near her ear.
What game did he think he was playing? It was…
ridiculous. She wanted to smack him with her fan. Hard.
She did not like the way he was making her aware of every breath he took, of every move he made, and every annoying flash of his warm chocolate eyes.
It was hard enough to breathe as it was.
She told herself she was not the least bit jealous of his ability to converse with such an ease of manner she looked like a walking stick he just happened to be holding on to—She had better things to do than be any man’s accessory.
A half hour later and Bellamy was now happily bantering on about some horse at Ascot to an elderly gentleman and she looked around for an escape. She saw an opening in the crowd and excused herself.
She made as if to the withdrawing room but then made a quick right turn and found herself in the servant’s hall. Squaring her shoulders she took the first step.
*
“So, Bellamy, how did we manage to get the devil’s daughter to leave her crypt?” Dalmere asked in a jovial tone.
Oliver turned to find his brother’s friend at his elbow.
Dalmere had the look of an angel about him.
His halo of golden curls had made him the subject of much female admiration.
He was a thin man, with a sharp eye and a vicious wit when provoked.
He had also been the first to offer his condolences after Oliver had returned from the Continent.
He didn’t know how he would have survived the first few days in London without Dalmere.
“I would take offense to that if you had not described her so aptly.” Oliver took a sip of his drink, the stress like a boulder between his shoulder blades.
“Lord Fitzsimons and the others are going to be ill when they hand over their pounds to you on the morrow. I don’t think anyone quite believed you.”
“Considering the wagers put on in the last day, I would say a great many didn’t believe me.”
“Do you blame them? The woman has hardly left her house in years.”
“There is a first time for everything. This is your fault anyway. If not for you I would never have taken up that wager in the first place.”
“Don’t put the blame on me. I tried to talk you out of it.”
“That is not how I remember it.”
“I was surprised you remembered your own name that night.”
“You handed me the flask.”
“You didn’t have to drink it.”
Dalmere inspected Oliver with concern in his pale-green eyes.
Oliver raised both brows. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for bite marks and bruises,” Dalmere replied.
Oliver laughed. “Believe me there are wounds aplenty. Verbal ones. The woman has a tongue like a horse whip.”
“Ouch!”
“Indeed.”
Dalmere’s gaze turned serious. “Then what are you doing with her? You won the wager; surely you are under no obligation to adopt the chit.”
Good question. I’m selling my soul to a she-devil in return for money I make on wagers. It sounded ludicrous and desperate, even to him. As it was, Oliver wasn’t even sure about this arrangement with the Countess of Blackhurst himself, so how could he explain it?
Oliver looked at Dalmere. “Besides the obvious, you mean? Have you looked at her? Really looked at her?”
“I have eyes, Bellamy, same as you, so yes, besides the obvious.”
“I don’t really know, but she is an interesting woman. I am determined to figure her out,” Oliver explained.
Dalmere laughed. “Give up now then, my friend. The female species is a puzzle not even the brightest male minds have been able to comprehend.”
“Oh, I don’t think she will be so hard to understand, once I crack that shell of hers.”
“Is that bravado talking, or do you really believe your own balderdash?”
Oliver winked at him, took a sip of his champagne, and glanced around, looking for Lisbeth.
Beside him Dalmere huffed, but Oliver ignored him.
The truth was he wasn’t sure at all, bravado or not, whether he would live long enough to make even a small dent in her shell the way things were going so far.
First things first; he had to get her pistol and notebook.