Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Annabelle anxiously scanned the Denbigh ballroom for her sister, whom she’d yet to see.
Worse still, she was forced to dance another round with Mr. Finch, who stood just short enough the fellow’s noxious breath fell hot upon her décolletage.
Bad enough the message this second dance sent, but the man also barely knew his steps, forcing her to back-lead him.
Pure torture.
She envied every other lady at this ball, but most especially the lady at its center: Miss Mercy Pendrake.
She danced with one fine gentleman after another, the flowers woven into her hair winking as she twirled past, her face lit with joy.
She burned so bright with promise Annabelle felt certain the young lady would wed by season’s end.
Whereas if Annabelle did not find a way out of Mr. Finch’s odious arms, she’d be wed to him.
Disapproving stares continued their way; it was obvious to all Mr. Finch did not belong at this affair.
Even ladies she’d been introduced to hid their faces behind their fans when she chanced to meet their eyes.
Gentlemen looked right through her, as if she were tainted by association.
Which she was, for Mr. Finch would never have been granted entry to this ball were it not for her father’s embarrassing groveling at the door.
Or perhaps it was news of her sister’s scandalous marriage that had the Ton all staring at her so?
Annabelle searched again for Lizzie. Had the Baron not come?
She needed a friend, someone, to save her from her misery, to rescue her from the repulsive Mr. Finch.
***
From clear across the ballroom, Milton scowled at the man currently dancing with Elizabeth. He didn’t like what he saw, nor did he enjoy the Duke of Allendale’s sharp elbow to his ribs.
“What?” he snapped.
“Staring daggers at your wife is not going to change the fact you still don’t know your steps,” Wellesley remarked. “Besides, is that not Kilpert, your protégé of a tutor, leading your wife about the floor? I assume he’s on your ‘acceptable’ list.”
“He will be stricken from said list for this display,” Milton ground out.
“In that case, mind if I ask your Baroness next?”
Milton finally tore his eyes away. “Yes, go rescue Lizzie from Kilpert.” He hated how Wells always cut to the chase. “He’s filled her head with enough literary claptrap for one night, I’m sure.”
“You might whisper similar claptrap, friend, if your wife is a true bluestocking.” He paused. “Oh ho, make that a redstocking instead!” Wells was positively jolly. “I say, Jasper, is Lady Milton wearing my wedding gift to you?”
Milton caught the color of Elizabeth’s ankle at her hem. “Wells…” he growled.
The Duke was still chuckling when their former shipmate Banks, now Captain Banks, ambled up, stuffed into an unbecoming suit.
“This is the last goddamned fancy dance I attend with you dandies.” He yanked the cravat at his neck before his eyes chanced upon the belle of the ball. “And who, lads, is that fine morsel?”
“My wife’s cousin.” Wellesley’s tone bit. “You may dance with anyone but Miss Pendrake, Banks.”
“Christ, Wells, I merely looked…”
“In fact, go dance with Jasper’s wife.” The Duke caught Milton’s eye. “Since he cannot satisfy his lady in this regard.”
Banks grinned his pearly whites in his rotten, thieving face. “I’m off to seduce your wife then, Jasp.”
Ingrates. Milton wished to throttle both his so-called friends when Wellesley stiffened noticeably beside him.
“Is that…?” The Duke’s face crumpled. “Jasper, tell me Hieronymus bloody Finch is not at this bloody ball.”
Milton tore his eyes from his wife to follow Wellesley’s gaze squarely to Ronny Finch, holding Annabelle Winthrop in his greedy, meaty paws.
“How the deuce did he get in?” Wells blurted.
Rage, swift and bitter, filled Milton’s veins, but before he could yank Bella from that vile man’s clutches, Arty swooped in.
***
Harris spotted Finch with Miss Winthrop just as their dance wound down. Too angry for words, he made straight for Annabelle, snatched her from Finch’s grasp, and promptly dragged her off, leaving the cur to fume and sputter upon the floor.
Harris swore under his breath as the music forced his feet into triplets. He waltzed Bella into the swirling fray, grateful to past lovers who’d taught him how to dance; actresses always knew the latest steps.
“Miss,” he hissed, “did Finch say or do anything this night to indicate he might—”
The pain in her eyes almost made him miss his step; he kept them in ever closer, tight formations. “Bella, did he—”
“Forgive me.” She blinked back tears. “His hands, Arthur…” The poor girl shivered in his arms. “He took such liberties while dancing that I—”
And that did it. Harris harshly stepped on her hem, neatly tearing her dress before he tripped her straight into his arms and swept her off the floor to announce to all and sundry that Miss Winthrop had twisted her ankle, he’d see her to safety, no need to halt the dance.
And indeed the waltz carried on with barely a hiccough, the musicians not missing a beat, couples’ footwork unimpeded. Harris carried Annabelle out of the ballroom into a nearby parlor where he settled her onto a chaise and swiftly shut the door.
“Mr. Harris!” The lady’s outrage rattled. “We must leave at once! At once, I say!”
He approached her panic with calm. Best do this quick.
“Now, miss—”
“You cannot bring me unchaperoned to an empty room, sir. Why, you tripped me quite on purpose!”
“O’ course I tripped you, woman. How else was I t’ bloody ferret you out o’ that blasted ballroom an’ away from Finch’s grasping hands?”
She stared at him in shock. “But that does not condone your behavior. Sir, I must insist you…”
He ignored her lengthy protest to push up her skirts, pull off her shoe, and roll one pretty stocking off her all-too-shapely leg to wrap about her ‘twisted’ ankle. He worked so fast she’d barely time to beat his head with her fan before he heard the doorknob turn.
Harris laid himself atop Miss Winthrop just as gasps erupted from the threshold. He was too busy probing Annabelle’s delicious mouth with his tongue to pay their audience much bother. Why the hell hadn’t he kissed her like this sooner?
A shriek interrupted his ardor such that he reluctantly pulled away, Bella panting beneath him.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” The Countess of Denbigh trembled with indignation, propped between two ladies keeping the ball’s hostess upright.
He tipped her his best rogue’s wink. “Forgive the impropriety, milady, but I could not wait to kiss my betrothed. Miss Winthrop has just made me the happiest man alive.”
Annabelle sat bolt upright and opened her mouth to—
Harris kissed her silent again.
They caught Finch scuttling toward an exit, Milton grabbing the rat by his scruff to propel him into a room Wellesley tore open.
“I will have your sorry arse for breaking into a private home, Finch,” the Duke snarled.
But the devil merely laughed. “Yer pretty Duchess let me in, Wells. Seems she didn’t know our history. Quite th’ golden dish,” he jeered.
“Why are you here, scum?” Wellesley’s self-control impressed.
“He knows.” Finch nicked his head at Milton, whose hand fast slipped about the blackguard’s neck as his own temples throbbed viciously. Everything in his being longed to howl and kick and scream.
Yet he did not.
“I’m engaged to ’is sister-in-law. Soon t’ be part o’ th’ family, ain’t that right, boy?” His vile grin sickened. “Such a delectable morsel, Miss Bella. So deliciously ripe fer—”
Milton cut off the man’s air, turning Finch’s face a nasty blue.
“Jasper,” Wells barked, making him only slightly relax his grip. The Duke turned his ire back to Finch. “I highly doubt Lord Winthrop would allow his daughter to marry your foul self, Ronny.”
“Oh he has, an’ he will.” Finch’s grin widened until Milton again cut off all air, wishing to squeeze the man dead. And he would. This time he’d—
“Damn it, Jasp, don’t choke him until after we’ve made him talk.”
Milton dropped Finch, who stumbled to regain his feet.
“And why in damnation did you not tell me Finch was after your sister-in-law?”
“Because, Your Grace”—Milton’s hands suddenly, almost violently, trembled—“I’d no intention of allowing the man anywhere near her.”
Hieronymus Finch’s laugh echoed in Milton’s head.
“Still championin’ poor defenseless lasses, eh Jasp?
” He was positively merry in his malice.
“I danced with dear Bella this whole night, lad, right under yer nose, an’ not once did y’ notice, not once.
I’ve wooed ’er fer weeks with flowers an’ fine words, same as you courted ’er sister.
Y’ showed me how t’ purchase me way into society by purchasin’ meself a respectable wife.
An’ what better wife t’ purchase than sister t’ yer own.
” His face gleamed in triumph. “T’ bring us close again, boy.
For y’ are still me boy, Jasp. Me sweet, whippin’—”
Milton threw Finch against the wall and began to beat the living breath out of him, the Duke’s voice faintly shouting amid the hum in his head, until Wells hauled Milton off Finch to keep him from killing the man.
Because he would. He’d kill him this time.
Milton chafed in his friend’s hold, panting and snarling as Wells muttered, “Not here, Jasp. Not at the blasted Denbighs. Later. But not here.”
Milton swallowed his rage and steadied his hand. He stared fiercely into Ronny’s already swelling, bloodshot eyes. “You harm a hair on that girl’s head and God help me, I will murder you in cold blood.”
With a sick crunch, Finch readjusted his nose. “No doubt y’ would, Jasp.” He spat blood on the Denbigh’s carpet. “But once that girl’s me wife, ain’t nothin’ you nor anyone else can do t’ keep ’er from me. An’ I will wed sweet Bella. I’ll get exactly what I wants and what I deserves.”
Wells twisted the rat’s arms behind his back and shoved him into the hands of two footmen who’d arrived unannounced; they must have heard the hubbub.
As the servants escorted Finch out, Milton continued to see red.
The Duke poured him a drink. “Jasper, you will tell me now what in bloody hell is—”
Milton downed the glass and wiped sweat off his upper lip. “It’ll have to wait, Wells, before Arty does something rash.”
“Such as?”
“Create the sort of ruckus he’s known for.
” Milton poured himself another drink to steady his still shaking hands.
“He’s separated Miss Winthrop from Finch, but the ensuing rumors will no doubt ruin her.
” Milton set his glass down. “I urgently need to speak with Arty, and then I’ve a score to settle with that weasel Winthrop. ”
Wellesley met Milton’s eyes. “You will tell me all before you leave this house tonight,” he ordered.
“Oi, Capt’n. You’ve me word.”