Page 7 of A Duchess to Unravel (The Devil’s Masquerade #3)

She reached her hand out to meet his and he engulfed it with both hands, then bowed, insisting that she too call him by his first name. When he rose he let her go and turned to the man beside her.

“And you must be her fearless husband,” he noted, “I have heard what you have done to get my cousin away from the discomforts our family brought her. I am in your debt, Your Grace.”

Hugo’s dark brows perked in surprise, and he accepted his handshake.

“We saved each other, really,” The Duke of Merrivale replied, then added, “Call me Hugo, please. It is also a pleasure to meet you. Your Grace.”

“Alistair, please,” he insisted, “I know tonight we are here more for business than casual chatting, but soon, if you would permit it, I would very much like to pay you a visit and get to know you both much better. We are the only family we have left, after all.”

Something sparked in Seraphina’s eyes, and her smile grew.

“Oh, I would very much like that,” she agreed.

“Call on us any time,” Hugo added, “We would be happy to have you.”

“I shall do that,” Alistair promised.

The introductions then continued. First, to a slightly drunk but clever-tongued man, whom Alistair was told was Mr. Everett; then to His Grace, the Duke of Baxter, Duncan Banfield; His Grace, the Duke of Colborne, Ambrose Curtis; His Grace, the Duke of Frampton, Ezra Fernside; and lastly, to His Grace, the Duke of Granthill, Morgan Green.

All of whom were married to startlingly attractive women whom they doted on, and who also, were investors in several whiskey-driven businesses.

Even, he learned through his research, an illegal gaming hell.

He was then introduced to the single men, names of which he’d quickly forgotten as his research deemed them not worthy of note, and then Amelia came to his side to introduce him to her other friends.

Miss Ophelia Wexley came first, then Miss Rosamund Gravesmoor.

Alistair noted the strong independence that radiated from Ophelia, a self-proclaimed and proud spinster.

Rosamund was slightly younger in appearance, and far quieter. Perhaps even a bit too shy.

Then came Tristan’s younger sister, Miss Theodosia Briarwood.

Her dark brown curls were arranged in a sophisticated up-do that swept close to her right eye, creating a startling contrast to her lily-white complexion and deep blue eyes that reminded him of lapis lazuli stones.

There was something familiar about them.

Something that nagged and annoyed him in the back of his mind.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Theodosia,” he stated, bowing politely as she curtseyed.

He took in the elegant sharp features of her cheekbones, small nose, and plump lips.

Though the skirts of her mint-green, short-sleeved gown were loose around her frame, he noted her almost fae-like figure.

Again, he felt that nagging tug in his mind, as if he’d known who she was all along. Yet he could not place her.

“Theo, please. I despise my full name. A pleasure to meet you as well, Your Grace.”

Her tone was polite yet resigned, as if already bored with party.

“Then you must call me Alistair,” he replied, and was amused by the way she gave a careless nod and wondered abruptly away from him.

There was no obvious willingness to befriend him, like the others had portrayed, but a stoic carelessness.

He watched as she repeated the same callousness with the other men her brother introduced her to.

“Forgive my sister,” Tristan urged, approaching Alistair once he’d finished, “she has not been the same since the passing of our mother. She has only recently agreed to be social again.”

“No forgiveness needed,” Alistair replied, staring after her as she walked away.

“Well, now that the exhaustive introductions are over with, shall we gather in the dining room? I hear you have yet to be treated to a true aristocratic London meal.”

“I have not,” Alistair agreed, his gaze slowly moving away from Theo and toward Tristan. “I brought my cook from Scotland with me, so even though I have been here a few days I am still being fed my homeland’s dishes. I hear it varies quite a deal to your English fare.”

“Well, let us remedy that then,” Tristan replied, then stepped away to make the announcement.

Once everyone was seated at the dining table and the food was served, the men’s conversation quickly turned to business.

Talk of liquor quality, shipping costs, bottle appearance, soon filled the room, and Alistair found himself speaking in a language that joined all capitalistic ventures across the world together: the language of money.

“As you have probably been able to ascertain by now the London society revels in finery,” Tristan stated, gesturing towards the fine china and stemware that graced the fine white cloth upon the table.

“I believe that if we spent a little more on the packaging of our whiskey to make the bottles look more unique and refined, we could nearly double the price of the whiskey.”

“The question is what defines ‘a little more’?” Alistair returned, “A regular bottle costs pennies, but if we were to hire a glassmaker on an exclusive contract to make a more unique shape, added shiny baubles to set it apart, we’re trading pennies for pounds.

Realistically we would have to more than double the cost of the whiskey just to offset it. ”

“Perhaps,” Dominic cut in, “But you are not yet versed in this society. Every member of the ton wants something unique. Something that the masses cannot afford.”

Alistair chewed and swallowed his bite of pheasant--a little too fruit flavored for his taste, and was about to ask a question when a feminine voice broke out through the masculine.

“Yes, but what is the population of the nobles compared to that of the masses?”

Alistair, and every other man for that matter, turned in the direction of such a voice, and he found Theo staring at them all, leaning toward them as if waiting for an answer.

“Theo,” Tristan whispered through gritted teeth.

Alistair had just been ready to ask the same question, and chuckled.

“How would you know how to ask a question such as that?” He asked.

Her lapis lazuli eyes narrowed and her pressed-lipped smile seemed downright sarcastic.

“She is a bluestocking,” Tristan answered for her, his eyes still shooting her warning glares. “She believes in equality. Even in matters of business she knows not of, apparently.”

“Fascinating,” Alistair murmured. Though he meant it, Theo looked at him as if he were mocking her and then gave a questioning look toward the other men.

“Well? Can no one answer my question?” She asked.

“That depends,” Tristan replied, his tone wary.

“I only ask because to my knowledge the ‘masses’ are called such because there are more of them than there are of us,” Theo answered.

“Therefore, if you kept to the simple bottles, perhaps even lowered the price of the whiskey, more people could purchase it, which would result in a higher sell of inventory. Would that not overall increase your profit?”

All of the men, even Alistair, chuckled. He found her question sharp, notable, and intelligent, but he could see by the way she glared at them all that she found it condescending. He forced his laughter to stop and took another bite of the overly sweet pheasant.

“Your questions are quite entertaining,” some noble Alistair could not remember the name of stated, “However they are better kept for your brother during a more private time.”

“Indeed,” Alistair agreed, wanting to get the moment over with. “Though the lady’s untimely question does raise a point. Do we stand to make more of a profit through exclusivity or popularity?”

“I do not need you to defend me,” Theo all but hissed at him.

Alistair turned back to her, a brow raised at her open hostility. He drew in a breath, measured his temper, and called on patience--something a woman like this clearly needed a lot of.

“Aye, ye have made that abundantly clear,” he replied, his tone warning her to watch herself. “Either way, I am not defending ye. I am asking a question that can effect my business. Perhaps if ye werenae so rude, ye’d notice.”

For the last few days, he’d worked to get his Scottish brogue to fade, but as his temper grew, Alistair could hear the faint notes of accent start to return. Theo seemed suddenly unnerved as she, too, heard it, and leaned away from him.

“Tell me, Miss Theo, do ye enjoy the company of cats?”

She gave him an incredulous look.

“What?” The word came quick, again, almost hissed.

Alistair ran his eyes down her face. As if wanting to stare back at him better, she brought a hand to her hair and swiped at her bangs in a gesture of annoyance, revealing a small scar. Again, he felt that spark of familiarity.

Her position was tight, tensed up like a feline about to swipe her claws.

Alistair knew it right then, he had certainly met her before, and the specific memory of when flashed vividly in his mind. A black cat mask hiding a scar.

That is because you cannot see my face, Sir. It is … scarred.

“I only ask because ye are acting like the petulant pet they are. I agree with ye and ye swipe at me with claws, bare ye teeth. It is almost as if you are simply… disguised as a lady.” He could not help but taunt.

Theo was none other than the woman he’d kissed at the Devil’s Masquerade. The one he could not stop thinking about it.

Her lapis lazuli eyes narrowed further at the emphasized word, making them appear even more cat-like.

Yet her gaze remained locked on his, searching him as he searched her.

Then suddenly she was out of her seat, moving so abruptly that it forced her chair to screech along the floor and call even more attention to her.

“If you will excuse me, brother,” she said, her tone icy as she and Alistair stared one another down. “I have lost my appetite. I shall let you continue the evening without me.”

“Theo,” Tristan groaned, reaching for her.

But she moved quickly, darting out of the room before his hand could reach her.

Tristan let out an exhausted sigh and shook his head.

“Forgive me, Alistair, gentlemen,” he implored, “My sister has not been herself as of late.”

“Do not apologize for her,” Ophelia stated, throwing a disapproving look over the men as she rose to her feet as if to follow her. “She would not have spoken so if you would have not laughed at her inquiry.”

Alistair put up a hand as he stood.

“Miss Ophelia is right,” he stated, earning him a surprised look from the self-proclaimed spinster. “Please, all of you. Stay and continue with dinner. I shall go and make my apologies.”

“She needs a friend,” Ophelia insisted, still standing.

“Then I shall wave a white flag,” Alistair replied, looking toward Tristan for help.

Her brother studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“Ophelia, do sit,” Tristan stated, “If His Grace wishes to apologize, let him do so. Perhaps it is what she needs to hear.”

Ophelia looked as if she were about to ignore Tristan’s word, a clear dislike for him shining in her eyes. Then Amelia reached for her wrist, tugged her down, and whispered something to her. Begrudgingly, Ophelia nodded and returned to her supper without another word.

“She is probably in the back garden,” Amelia said to him then.

He nodded, grateful for her help and left the dining room.

Well, he thought, moving quickly toward the back terrace, At least now I have an excuse not to finish dinner.