Page 16 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

16

LOOK WHO’S COMING TO DINNER

* * *

T he midnight supper proved a glittering affair, with tables arranged in both the dining and drawing rooms, tables laden with every delicacy imaginable. Violet found herself seated between the duke and a graying baronet whose conversation consisted primarily of complaints about his gout, and though he wasn’t currently suffering, all the rich food he was about to eat would surely bring it back.

Across the table and several places down, Louis sat beside Miss Winthrope, clearly a strategic placement by Lady Mercy.

Yet despite this physical separation, Violet felt his thoughts on her, like a hand on her shoulder, assuring her they would not be separated much longer. And each time she glanced in his direction, she found his eyes already upon her, if only briefly.

Rochester leaned her way. “Not even Miss Winthrope's considerable charms can hold his interest.”

Her cheeks grew warm, but she could not think of a witty response, so she said nothing.

Stanley chuckled and turned back to speak to the woman on his left.

A disturbance at the far end of the dining room drew everyone's attention. Footmen tried to dissuade a man in rough clothing from entering, but he called out to Lord Ashmoore, who recognized him and waved him closer. The man spoke briefly, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but the lord’s expression grew more serious than usual.

He rose and addressed the table. “You will excuse me. Carry on without me. I shall see you in the morning.” He headed for the door but turned back. “I hope you have enjoyed your time in Scotland. If so, you have Lady Grey to thank.” Blair rose to join him and they left together.

A buzz of hushed speculation began to circle the room, but paused when Rochester, Northwick, Harcourt, and Lord Grey got to their feet and headed after him. The latter two paused at the door and turned back to give Louis a pointed look. And Louis shot out of his chair like it had caught on fire, then strode for the door and exited without looking back.

He’d been invited to the club.

The buzzing resumed twice as loud as before, but no one shared their suspicions with Violet.

* * *

After supper, most guests returned to the ballroom where musicians resumed their places. The tempo quickened as the night progressed, matching the increasingly unbuttoned atmosphere. Some remained at the tables, playing cards or exchanging gossip over port and sherry.

Violet stood near a window, watching the merriment. How could they all appear so unconcerned? Lord Ashmoore and his company had vanished without explanation, summoned by a messenger whose appearance suggested urgency if not danger. Yet the celebration continued unabated.

“You appear troubled, Miss Cottsweather.”

The Marchioness of Harcourt approached, resplendent in emerald silk that complemented her auburn hair. Her smile held both warmth and amusement.

“Your pardon, my lady. I was merely wondering why no one seems concerned about Lord Ashmoore and his companions.”

Lady Harcourt laughed softly. “The Four Kings, you mean? And their newest recruits? My dear, they are in far less danger than whoever had the audacity to make enough trouble to lure them away from their wives.”

Violet frowned. “You are not worried?”

She chuckled. “Can you imagine standing in the shoes of any man who has pulled that particular collection of gentlemen from a ball?” Lady Harcourt’s brow suddenly furrowed, then she laughed again. “Though on second thought, perhaps they were grateful for the excuse to escape—except for Baron Astley, of course. I am certain he would rather be right here where I stand.”

“You are too kind, if not mistaken.”

“I rarely mistake such matters.” She patted Violet's arm. “Regardless, do not fret. Enjoy your evening. Dance. They will return with a lively story to tell. Just you wait. And if not, ask my husband about the time he mistook me for a housemaid…”

With that, the marchioness swept away to join a group of ladies near the punch bowl.

Violet danced with three new acquaintances before Lord Grey entered, followed by Northwick. Both men appeared remarkably composed as they rejoined their wives. The Marchioness of Harcourt beamed as her husband entered next, his cravat slightly askew and his hair mussed, but it seemed his usual state after a hearty laugh.

The hour approached two, yet few guests had retired. Anticipation of Ashmoore's return kept even the most sedate among them from seeking their beds, while the youngest declared their intention to dance until breakfast.

The Duke of Rochester appeared in the doorway, scanning the crowd until his gaze found Violet. His expression remained carefully neutral as he approached.

“Miss Cottsweather, might I beg a moment of your time? In the library, if you would be so kind.”

Alarm fluttered in her chest. “Is something amiss, Your Grace?”

A grin broke through his composure. “Nothing of concern. Merely a small matter that may interest you.”

He offered his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, Violet accepted it. They strolled through the crowded ballroom, past curious onlookers, and down the hall.

The library door stood ajar, light spilling onto the polished floor. As they entered, Violet discovered Lord Ashmoore and Louis within. The latter appeared decidedly worse for wear, slumped in a leather chair with his cravat undone and hair disheveled. A half-empty glass dangled from his fingers.

“Miss Cottsweather.” Lord Ashmoore bowed. “I must apologize for stealing Baron Astley from the festivities. I fear we have not returned him in the same condition in which he began.”

Stanley closed the door. “Do not judge him too harshly. He has witnessed much this evening.”

“Events that would challenge even the steadiest constitution,” Ashmoore added. He exchanged a glance with Rochester. “We shall leave you to it, then.”

“Leave us?” Violet glanced between them, uncertain.

“Connor will join you.” Ashmoore nodded toward Louis. “He will help our friend to his bed.”

The two men departed just as Lord Grey entered. Connor nodded to Violet. “I believe my presence as chaperone is required, aye?” He moved to a chair positioned by the window and sank into it with a sigh, as if he’d had an eventful evening as well. He plucked up a book, though Violet doubted he intended to read it.

Louis was smiling at her, his eyes overly bright. “Miss Cottsweather. How kind of you to grace me with your presence.”

“Are you quite well, my lord?” She perched on the chair opposite him.

“Quite well? No, I daresay I am not.” He laughed without humor. “I will confess I am grateful my title did not arrive with property and people to manage. Does that make me a coward in your estimation? It matters not. I would refuse such burdens even were they accompanied by ten thousand a year.”

“What has happened?” Violet kept her voice low, mindful of Connor's presence.

Louis drained his glass. “A local dispute ended in bloodshed. Ashmoore was compelled to serve as judge, jury, and executioner. A smooth, frighteningly gifted man, I tell you. He merely needed to change his boots afterward.”

Violet shuddered at the implication. “And you were witness to this?”

“To all of it.” His expression darkened. “Forgive me. I am not the man you require. Not strong enough, nor steady enough, nor?—”

“You speak nonsense.” Violet leaned forward, resting her hand briefly on his. “The Duke himself declared you comported yourself admirably. And if the Four Kings speak well of your character, who are we to doubt them?”

Louis stared at her with wonder. “You do not think me a coward?”

“I do not.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “I have not betrayed our confidence, I swear it. Never mentioned the treasure once, even foxed. Though I fear Connor has now heard more than was intended.”

From the window, Connor cleared his throat. “A man deep in his cups speaks much that ought be discounted. I take no heed of treasure hunts or keys or midnight adventures, or how a certain gentleman feels about the color of your hair, for example.”

Violet exchanged a startled glance with Louis, who looked momentarily abashed. She wasn’t concerned about Lord Grey, but she did worry—would Louis be capable of getting to their morning appointment at the bridge? His current state suggested otherwise. All their plans, Iris's salvation, might be put off yet another day.

Even in his state, Louis noted her concern. “I shall not fail you, my heart. At the appointed hour, I shall be present and accounted for.”

“I have every faith in you,” she replied softly. “Now perhaps you should seek rest. Dawn comes early, after all.”

Connor made a show of closing his book. “Indeed it does. For all of us.” He gave her a wink. “I will see to him. You should return to the ballroom. Make your farewells, but be seen before you disappear for the night.”

When she rose to go, Louis caught her hand. “Until morning,” he whispered.

“Until morning,” she echoed, hopeful the sun would bring Louis back to himself. While at the same time she was terrified.

What if tomorrow was their last day together?