Page 17 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

P hoebe set her sights on a ball. It took a number of morning calls and messages to friends she had shamelessly ignored for months. She marked her diary with yet another day without Andrew. Over the course of the afternoon, the weather turned. Lowering pewter clouds promised rain, but Phoebe had her invitation and one that extended to her cousins, as well. Phoebe would have a chance to observe who trod the chalked floor. If Jones was right, someone from her world was behind Andrew’s disappearance, behind the league.

The one hostess in fashionable London hosting a ball in the week of the fire’s anniversary was Her Grace, the Duchess of Huntingdon. Her Grace, who rarely left London, could be counted upon to give a once-a-fortnight dinner to a substantial crowd with the regularity of the Royal Mail. Known as the Copper Penny , the petite redheaded duchess was her duke’s second, much younger wife, as gay and lively, as the duke himself was reserved and austere. Her dinners were celebrated not only for her French chef’s creations, but for the way she had of mixing a variety of Londoners as guests.

She knew her worth as a hostess and could not be snubbed. She had a sharp eye for a flagging conversation or a languishing guest and moved among her company, attacking dullness wherever she found it. The duchess’s evening parties allowed the more sedentary of her guests to enjoy cards in the vast Huntingdon Great Hall with its art collection, and the livelier of those guests, to dance in the equally grand Huntingdon ballroom with its French doors onto a terrace above a formal garden.

Phoebe’s plan worked, in spite of the drenching rain, which she blamed for a bit of unpleasantness in the carriage as she and Henry and Mary traveled to the grand ducal house on its square north of Mayfair proper.

In the carriage with its odor of wet cloaks and umbrellas, Mary complained. “You haven’t even looked at the papers I gave you for Lucy Walker, have you, Phoebe? You really can’t expect Henry and me to drop our acquaintance to escort you everywhere and in weather like this. You need a proper companion.”

“I do apologize, Mary, I—” Phoebe could think of no excuse. She could not plead that she had been busy without having to invent activities.

Henry laughed at his sister. “Pay her no heed, Phoebe. She’s out-of-reason cross because her great admirer might be put off by the rain. Makes his old injury flare up.”

“Oh, Mary, I am sorry. I thought it was my turn to offer some entertainment. I quite forgot your count.”

Mary put a hand to her feathered headdress and drew a breath. “If I am cross, it is only that I have been made to fetch this and arrange that and smooth things over all day until I can’t think a thought of my own. When I am old, I will sit on a gold silk chair and order everyone about.” She managed a smile.

“Tonight, I hope you’ll let the duchess’s people serve you with no running about.”

“I confess,” said Henry, “I’m keen. I’ve only seen the Copper Penny , as she’s called, in the park in her fine barouche. Her dinners do have a reputation.”

“She was kind to my mother,” Phoebe said. “Mary, are you worried that Great-Aunt won’t approve your attending one of the duchess’s dinners?”

“Oh,” said Henry, “I think Great-Aunt will forgive us if we bring back some good tittle tattle. And Mary will get over her sulks once her count arrives.”

“Then you do expect to see him tonight.” Phoebe hoped the count would pay no attention to her as she attempted her detective work.

“Mary thinks not, but really, Phoebe, there’s no escaping him. He finds Mary wherever she goes,” said Henry sourly.

“Stop it, Henry,” Mary said. “You know that town is thin of company. It’s inevitable that our paths cross.”

“Humph,” said Henry.

“I promise to look at Lucy Walkers’ papers tomorrow,” said Phoebe. Mary offered her a faint smile.

A second moment of consternation occurred when they arrived. They made a dash for the duchess’s door, and surrendered their wet coats to a footman in the grand entry. Phoebe stood shaking out the skirts of a rose-colored gown, a departure from the muted lilacs and grays of her usual mourning clothes. She was done with all that. But Henry and Mary stared. Then Henry offered his arm.

“I say, cousin, you look smashing.”

*

The Duchess of Huntingdon’s footmen were busy wiping away the wet and mud her rain-soaked guests tracked in, when the Wenlocke party arrived for the dinner. Robin had been obliged to let Her Grace the Duchess of Wenlocke, as she was now called, have her way in the matter of his attire. He was sure that the leather collar of a beat copper was not more constricting than the clothes of a man of fashion on his way to dinner, the fitted black coat, the rib-hugging white silk waistcoat, and the high stiff collar. A man who tried to throw a punch in such a coat would no doubt split its seams. The pants could not properly be called trousers and had no pockets in which to carry his tools, his notebook and pencil and handy metal rod. The shiny black pumps pinched his feet and slid slickly across the marble floor of the entry. He now understood the need for hostesses to chalk their dance floors.

One of the duchess’s eccentricities was her arrangement of her guests at small round tables. She, herself, ate little, but circulated among her guests, seeing to the needs of all and prompting conversation among them. Ten years earlier, Her Grace had welcomed Wenlocke into society when he came into his inheritance, and Wenlocke explained to Robin that at her dinners, he frequently met guests who gave him a new perspective on London business or politics or both.

Robin, however, found the arrangement and the inactivity of the moment frustrating. He was reminded of Raven’s wedding breakfast. Nevertheless, Wenlocke had arranged with Finch to send a message as soon as he had the name of their man, at any hour. Robin had to be content with that, but it wasn’t easy to sit chatting and eating, with his back to a large swath of the room. His view was of a sea of bobbing feathers from ladies’ headdresses. He reminded himself that the secret to investigating was to appear not to be investigating and turned to his dinner partner, offering to carve a bit of roast pheasant for her.

Several courses and removes later, the ladies rose and made their exit, so that the tables might be cleared, and port and spirits brought round to the gentlemen. The shift allowed Robin to look at the assembled gentlemen more closely. Like him they wore the evening uniform of the fashionable men of London. There was an atmosphere of ease and conviviality. Even the austere Duke of Huntingdon unbent enough to laugh at an anecdote related by someone at his table. No man showed any obvious sign of being a ruthless villain.

At Robin’s side, Wenlocke leaned in a spoke quietly. “Do you have a plan once you find the man behind the league?”

Robin admitted that he did not. “Being the ratepayer is not a crime. Thames Property Recovery, Ltd. could merely be an indifferent landlord who doesn’t know or care what use the building is put to as long as the rent is paid.”

Wenlocke nodded and rose. An exodus was about to begin, led by the old duke himself, to find the conveniences after hours of drink, and then the card room or the ballroom.

“I like your caution. It would be neither wise nor polite to make an arrest in the middle of Her Grace’s ball should Finch’s message identify our man as one of her guests. What you need is some definite evidence to connect the gentleman to the scene of Shattuck’s death.”

Robin nodded. His dinner partner had spoken of her previous engagements. He now knew which hostesses had chalked their floors in the past fortnight. If the man Finch named had attended one of those events, he became Robin’s chief suspect.

*

Minutes later Robin entered the Huntingdon ballroom. He found it brilliant with chandeliers and wall sconces, pots of tropical greenery against soaring pale gold-green walls, and a swirling invisible cloud of scents, a world away from the storm outside. A modest-sized orchestra tuned violins on a dais at the far end of the room, and the dance floor was chalked in a pattern as intricate as the plaster ceiling above. Wenlocke and his duchess were asked to lead the opening set, and as they took their places, their hostess prompted others to join the dancing. Robin took a position next to a potted palm intent on a covert observation of his fellow guests though he could see no villain in the laughing crowd of fashionable Londoners. He began to think it was a mistake to come. There would be no message from Finch. The rain might be the only advantage he had as it must slow the villains’ search for the missing boy. He had gone so far in his thinking when everything else in the room went away.

Phoebe Marchmont stood opposite in a gown of warm rose silk, the rose of clear morning skies, the dipping bodice and the caps of the sleeves trimmed with lace and ribbons like pale champagne. The gown revealed the hollows of her slim throat where a man might place a kiss. The idea riveted Robin to the floor. The bodice of the gown tapered to the narrow waist that had teased his imagination from the day he’d met her. In every way possible she was flouting his order to stay safe, the rose gown itself was an act of rebellion. A path opened before him through the other guests, and he strode toward her intent on administering a blistering scold.

Mechanically, more out of professional habit than intention, his gaze registered her companions, a round-faced laughing gentleman and a frowning lady in an elaborate emerald-green gown, dark ringlets around her flushed face, and a ruby brooch as large as a cobblestone pinned to her bodice.

Then Phoebe turned. She blinked at him as if he had performed some magic feat to appear before her. In that first glance was a flash of startled welcome. She stretched out a gloved hand. Then she remembered their quarrel. Her eyes blazed defiance. But as he bowed over her hand, the sweet fragrance of her reached him, and the angry words he meant to say died in his throat.

“Lady Phoebe, will you dance?”

Her male companion, bristled, looking from Phoebe to Robin. “I beg your pardon. Do we know you, sir?”

“It’s all right, Henry,” Phoebe said, laying a gloved hand briefly on Henry’s arm. “Mr. Jones and I know each other through… the Duke of Wenlocke.”

“Oh, I say.” Henry turned agreeable. “Perfectly acceptable in that case.”

“Mr. Jones, these are my cousins, Henry Marchmont, and Miss Marchmont.” Phoebe introduced them with an air of challenge. Robin managed the required bow and words of greeting. The cousins hardly looked ruthless enough to dispatch Shattuck. Henry, in particular, had the amiable, empty-headed look of a man of pleasure, and a distinctive cologne, not the scent Robin remembered from the league office. The female cousin looked cross and out of sorts, but disagreeableness was not in itself evidence of murderous intent.

Phoebe allowed Robin to lead her to the middle of the dance floor. He was Mr. Jones now, not Jones, a return to the distance of their first day. Around them couples found places for the set. As soon as they were out of earshot of her companions, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Being a lady as you suggested. What are you doing here?”

“Think of me as a potted palm. I came to observe.”

She quirked a brow. “Seriously, did you come to tell me you found Andrew?”

“Trusted men are searching for him tonight.” He wished he had happier news.

Her disappointed gaze dropped to his black evening shoes.

They took their places in the set, facing each other in the center of the room, separated by a few yards of chalked floor, and an abyss of rank. He had called her Mrs. Kendall and then Phoebe , but now he saw fully for the first time that she was this other person, a lady , daughter and sister of earls. By birth he was a man without rank, without even a name, except the name Wenlocke had given him. If he had any place at the Huntingdon ball, it was as a policeman, an outsider, there to find a killer. He would do well to remember his purpose.

When the line of couples stretched the length of the room, the musicians struck the opening bars of a familiar tune. The buzz of conversation faded. Heads began to nod and feet to tap to the beat. Abruptly Phoebe’s gaze left his shoes and flew to his face. “Do you dance?”

The question stung. This was her world, not his. On his own, apart from Wenlocke and the duchess, he had danced in the alehouses of Holborn to a blind fiddler’s tunes with girls whose faces he could not remember. “You think policemen can’t dance.”

“That did not come out right. I meant you . Do you dance? Dancing requires a partner.”

“And you are fearful of an awkward one?” The dance began. He moved toward her. “You could avoid such a thing by staying home,” he said.

“ You ,” she said, her head held high, “don’t have the right to tell me to stay home. You are here because you think Shattuck’s killer may be here where the fashionable gather.” She moved past him in the figure of the dance.

He lost his place briefly, made a wrong turn. “You’re investigating.” That’s why she’d come. She was playing detective, doing his job.

“Of course, I’m investigating,” she snapped. “Mind your steps. I mean to ask all my partners which balls they’ve attended in the last week and whether they went directly from a ball to a secret office in Soho.”

The dance required familiar movements, the joining of hands behind their backs, traveling side by side, and facing each other. He had danced in just that way with Wenlocke’s young relations and sisters-in-law and even the duchess herself without noticing how it brought the partners close enough for a mingling of breath. He had to keep his head.

“Do not joke. Detective work is dangerous.” He leaned in farther to speak. Lavender and roses filled his senses, and that elusive fragrance of hot house blooms. “Shattuck’s killer is not likely to be here, but the man behind the league could be.” She shivered. He did not know whether from his words or from his breath against her neck.

“I’m with my cousins, for heaven’s sake.” She gave him a look that said she doubted his wits.

For a moment as the dance separated them, Robin regained his composure, away from the scent of her, away from the touch of her hand. So far, he had seen no obvious danger in the Huntingdon ballroom.

Then the dance brought them palm to palm in the center of the floor. “How will you know if some gentleman is behind the league?” she asked, clearly focused on the case and not on him. “All the gentlemen, and ladies for that matter, will leave with chalk on their shoes.”

She was frustratingly right about that. The chalk alone was not proof. “Who among your aunt’s circle is here?”

“We’re back to that, are we? You need my help then.” She gave a quick glance around the room. “See that woman in purple, Lady Alton, and the woman in tan with the jet bead trim on her bodice, Mrs. Hawkesly?”

He did not have a chance to answer before the dance required him to take her waist. He touched her without the padding, the firm touch of a man leading his partner. Beneath his palm were layers of silk and cording, stiff cotton and linen, but under it all, a pliant core of womanly strength and grace. It was a touch he had wanted since she had tumbled into his arms from the back steps of his office.

At the top of the set, the pattern of the dance parted them and sent them down the line and back to their original position. The orchestra played the closing bars. Once again, they stood separated.

“You do dance,” she said, her face flushed with warmth. “I did not picture you in a ballroom.”

“That’s because you don’t notice the potted palms.” He didn’t belong there. Politeness required that he escort her back to her companions. He offered his arm, and she took it. “Who is taking you home?” he asked.

“My cousins. I’ve had no time to hire a lady’s companion.”

He halted. He had to admit that cousins looked perfectly innocent, but he didn’t know who was watching. “Let me take you instead.”

It was a rash offer, and she frowned. “You don’t wish to work with me, remember. We were partners, but you made it clear that you no longer want my help, so I must act alone.”

“I want you safe.” He spoke too intensely.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Jones.” Coolly, she slipped her hand from his arm and turned away.

He was powerless to stop her, and she knew it. He was left standing in the middle of the floor gazing after her in the rose dress. He would see that rose dress in his dreams. It was a moment before he realized people were staring as a new set formed around him. He turned to get his bearings.

From the west ballroom door, Wenlocke beckoned, holding a piece of paper. Robin went to him. “Finch’s message. Your man is here.”

Robin read the words and scanned the room full of amiable, slightly flushed dancers, in which no one appeared to be a ruthless killer.

“Wait,” Wenlocke cautioned. “There,” he said, indicating a gentleman exchanging a word with their hostess, who offered a smiling reply.

“You know him?” Robin asked.

“His English title is Bolton. His French title, from his mother’s family, is the Comte de Vanche. He lives a good bit of the year on the continent.”

“And he’s the owner of Thames Property Recovery, Ltd.?” Robin asked.

Wenlocke nodded.

Bolton was a powerfully built man with a long handsome face, crisp fair hair, and a cane. It was the cane that arrested Robin’s attention. As Bolton left their hostess and began to weave his way around the ballroom, the tip of his cane tapped the floor in a regular pattern. Robin would wager anything that the tip of Bolton’s cane made the cluster of distinctive chalk marks on the floor of the league office. The question was how to prove it.

“Do you know why he uses the cane?” Robin asked. Bolton’s reliance on his stick appeared genuine.

Wenlocke hesitated, and Robin turned to him. He had never seen his friend’s face so soberly regretful. “Reportedly, from a duel he fought sixteen years ago. You can’t arrest him here, you know.”

“Not without evidence,” Robin agreed. The case against Bolton was hardly complete. There was nothing in the Huntingdon ballroom on which a print of that cane tip could be captured. Bolton made no move toward the chalked floor, and in any case, the movement of the other guests would soon obscure any impressions the cane left.

“Even with evidence,” Wenlocke said.

Robin turned to ask what his friend meant when one of the terrace doors blew open with a bang. Heavy deep-green velvet curtains waved wildly, and a blast of rain pelted the floor, scattering the dancers. The orchestra faltered. Servants scurried to secure the door and wipe up the floor. And Robin knew how to get a print of Bolton’s cane tip.

“Watch Lady Phoebe,” he told Wenlocke. He was out of the ballroom and on the stairs before the dancing could resume.