Page 5

Four

WAYLAND’S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

TOM

The ton had risen to the challenge Michael set forth when he opened his gaming hell to all and sundry. Ladies and gentlemen alike poured into the infamous octagonal walls where fortunes were won and lost, all desperate for the opportunity to see and be seen.

Michael, at the behest of his wife, had agreed to host a masquerade for the beau monde . The ladies, in particular, seemed to delight in the opportunity to peer into the forbidden world of their fathers, brothers, husbands.

Juliet’s hands were all over the night’s festivities, from the chessboard dance floor abutting the wall opposite the bar, to the gaming tables pushed along the remaining walls. She’d clearly given the arrangements some consideration. The beginner tables where one could learn the play were crowded nearest the door, whereas the high stakes tables were pushed to the farthest wall.

Drab, muted browns—to my eyes, at least—swirled like handkerchiefs in the wind across the makeshift dance floor. The quartet, tucked away in the corner, offered the dancers a lively cotillion.

I had chosen to prop up the bar for the moment. Michael would never invite my mother, and she would never attend a ball hosted in this “degenerate cesspool” even if he had. Kate had almost certainly dragged Hugh into a closet to do whatever it was they did in there. As long as she was occupied, I was free of matchmaking, meddlesome women and I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity for a reprieve.

A massive wig towered over the dancers on the floor before cutting a wide swath through them—Rosehill’s mother. My heart stopped for a moment and I straightened. Her presence didn’t guarantee his, but it did hint to it. God bless the dowager duchess and her penchant for eccentric—and oversized—fashions.

The scotch burned as I accidentally swallowed too large a sip in my excitement and I took a distracted bite of one of Anna’s tarts to cut the fire. Those alone might have been worth the effort to dress and attend. The crisp, buttery caramel pastry melted in my mouth, leaving only the sweet, tart nip of raspberry. My eyes slipped closed as I savored the taste of my childhood. The greatest loss to the Grayson household had been when Anna wed Augie and opened her own bakery. Now I had to fight the masses for the treats I once only had to sneak to the kitchens for.

A feminine giggle arose from one of the higher stakes tables followed by masculine groans of disappointment. Peacock feathers streamed over the lady’s shoulder, shot out from her waist, and puffed high atop one side of her mask. Or possibly ostrich feathers? It was difficult to see the pattern from behind.

She spun in delight. Tall, statuesque with dark hair—was it Lady Davina? Damn masquerade made everything more difficult. If Lady Davina was here swindling the ton of every last coin in a way that would make my eldest brother proud, and her mother was attempting to burn down the place by catching her wig on every candle in a five-foot vicinity, then Rosehill was almost certainly somewhere to be found. Right?

Searching, with less subtlety than I ought, from my resting place with my back against the glass-smooth bar top proved to be a fruitless effort. Although I was the tallest of my brothers, my height was no match against the frippery the ladies had donned tonight. And Rosehill wasn’t overly tall, perhaps Michael’s height. The dreary swirls of brown in every direction overwhelmed his crisp blacks and whites, if they were present at all.

Or, it was always possible, he’d abandoned his classic style in homage to the theme. Wouldn’t that be a disappointment? Devastating, even.

“’Ere, sir.” Potter, one of the dunners Michael employed, slid a refill of my scotch across the bar, prompting me to glance at the one in my hand. I wasn’t entirely certain when it had been emptied, but I grabbed the replacement.

Attention recaptured by the gaming floor, I took a distracted sip. And cringed. Gin. Christ I was distracted. And Potter must have me confused with someone else. Again.

I took a heartier swallow, hoping it would improve with exposure. It didn’t.

“Whiskey, please.” A short head of dark, overgrown, messy curls turned to me after Potter acknowledged the request.

“Have you seen my sister?” Formerly Mr. Kit Summers, now a very reluctant Lord Leighton peered worriedly into the crowd as he leaned back against the bar beside me.

“In a closet with my brother most likely.”

“Well, that is a revolting thought. If she asks, you have not seen me.”

I raised a curious brow.

“She’s in a matchmaking mood lately. You ought to avoid her too.”

“Noted,” I said as I tipped my glass in his direction. Once again, I regretted the sip.

Potter returned with an amber glass this time, though I rather suspected it was scotch and not whiskey. Kit nodded at me before wandering off. I lost sight of him after that, but my search continued.

Lustful men gambled obscene sums. Ladies fluttered fans at gentlemen. Kate appeared and captured her brother at some point and was determinedly dragging him about the room to every available debutant. Her Grace’s wig was caught in the banister, and she required a rescue. And through it all, there was not a single sighting of Rosehill.

A pointed cough and a flutter of delicately embroidered silk at my side indicated the arrival of Juliet, Michael’s wife and tonight’s hostess.

“Two glasses of Michael’s scotch and just a water for me, please, Mr. Potter.” She turned so her back was pressed against the wood beside me. “I do believe this bar is capable of remaining upright. Even without your assistance.”

“How confident are you? Your husband did put Potter back there,” I mumbled as I tipped my head back toward the dunner fumbling with the good scotch and sloshing it over the side of the glass.

“But he wasn’t responsible for the construction. I don’t think,” she added warily.

“I’m sure the building would have collapsed by now if he were.”

“True,” she said as she watched a new dance begin. “And really, Tom, you couldn’t even bother to don a mask?”

I shrugged, offering her a sheepish smile—earning an indulgent eye roll.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Potter handing off the drinks that were surely intended for Jules and Michael, to another masked gentleman. He spun around and startled when he caught sight of her. Then the man stared, uncomprehendingly, before turning back to pour another glass.

Jules, still surveying the crush, hadn’t noticed the foible. Instead, she added, “It’s quite crowded in here. In fact, I just sent an old friend of mine who needed a few minutes’ reprieve up to Michael’s office. I promised to bring him one of those drinks. If you think the bar could spare you, would you mind delivering it to him?”

I glanced down at her upturned face. Something whimsical flickered in her expression that I couldn’t quite name.

Potter arrived, appropriate number of amber drinks in hand, and set them behind us before scurrying off without a word. I turned to see him trying to pour the cheap swill Michael kept for those who couldn’t afford the good bottle into said good bottle. He spilled more than he managed to get in, but it was certainly enough to alter the taste. Abandoning my post would be for the best. I’d need probable deniability when Michael came complaining about the switch.

“I can do that,” I agreed. “Why does my wastrel brother have you fetching drinks anyway?”

“He doesn’t know. I just thought he might like another.” She slid the water and one of the scotches toward the edge of the bar before pausing and turning back to me. She reached for the beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. Delicate fingers worked the knot before pulling out a domino and offering it to me. “Here, it matches your eyes.”

I smiled at my apparent predictability and took the half mask from her, studying the brownish fabric. My eyes were greenish. I knew that. Or I’d been told that. And it was almost identical to the muted shade I saw in the mirror.

“Here, bend down,” she ordered. She grabbed the mask and stood on tiptoes to reach around my head. Once I understood her meaning, I dipped lower, chuckling a little at the impropriety of it—the action so unlike the prim and proper Juliet I’d first met.

“There, very handsome,” she said, smoothing the fabric over my cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Now, off you go. And good luck.”

I didn’t have time to question her before she grabbed two of the drinks and scurried off to wherever Michael was taking the ton for all they were worth.

I snatched the last glass, abandoning the dregs of gin on the bar, and skirted along the octagonal wall.

Luckily, I reached the open staircase that curved along the plaster without crashing into anyone and took the steps two at a time. At last, I reached the balcony that ran around the whole second floor. The first heavy oaken door was Michael’s. Often unused now that he had turned over the day-to-day running to his second, Augie. The office was more symbolic than functional these days. I knocked perfunctorily before opening the door and slipping inside without waiting for a response.

My heart stopped at the sight that greeted me.

There, in perfectly clear black and white, was Alexander Hasket, Duke of Rosehill.