Page 40 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)
UNQUESTIONABLY, LADY ISABELLA Knightley was having the time of her life.
For the last hour, she had been tossed between Mr Angel and Tommy like a prettily embroidered pin cushion.
Lord Ludham, on the other hand, was not enjoying his evening.
Tommy had seen less gloomy cats stuck in rainstorms. He felt quite sorry for him; the chap didn’t seem a bad sort.
Nonetheless, his distress mostly passed unmarked, as not only were Isabella’s antics keeping the ton entertained, but a new rumour gathered pace around the ballroom.
According to Miss Gresham, the gallant fourteenth Duke of Ashington had thwarted a determined Lady Wardholme’s advances by employing a neat trick called disappearing into thin air .
Moreover, he’d taken the high-spirited Honourable Beatrice Hazard with him.
“Pssst!” Francis hissed as he and Tommy refreshed their glasses. “Look over there. Lyndon has appeared.” Mr Angel joined them, with a creased and pinkly glowing Isabella hanging on his arm. All four downed their drinks in one. The incendiary heat had turned the ballroom into an airless crush.
“Of course he has,” answered Isabella. “He reliably turns up in time for the free supper.”
Tommy followed the direction of Francis’s gaze in time to see Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons confirm his entry into the fray by stumbling through a set of doors and knocking over two potted plants. Tommy tightened his hand around the glass. Where in hell was Benedict?
“Then the stage is set,” murmured Mr Angel. “All we need now is the remainder of the cast. Has anybody seen His Grace?”
“I haven’t set eyes on Ben—His Grace—for quite some time,” Tommy said uneasily. “Any ideas, Lord Francis?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“ His Grace is precisely where he should be,” Isabella informed them. “Hidden away for the moment. And there’s no point quizzing Lord Francis because he wouldn’t have been able to resist sharing it with someone. Would you, Franny?”
“You know me too well, my love.” Francis surveyed the assembled throng, still smiling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—oh! I do believe…look over there! Oh, good lord… Me? Is he pointing to me? Lord Ludham is beckoning me over. He’s s-smiling at me. I…oh…”
Isabella let out the sort of sanity-depleting squeal that would still be echoing around Tommy’s head by the same hour tomorrow. Francis looked stricken. “Do you…do you think he’s…?”
“Perhaps you should have a wander over there and find out,” Mr Angel suggested smoothly. “Lady Isabella, Mr L’Esquire, and I will continue to ply the worthy matrons with gossip whilst keeping an eye out for that devilish duke. And focus Lord Ludham’s mind.”
“You won’t find him,” Isabella trilled as Lord Francis fairly sprinted to Lord Ludham’s side. “His Grace has been kidnapped by Beatrice! It’s all part of the plan.”
Tommy never imagined a day would arrive when his entire fragile future rested in the delicate hands of a clutch of society ladies.
Before he could fully absorb the precariousness, the deep, sonorous clang of a gong announced supper was served.
Which gave him and Mr Angel plenty of leisure to refill their glasses.
“Nothing reinforces one’s lowly position in society as much as seating arrangements at supper,” observed Mr Angel as the diminutive Countess of Horton and her husband headed a hungry procession towards the dining room. He sipped calmly. “Don’t you find?”
“I suspect you and I will form the rear guard,” agreed Tommy.
As was the due of the highest-ranking lady in the room, the Earl of Horton abandoned his wife’s side to acquaint himself with the arm of the Dowager Marchioness of Cranborne. His own wife, the countess, hovered patiently behind to follow him in on the arm of the highest-ranking male.
Who didn’t appear.
One row behind her, in their correct placement, Rossingley was making small talk with the Countess of Ringwold.
Tommy registered the duke-sized gap, and his heart skipped a beat. “This should be amusing. Or horrific. One way or another.”
Mr Angel’s dark gaze flicked his way. “Indeed, L’Esquire. I do believe the play is about to begin.”
As an awkward, shuffling queue formed, the Countess of Horton rose to her toes to peer over the shoulders of her guests. She whispered something to her butler. Then, she looked back at the empty dining room, at the space beside her, and then back to her guests.
The highest-ranking gentleman was still missing.
A few long minutes ticked by, during which several members of staff were dispatched to locate the fourteenth duke. The hungry crowd was getting restless.
“Just waiting for His Grace,” the countess declared brightly to no one in particular. “I’m sure he’ll be along.”
Tommy wasn’t so certain. The look he exchanged with Mr Angel informed him that Mr Angel was of the same opinion.
Abandoning the marchioness, the elderly Earl of Horton marched stiffly back to his wife. “Where the devil is Ashington?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” she answered. Her forehead creased into a little frown.
“He’s rather a rogue these days, is he not?” The earl pursed his lips. “If he’s busy swiving some chit, then he damned needs to hurry it along. The soup will be cooling.”
“So charming, the upper classes,” muttered Mr Angel.
“Should I be anxious?’ Tommy queried under his breath. “He’s been missing for quite a while now.”
“Isabella reassures me not.” Which reassured Tommy not at all.
Resplendent in chartreuse silk, Rossingley stepped forward. “I may be utterly mistaken, of course, but I recall him mentioning something about the…ah…balcony?”
Tommy’s smirk was answered by that of Mr Angel. To those who knew Rossingley well, the hint of mischief in that helpful, innocent interruption was unmistakeable.
“The balcony, you say?” Lord Horton’s frown matched that of his wife. “It’s locked.”
A disturbance near the front of the gathering heralded Lord Lyndon, clumsily shoving aside some fellow guests to take his rightful position.
Even in his inebriated state, as the brother of a duke, he was entitled to be there.
Some poor woman would have to sit next to him during dinner; whoever she was, she had all of Tommy’s sympathies.
“Out there with another chap, is he?” Lyndon sneered, slurring his words. “Sharing the night air?”
“My balconies are not accessible to guests this evening,” the Earl of Horton informed him stiffly. “I do not wish disaster to befall this house.”
He looked longingly back at the dining room tables, laden with food, and at the dowager marchioness, seated in splendid isolation at the far end, staring straight ahead. “I daresay he will be along shortly.”
Lyndon swigged from his glass. “Doesn’t take one long, does it?”
A dribble of amber liquid ran down his chin. He carelessly wiped at it with his sleeve. “I’d wager one of your footmen is missing too. One of the comely lads.”
“Oooh,” commented Angel, “that’s thrown the cat amongst the pigeons.”
Sure enough, like wind sweeping through a pile of autumn leaves, a murmur susurrated along the queue. Silk fans materialised from within the folds of skirts, faces were madly flapped.
“Lord Fitzsimmons.” The Earl of Horton drew himself up to his not very impressive full height. “I’m not entirely sure I know what you are insinuating.” His gaze flicked to Rossingley for support, who nodded gravely, managing to look both haughty and as if thoroughly enjoying himself.
“May I remind you,” Lord Horton lisped. “This is a private ball, not the back room at Bootle’s. Please note there are virtuous ladies present.”
Lord Lyndon took another gulp before lobbing his empty glass into the only pot within range still standing vertical. “I assure you, my lord, they have nothing to be worried about.”
Lord Horton banged his cane on the floor. “So where the devil is he? Where’s Lord Francis? Does he know? Is the duke unwell? Has he departed early, without a by your leave?”
“His carriage is still outside, my lord,” offered a butler. “At the head of the line.”
“Precisely where its owner should be!” thundered Lord Horton.
Never one to be excluded, Lady Wardholme pushed her way to the front. “He was with me not half an hour gone! Complimenting my choice of neckline.”
“I very much doubt that,” scoffed Lyndon. “Hate to break it to you, my lady, but you are not quite his cup of ratafia, if you catch my drift. Too…” He made a lewd gesture with his hands as if weighing grapefruit. Tommy stifled a snort.
Lord Francis bounded up. “Lyndon. For God’s sake! Control yourself, man. Do you want to be thrown out?”
Rossingley laid a delicate hand on Francis’s arm before bowing to the Countess of Horton.
“As amusing as this speculation is, and an endless source of gossip for the coming dull months in the country, all that dancing has made me quite peckish. At the risk of rewriting centuries of decorum, shall we begin dining without him?”
“No!” The countess stamped her foot. “I’m unhappy that the duke has vanished, and his brother is causing a rumpus! I want it resolved immediately.”
“He’s on the balcony,” said a clear, cool voice, floating over everyone’s heads. “Rossingley was right the first time.”
As though pulled by strings, every single guest turned to where Mr Angel stood next to Tommy, lolling against a pillar.
“You knew all the time?” hissed Tommy. “And you didn’t tell me?”
Angel shrugged. An indolent, disreputable smile played at his mouth.
Two ladies craning their necks to get a good look at him fanned even harder.
“I overheard him demanding one of the footmen escort him to the balcony, as he sought some air,” he added.
“One of the younger footmen, I believe. As to the chap’s comeliness, I cannot comment. ”
Tommy turned away, covering his mouth with a hand. The bugger. He and Rossingley had been in on the ladies’ plan all along. Everyone was playing their part beautifully, even those with no clue they were on stage, such as the irate Earl of Horton.
As Mr Angel’s words sank in, all eyes returned to Lyndon before swivelling to the dark balcony and then back to Lyndon again, drinking in his smug expression.
If he listened carefully, Tommy fancied he could hear shiny pearls clacking against shiny pearls as they were clutched to bosoms. One could power a cotton mill with the collective whoosh of flapping fans.
The Earl of Horton was the first to find his tongue. “Jackson!” He flung a finger at his head butler, standing guard at the doors leading to the dining room, patiently awaiting the guests to be seated. “Open up the balcony. At once! Let us settle this farce once and for all.”