A Grand Design Part 3

Again, Cate refrained from suggesting she try a day spent with falling plaster and rising dust. Instead, she glanced past her sister to the pile of newspapers spread over the large table. Lucy never paid the slightest attention to the news of the Realm. A quick glance at the top sheet banished Cate's surprise. A more thorough perusal, which Lucy tried to prevent with a quick grab at the paper, answered the question of why the girl was so eager to go walking.

" 'Among those personages late returned to Town and often to be seen taking the air in Hyde Park at the five o'clock hour,' " Cate read aloud from the social column, " 'are Lord Aubert, their Graces the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Conovar-' " She darted a sharp glance at her sister, but Lucy was gazing nonchalantly out the window. " 'Lord and Lady St. Helier. By all reports, Lady Jersey's new curricle-' Oh, Lucy!"

"What?"

"I do hate to disappoint you, truly I do. I also hate to repeat myself. Thrusting oneself upon Deirdre will not do at all. Nor will encountering Lady Jersey in the Park bring you a voucher, dearest, no matter how prettily you behave nor how lovely you look. We are not Almack's sort of people, and the sooner you accept the fact, the better."

A quick, hot flush rose into Lucy's cheeks. There was a blast of temper coming, and Cate steeled herself for it.

The door knocker clacked loudly.

Lucy went into motion like a whirlwind, her anger swept away. She scooped up the newspapers and stuffed them under the settee, then moved to the other cluttered tables. Before Cate could so much as lift a hand, the room was ready for visitors. Not that she would have lifted anything in a hurry. She was bone-tired and certain whoever was at the door had come to see her uncles-who couldn't even be bothered to be home.

"Lucy," she said wearily, "it will only be-"

The maid, cap askew, appeared in the doorway. "Lady Leverham, miss," she announced. Lucy took just enough time to direct the full force of her smug smile at Cate before bouncing into the hall.

"Lady Leverham!" she cried. "How perfectly lovely of you to call. I have been thinking of you, hoping we should meet from the moment we arrived . . ." Cate flinched. Then sighed. "Tea, Becky!" Lucy commanded. "Now, dear madam, you must tell me how everyone is getting on in beloved little Tarbet since we were last there ..." A moment later, still chattering away, the girl all but dragged their Tarbet neighbor and meager acquaintance into the room.

Cate's first thought was that Lady Leverham never changed. The matron's hair was still improbably dark around her plump face, her eyes still a bit vague, and her smile utterly sweet. If she were at all disconcerted by Lucy's overfamiliar greeting, she did not show it.

As soon as Lucy paused for breath, having finished the list of Tarbet residents she so hoped to meet since she had arrived in Town, Cate stepped in. "Lady Leverham," she said politely, gesturing their guest to a seat, "how lovely to see you." She'd noted with relief that the lady's notorious pet, Galahad, was not present. "You are most welcome."

"And you are a perverse girl!" Settling herself and her copious, filmy wrap into the proferred chair, Lady Leverham shook a plump finger in Cate's direction. "You ought to have informed me of your intention to be in London!"

Cate caught another smug look from her sister. "I did not wish to impose, madam. I did not think-"

"Impose? Rubbish! How can one impose on friends?"

Cate could think of countless ways to impose on friends, countless more on mere acquaintances, but apparently Lady Leverham had set her mind on their closeness. The woman was renowned for three things: her pet, her pa.s.sion for all matters medieval, and her sweetly faulty memory. The third seemed to be at work now. Cate, faced with her determined neighbor and delighted sister, couldn't be bothered to correct any fantasies.

"Sibyl wanted ever so much to accompany me," the lady went on, referring to her niece, now a countess, and never a companion of either Buchanan girl, "but they are presently being bombarded with plants and gla.s.ses and chairs and the earl would lose a carton of those musty old books he insists on hauling about . . . Well, no matter. The box will turn up, the chairs will go where they must, and Sibby made me promise to bring this."

She unearthed her reticule from the folds of her wrap and withdrew a slightly bent card. Lucy all but s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her fingers. "Oh, Catey, it is an invitation! To a soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Hythe tomorrow night! Now you must come shopping with me. My new blue dress will suffice, but only with some lace and gloves and perhaps a new shawl to bring it up to snuff ..."

Lady Leverham smiled indulgently at the girl. "That's the spirit, child! I will send you to my mantua-maker, although perhaps you will find her a tad antiquated." Recalling the various medieval-looking ensembles the lady favored, Gate thought it likely they would find her favored shopkeepers antiquated indeed-and expensive.

"Oh, goodness. I very nearly forgot!" Lady Leverham said suddenly. "Sibby heard from Tarquin who heard from Conovar ... or was it Tarrant . . . ? Holcombe?" Bold mahogany curls bounced as she shook her head in impatience. "No matter. Am I correct in understanding your dear uncles have been so gracious as to offer their services to the Marquess of Tregaron?"

"They have," Cate replied absently, wondering just how many precious shillings it would take to bring Lucy's dress up to snuff for Sibyl Hythe's party. And whether, with the help of that lady's chairs and plants and perhaps a drape or two, she herself would be able to disappear into the background.

"Well. I had heard he'd come back, but did not quite give the rumor credence. With a reputation like his, one would expect him to stay in his shadowy keep a sight longer than eight years! Scandalous, I say."

Cate, who had been feeling rather like a shuttlec.o.c.k between her sister and guest, snapped back to attention. "Indeed, madam? I was not aware the marquess had been . . . er . . . in exile."

"You didn't know?" Lady Leverham demanded, sweet face slack with surprise. "Well, of course you might not have, tucked away in Scotland as you have been for all these years." She leaned forward then and lowered her voice. "It was never proven, but neither was it ever questioned, not really. Few ever doubted the matter."

"What matter?" Lucy demanded, having no scruples in displaying the rampant curiosity her sister tried to suppress.

Lady Leverham's reply, when it came, could not have been farther from anything Cate would have imagined.

"Your uncles, my dear," the lady nearly whispered, "have granted their services to a man with blood on his hands. Eight years ago, Tregaron killed his wife."

Chapter 4.

Tregaron had never been inside the Hythe house before. The earl had been unmarried until recently, and had not entertained. He had also been dull as dirt, which was precisely why Tregaron had chosen this fete for his re-entrance into Society. Any party thrown by Hythe, and whichever eminently proper, demure miss he'd married was bound to be well attended, underwhelming, and so respectable as to make a man's bones petrify.

Such an event, Tregaron had decided, was the perfect place to make his appearance. He would attract a certain amount of unwanted attention, no doubt, even if few persons actually spoke to him. He would also be surrounded by just the sort of young lady for whom he was searching, a lady like the new Countess of Hythe was sure to be: prim, decorous, and solemn.

He'd received quite a shock upon entering the house.

Everything not moving was covered either with candles or some form of colorful vegetation. Music from an enthusiastic and, by the sound of it, full-size orchestra poured l.u.s.tily through the ballroom doors. There were pink-cheeked, red-nosed revelers raising gla.s.ses and voices over every available inch of floor. And, unless Tregaron was very much mistaken, the furry blur bouncing from chair back to sconce to chandelier, keeping up a shrill chattering all the while, was a small black monkey.

Beyond that, it took a full ten minutes for anyone to notice his presence. Even then, the buzzing that followed his progress through the house was somewhat less in volume than he had expected. That might well have been due to the volume of all other sounds, he thought, but perhaps it also meant that his eight years of exile had worn away some of the tarnish on his name. Unlikely, but considering that the staid Earl of Hythe himself had just wandered by, typically sober-faced but sporting a floral garland atop his regal head, anything was possible.

Tregaron felt slightly encouraged. Until the first matron, upon spying him, spun on her heel and presented him with her rigid back, followed by another, and another. Well, he mused, it was no more than he had expected. He was not even surprised that the pinch-lipped Lady Broadford had seemingly forgotten that he had once pulled her son, sniveling and slightly blue, from a hole in the ice of a Suss.e.x pond. Her grat.i.tude at the time had been excessive. Her nose-in-the-air pivot now, causing not a ripple in her champagne, was impressive.

There were those who did not give him the cut. Perhaps none looked especially welcoming, but he saw bland interest in some eyes, outright feminine speculation in others, and took both as a good sign.

He had purposely arrived quite late. The receiving line was long over, but he followed Hythe into a crowded parlor. There, the man removed the garland with a grimace and tossed it in the direction of a hovering footman. Just as Tregaron was ready to approach the earl for a public chat, hoping a degree of acquaintance and Hythe's legendary sense of propriety would preclude rudeness, chaos erupted.

The monkey came careening into the room, using furniture, wall fixtures, and various persons to hasten his arrival. Ladies' shrieks rose above the music and conversation. Several fans and numerous gla.s.ses went flying into the air. The monkey launched itself into the melee. Chattering loudly, it landed on another footman's shoulder, curled itself into a furry ball, and leapt into the air. Hythe, his expression a combination of extreme distaste and resignation, took a quick, military-precise step backward.

The monkey barely brushed his lapels, then slid downward, fast, hitting the floor with a small thump and loud squawk.

Any concern that the creature had injured itself was quickly dispelled. A pretty young lady with glossy brown curls and an engaging smile broke away from a knot of revelers and hurried to where the monkey sat.

"Oh, Galahad, not again!" she lamented, bending over the hunched little form. "Will you never learn?"

With that, she reached out a slender arm. The monkey, with obvious familiarity, swung to her wrist, then scampered up her arm. It came to rest on the lady's shoulder, where it promptly pulled a shiny hairpin from her curls and began to chew on it.

"Sibyl," Tregaron heard Hythe mutter.

The lady shrugged. The monkey protested the motion. "I am sorry," the former offered as the latter chewed away. "I thought Aunt Alfie had him."

"Aunt Alfie," came the earl's dry response, "is not especially reliable in such matters, is she?"

"No, she most certainly is not," Sibyl, as she appeared to be named, replied, clearly undaunted by Hythe's annoyance. "But she does try." Blessing the earl with a saucy grin, she turned away, monkey aloft. If Tregaron was not mistaken, the beast actually thumbed its little nose at their estimable host.

Tregaron watched them slip into the crush. Yes, he thought, there was something undeniably appealing about the lady. But she was just the sort of woman he was not looking for. His marchioness would not be pert. She would not be saucy. She most certainly would not possess a wild, ill-behaved monkey. Or a well-behaved one, either, for that matter. He was all for pets; Gryffydd, after all, had been his constant companion for more than seven years. The line had to be drawn, however, at any animal liable to chew on one's fripperies or cause a disturbance at a polite gathering.

Just as Tregaron was pondering the realization that this gathering was far more lively than expected and, perhaps, far more lively than polite, he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned to meet the smiling face of a smartly uniformed young gentleman who was just familiar enough to make him search his mind for a name.

"It is Tregaron," the fellow cried. "I heard as much, but needed to see with my own eyes. Damme, it must be ten years or more."

Yes, the man was familiar, his dark hair and laughing eyes bringing to mind their host . . . Tregaron blinked. "Julius?"

Hythe's younger brother grinned broadly. "Yes, yes, I know. All grown. It happens to the best of us. Here now, you haven't a gla.s.s of anything . . ."

As Tregaron watched, bemused, Julius Rome snared a gla.s.s of champagne from a pa.s.sing footman and pressed it into Tregaron's hand. He then grabbed a second, pa.s.sed it on, then a third and fourth, leaving them each with both fists filled.

Tregaron's contact with the earl's brother had been limited; too many years had separated them for real friendship. Their mothers had been fond of each other, however, and the ton was small enough that their paths had crossed frequently as youths. Tregaron remembered young Rome as being cheerful, clever, and not in the least miserly with his goodwill. Apparently he had not changed much.

"Good old Tarquin," Julius announced after he contentedly drained one champagne gla.s.s. "Always the very best of everything. Being married has made a world of difference to him. He was always a good fellow, my brother, but stiff as a board. Have you met his wife? I daresay not, as I hear you're just back in Town."

Tregaron wondered what else the man had heard. Rome would have been tucked away at university, barely out of school at the time of the scandal, but certainly flapping tongues would have brought him up to snuff by now.

"I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lady Hythe," Tregaron said carefully, gauging the younger man's expression. "I should very much like to."

"Of course you would," was the cheerful reply. "I expect you're hunting for a wife, yourself. G.o.d only knows why you would have come to one of my brother's dos otherwise. Poor fellow had the pomp and propriety down fast, but never was much for entertainment. And you couldn't possibly have known how he has improved. Now where is ... Ah, yes, there she is now. Come along. I'll introduce you to Sibyl, then Sibyl can introduce you to any number of suitable young things."

"Sibyl?"

"My sister-in-law. Splendid girl."

There couldn't be two. Tregaron spied the monkey, still perched on the lady's-Lady Hythe's, he corrected-shoulder. This was the woman dull-as-dirt Hythe had chosen. This was the woman he himself had hoped would contribute the breath of respectability to his foray into the Marriage Mart.

He decided it was time to rethink that plan.

Tregaron scanned the a.s.sembled misses. Most were pretty, even if it was no more than their relative youth making them so. AH, he a.s.sumed, were well bred and reasonably well behaved. Some would be heiresses, although he had no need of money. A handful would be truly clever. One or two among them might actually suit him.

He spied Chloe Somersham in the crush and couldn't help but note that she had grown into a perfectly lovely creature. She was far too small for his taste, of course, and it appeared she still had a predilection for bouncing in place. But neither flaw came close to the utter distaste Tregaron had for her father, the wild and windy Duke of Earith. No, Lady Chloe would not be receiving his attentions, but it was through no fault of her own.

His eyes traveled over a sea of topknots: blonde, brunette, t.i.tian, raven. And suddenly, jarringly, came to rest on a very bold, very familiar chin.

"We will not disturb Lady Hythe just yet, I think, Rome," he announced. "She appears . . . occupied." Then, at the younger man's unconcerned shrug, Tregaron, drawn by some odd and powerful impulse, began weaving his way toward Catherine Buchanan.

He would never have expected to see her at such a gathering, would not have expected her to have been invited. But there she was, tucked into a far corner between a curtain and a potted plant, impossible to mistake as she stood a good head taller than most of the women and a good number of men, her hair blazing red-bronze in the candlelight. She was garbed in white, Tregaron could see as he approached, a rather odd design that skirted what he perceived as current fashion while somehow quite missing it. The fabric was dense, drapey, and rather looked like a costume one would expect of a Sophoclean drama.

In it, Catherine looked very much as the marquess a.s.sumed Diana might, or Hera. A G.o.ddess, but one whose glory had nothing whatsoever to do with delicacy, demureness, or celestial beauty. Catherine Buchanan needed only a bow or lance in hand to complete the image. Even as he made his way toward her, Tregaron wondered if armor might not be advisable.

Cate felt his approach even before she saw him. Maybe it was nothing more than the crowd parting before him, a waft of fans, skirts, and coattails, but she felt something. And when she looked up, there he was, all black hair, black evening wear, black scowl. No, she corrected herself, he was not scowling. In fact, his satyr's face bore no readable expression whatsoever. It merely seemed dark and twisted because of ... well, her imagination, she decided, and Lady Leverham's words.

That lady had been terribly vague with her story. Unhappy marriage, she'd said, describing the late Lady Tregaron as too young, too pampered, too beautiful, the marquess as always a dark one, not a laugh to be found in him. Then there had been a few joyless years, some terrible public rows, and finally the Jermyn house party, that horrible early morning when the beautiful young marchioness had been found broken on the hard stone terrace thirty feet below the balcony of the bedchamber where she had been staying.

Tregaron was nowhere to be found, Lady Leverham had breathed, one plump hand gripping a vinaigrette that she had not actually employed. He'd gone back to London and was just sitting in his library when the messengers finally banged on the doors of the house.

No one had seen him leave the party near Windsor, nor had so much as noted his absence. No one had witnessed his wife's fall. None could disprove his fierce, pale-faced claim that he had departed for Town, saddled his own mount, and gone, even before the al fresco supper and had most certainly been well settled in his Hanover Square house, already deep into a bottle of port by the time the clocks had chimed midnight. And since Lady Tregaron had been very much alive at midnight, a gay whirl of gossamer skirts and laughter, the matter had not been pursued.

But a few sensible people knew better, Lady Leverham insisted. People knew.

Cate watched the marquess approaching now and wondered if he was the sort of man who could commit murder. Anyone could kill, she thought, if the stakes were high enough. Cold-blooded murder, however . . . Could an unfaithful wife-and while lady Leverham had not actually said the words, they had hung over those she did speak- have pushed him that far? Adultery, apparently, was a small matter as long as it was done with discretion. It would seem the marquess might not have agreed. And it would seem much of the present gathering thought him guilty of responding in a heinous manner. They parted before him, stared coolly after him.

She could not believe him a murderer. Surely one could tell . . .

"Miss Buchanan."

She swallowed, instinctively lifting her chin a notch. "Good evening, Lord Tregaron."

She cursed the unhappy chance that had allowed him to spot her. She'd hidden herself so carefully, after all, in the corner. She'd chosen a white dress, too, knowing many of the women present would be in white. By all rights, he ought not to have seen her at all. As soon as she had been dutifully introduced to Lord Hythe and a handful of disinterested fellow guests, she had faded into the background. And, she told herself firmly now, she was ever so grateful that not a single, solitary being had approached her since.

Now here was Lord Tregaron, bearing down on her like one of the Four Hors.e.m.e.n. She'd had no idea that he would be present. It was merely bad luck that he'd spied her and simple logic that had her wishing he would take his large and unmistakable form elsewhere. Beyond her stomach doing a jittery little dance-courtesy, no doubt, of being so close to a man who might or might not be p.r.o.ne to violence -a person would have to be blind not to notice the steady swivel of heads in their direction.

Somehow, telling the marquess to go away didn't seem the thing to do. Nor did asking him if the rumors were true, if he'd shoved his beautiful wife from a balcony in a fit of jealousy.

She was spared that decision by his cool, polite, "How do you do, Miss Buchanan?"

"I am quite well, thank you," she replied after a moment. Her "And you, sir?" was somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

"I am tolerably well. And your uncles? Are they here tonight?"

A polite question, Cate thought, even if the marquess knew himself more likely to be pa.s.sing an evening with the mad king than a pair of Scottish architects. No, Tregaron and his sort would not really be so sanguine about the likes of Angus and Ambrose Buchanan rubbing elbows with dukes and bishops.

"We are in the company of Lady Leverham," Cate replied, seeing no reason to inform the marquess that, although Lady Hythe had been gracious enough to extend the invitation, Ambrose and Angus had opted instead for entertainments of a slightly less elegant sort. Cate thought she'd heard whisperings about dice and Covent Garden. "My uncles did not attend."

"Ah. Well. I trust they are in good health and spirits."

It was too silly, this little exchange. Cate stared into the hard face, trying to understand why he was speaking to her at all, let alone exchanging pleasantries that, while they might well be proper, seemed sorely out of place considering their one previous meeting-and his reputation. She dared a sharp glance into the amber eyes, looking for answers among the enigmas.

She was too long in responding this time. One of the marquess's black brows lifted into a slow, sardonic arc. His wide mouth twisted into something that could not quite be called a smile. "So it goes."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Merely a comment on the predictability of some things, Miss Buchanan. No matter. I will a.s.sume your uncles are in fine form."

"Oh, they ... I ..."

"I will also a.s.sume that you do not dance."