Laura Kinsale (7 page)

“What, send your admirers packing?”

Tess laughed. “I would hardly call them admirers.”

“Would you not? You’re very wrong, then, my lady.”

She slanted a questioning look toward him, again unsure of his sincerity. There was a certain intent in his cool expression; he smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. And yet she felt oddly comfortable with him. He was handsome and charming and totally at ease in this alien environment—exactly the things that intimidated her in other people. But his compliments, though extravagant, were delivered with a cynical solemnity that put her at ease. He couldn’t possibly mean them. She sipped at the last of her champagne, and accepted another that he procured from a passing footman.

“I must leave you now, I’m afraid,” he said as she took the glass.

“Oh, dear,” Tess said unthinkingly, seeing her short respite at an end. “So quickly?”

“It’s too soon to set the tongues wagging.” He smiled his enigmatic smile. “We shall do that soon enough.”

Tess gave him a startled glance, but he was already reaching out to bring an aged baroness into their circle, and by the time the introductions were complete, he had disappeared. Tess conversed stiffly with the baroness, managing to offend the woman almost immediately by mentioning Morrow’s Whig affiliations. She was rescued from further blunders by Larice. “Cousin Tess,” that plump and rosy beauty bubbled, “may I present my very special friend, Miss Louisa Grant-Hastings? And this is my fiancé Sir Walter Sitwell, and oh, yes, here is Miss Grant-Hastings’s cousin, ah, Mr. Everett, am I right?”

Tess rose and managed to curve her mouth once again into a smile. Her eyes went first to Sir Walter, and she had the impression of a very ruddy face and blue eyes much like Larice’s before Miss Grant-Hastings stepped forward in a rustle of glaring magenta skirts and clasped Tess’s hand. Tess began a sentence, but the mechanical words of greeting froze on her lips as she focused on the tall figure behind Miss Grant-Hastings. “Why, Cap—” she began, and then suddenly shut her mouth.

Captain Frost stood watching her, without a trace of recognition on his face. An instant surge of pleasure went through Tess, but she caught back the words of greeting. Whatever had Larice called him? Mr. Everett…

Comprehension dawned. Captain Frost! Captain Frost was the mysterious Mr. Everett, so highly recom
mended by Mr. Taylor! And to Tess, the reason was immediately obvious—young English gentlemen might go into blockade-running for adventure and profit, but they carefully concealed their family names if they did so. Frost, indeed. She set her own face into the same mask of indifference, and was rewarded by a barely perceptible quirk of his lips.

Miss Grant-Hastings was waiting with a cool lift to her delicate brows for Tess’s reply to some question. She was several inches shorter than Tess, but the proud set of Miss Grant-Hastings’s shoulders and elaborate coil of golden-brown hair beneath her garland made her seem equal in height. Larice had told Tess about her friend; Miss Grant-Hastings was the celebrated beauty of the season, not overly rich, but from a fine family and lovely enough to capture the heart of any eldest son she might choose, if not the heart of his mother. From Francis, Tess had learned that Miss Grant-Hastings was an accomplished flirt, but that she had set her sights too high on Lord Falken, heir to the dukedom of Alderly. Falken, Francis said meaningfully, was no fool, but he would be glad to take advantage of any young chit who was.

Looking into Miss Grant-Hastings’s beautiful cold eyes, Tess thought that perhaps Lord Falken had met his match. She managed some small inanity in reply, and then thankfully let Larice carry the conversation. The unexpected appearance of Captain Frost—Mr. Everett, she reminded herself—had surprised Tess into breathlessness. It was good to see him, tall and strong and visibly tanned in comparison to the lily-white hands and faces of the London gentlemen. Even dressed in the same long black coat and white cravat and waistcoat of every other male in the room, he seemed to Tess to be different. The sight of him brought back all the joy of
sun-filled days in the tropics, and she imagined when he took her hand and murmured some stock phrase that she could smell the salt-sea air.

Tess waited impatiently for Larice and Sir Walter to wander away, and was gratified when Miss Grant-Hastings was taken out to dance by an elegant, sleepy-eyed, blond gentleman whom Tess suspected was Lord Falken. Sir Walter offered for Larice, which pleased everyone and left Tess at last with Captain Frost.

She turned on him with a pointed smile. “You, Mr.
Everett,
are a scoundrel and a liar. And you look very fine tonight.”

Gryf, who had been fighting since he arrived to keep his eyes from straying to her too often, managed a reasonable smile in return, despite the thumping of the pulse in his neck. The compliment was not what he expected. He had prepared himself with reasons and rationalizations and a whole made-up history, only to find that she had accepted his new identity with perfect calm. The moment when she recognized him had been one of the worst in a long career of bad moments; from the astonished look on her face, he had been sure she would protest aloud and have him unceremoniously ejected from the premises. But she had recovered herself, and suddenly, from the sly smile that curved her soft lips, he realized that he had a ready coconspirator in deceit.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “And you are…lovely.” Which was the understatement of a lifetime.

She surprised him by blushing profusely; he would have thought the endless stream of besotted mashers he had watched with her all evening would have inured her to such simple praise. She looked down and then up again, and the emerald of her gown made her eyes very green. He swallowed, and they stood together like a
pair of shy children. Finally, with monumental stupidity, he asked, “Are you enjoying your ball?”

She smiled suddenly, that same smile that always set the blood hammering in his veins. “Not at all. I rather preferred fighting mosquitos in Barra, but I’m told not to mention it. I presume you have given up your career for the time being?”

“Career?”

“The block—” She paused, and looked like a child caught with a hand in a jam jar. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you won’t want to discuss it here, Mr. Everett.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking of,” he said. “I am the perfect idle gentleman, as you can see.”

She raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t think so. You’ll have to stay out of the sun if you want to be recognized as truly idle. What becomes of your ship now?”

“I suppose you mean my yacht,” he corrected gravely.

“Oh yes, of course,” she said, and he could see the twinkle in her eyes. “Your yacht.”

“I imagine she’ll have to work for her living under someone else, since I’m busy staying out of the sun.”

She shook her head. “Are you really going to give up that life by choice? For this?”

He followed the quick sweep of her hand that took in the glittering crowd. “Not exactly by choice,” he said carefully. “It was necessary. A family concern.”

“Oh. I hope no one is ill?”

He shook his head, not wanting to create a more complex story than he could easily support. With a wry smile, he thought the truth would do as well. “Shall we say I’m under a certain…pressure to remain in England a while?”

“Oh,” she said again.

So he let her make up her own plot, figuring she would assume Yankees hot in pursuit or something like
it, because it was certainly plausible enough. But her next comment threw him.

“So we’re in the same predicament,” she said sympathetically.

“Predicament?” Uncertainty sounded too clearly in his voice and he smiled again to cover it. “Are we in a predicament?”

“It seems like one to me. I don’t see how I’m going to choose a husband when I can hardly tell all these gentlemen apart. I wish you better luck with the ladies.” She paused, and then glanced up at him with chagrin. “I beg your pardon. Now I’m sure I’ve been vulgar, but it
is
a problem, and I wondered if I was the only one who had it.”

Gryf cleared his throat. There was only one lady that meant anything at all to him, and she was as far out of his reach as the moon, though she stood not a foot away. If she chose to think that he was in England searching for a bride, then perhaps it was better that way. Maybe he would not lose himself so hopelessly in the sea-green depths of her eyes if he concentrated on other women.

Maybe.

“I’m sure you’ll recognize anyone who goes so far as to ask for your hand,” he said, and was glad to make her laugh.

“I suppose so, but—Oh, pooh, here is my aunt, and she will send you away because I’ve said more than three words in a row to you.”

Gryf cast one look at the frowning matron descending upon them, and saw that Lady Collier’s assessment was correct. He stood his ground long enough to be introduced. Lady Wynthrop thawed slightly when she understood that he was supposedly related to the Grant-Hastings. Not for the first time, Gryf silently ap
preciated the cleverness of Taylor in attaching Gryf to that particular family. Since the letters of introduction he had brought from Brazil had carried relief from certain burdensome loans that the Grant-Hastings labored under, and considerably enhanced the eligibility of Miss Louisa with a substantial contribution to her marriage portion, the family had welcomed their counterfeit cousin with open arms. They were also the kind of people Gryf was used to dealing with. Gentlefolk or not, they lived on the edge of their means, which was pretty much the same struggle at any level of society. When money was on the line, they would cooperate. Particularly Louisa. He had seen women like Louisa Grant-Hastings before. They ran bordellos and bars and gaming houses, and when they looked at a man, all they saw was what he might be worth to them.

Mr. Everett should come to call at Morrow House with his cousin, Lady Wynthrop was saying, which suited Gryf’s purposes well enough. He trusted Louisa to identify Lady Collier’s serious admirers for him, but if he ended up in the unlikely and unpleasant position of trying to discourage an attachment, he would need to be on familiar terms with the household.

The thought made him bemoan once again the impossibility of this ridiculous mission. He asked himself, for the thousandth time, what the devil he was doing here. His motives for accepting Taylor’s offer were shaky: the money would be a godsend, but he had managed without it before. A full crew, a tight ship, a cottage with a housekeeper for Grady, and a chance at a China run: those were dreams, things he had lived without for so long that they hardly had any meaning. Deep inside, he knew that he was here for something else, something that was far more dangerous than unfulfilled dreams. He looked at Lady Collier, at her eyes and her
hair like deep midnight, and a cold despair crept into his heart. Another guest joined the group, some rich and titled gentleman, with smooth manners and money oozing out of every pore, and the cold turned into ice. Gryf bowed and took his leave, wanting air, wanting freedom, wanting this spell off his heart and his mind.

He found no escape in the crowded ballroom. Louisa Grant-Hastings caught up with him before he could ease out, drawing him back for some scheme of her own which became clear when she led him to a pair of young men lounging in the empty card room. One of them he recognized as Falken, Louisa’s unabashed quarry. He gathered that he was expected to disengage the other from the prize, leaving Louisa and Falken to a comfortable tête-à-tête. Gryf was willing to go along, in order to keep Louisa in debt to him rather than the other way around. He summoned an easy smile as she began the introductions.

A moment later, the smile faded. His wits deserted him; the hand he held out in greeting faltered, and he had to make a conscious effort to raise it again. Stephen Eliot. Gryf heard the rest of the name through a loud drumming in his ears. Stephen Eliot of Ashland Court.

The slender hand that grasped his own was smooth and unblemished, white against his brown and work-hardened fingers. The shock was too great for rage: there was none of the hatred that Gryf had thought he would feel, only a pounding in his chest and a suffocating tightness. Stephen Eliot. Nathaniel Eliot’s son. He had the look of Eliot, a neat figure not overly tall, with well-trimmed Dundreary whiskers and dark brows over blue eyes that penetrated. The old antagonism began to creep into Gryf’s blood. It wasn’t Stephen who had killed Gryf’s family, but now it was Stephen who profited. The strong desire to wipe the cool confidence from those finely modeled features surged through Gryf. In
stead he disengaged his hand with calculated gentleness from the other man’s grasp.

“…my cousin,” Louisa droned prettily. “Just come from the West Indies.”

“Indeed,” Eliot said, casting an assessing glance at Gryf. “And how are the pesky plantation slaves? Still restless?”

“Cousin Gryphon was attached to the governor of Trinidad,” Louisa said encouragingly.

The blue eyes suddenly focused into a sharper look at Gryf. “What an unusual Christian name. How do you spell it?”

“Like the mythical beast,” Gryf lied smoothly. “Two
f
’s and two
i
’s.”

“Ah. I had a cousin myself by the name, Miss Grant-Hastings. He spelled it differently. I haven’t heard it for years.”

Louisa smiled serenely. “Yes, it is unusual. I suppose I’ve never met your cousin?”

“Very unlikely. I’m sure you know of the tragedy. That fellow came to a sad end, I fear.”

Louisa had a good grace to look startled, and then uncomfortable. “I’m so sorry—I had forgotten. It must not be something you like to talk of, Mr. Eliot. A very unfortunate accident.”

He lounged against the back of a chair and smiled. “You needn’t turn pale with embarrassment, my girl. It was rather fortunate for me, as the world well knows. I never laid eyes on that part of the Meridon family. Considering how things turned out, I can’t say that I mourned them with any great passion.”

Like I wouldn’t mourn you, you bastard, Gryf thought, if I found the chance to commit murder.