On a Wild Night (42 page)

“Good. We'll have Jules, my henchman, take a look at the wound. He has tried-and-true remedies for all injuries.”

Amanda slipped her arm supportively through Reggie's
and turned him to the house. “Presumably Jules knows how to make tea.”

Later, when Jules had redressed Reggie's wound after announcing it was healing well, then supplied them with a sustaining if somewhat exotic dinner, they took refuge in the library and settled to plan.

On the drive down they'd agreed that the one other person they needed to involve was Luc Ashford. Martin wrote a note and sent it off to Ashford House, then they turned their minds to more immediate concerns.

“Reggie can stay here, which will keep him out of sight and also mean there's always one of us here—at the center of operations, so to speak.”

Reggie had been wandering the room, looking at this and that; he considered, then nodded. “Everyone will know I left with Amanda.” He looked at her, curled up in one corner of the fantastically draped daybed. “If you say I went to visit friends in the north, no one will expect to see me.”

“Except your mother,” Amanda reminded him, “who won't believe me. And I don't think you'll want me to tell her you've a hole in your head.”

Reggie blanched. “Good God, no! I'll write a note. Tell her I'm going to see those friends. She'll accept that.”

Martin looked at Amanda. “I'll take you home later tonight. Will your father have returned from his trip?”

She counted, then nodded. “But why do you want him?”

“Because he needs to know the truth.” When she frowned, he raised his brows. “I'm going to marry you, and I haven't even spoken to him yet.”

She knew better than to argue, but made a mental note to be present at any discussion between her sire—a Cynster born and bred—and her soon-to-be husband, another rigidly protective male. She had no wish to find herself somehow excluded from the pending excitement.

Martin made three copies of their list of suspects. He was blotting the last when the front doorbell pealed. Picking up the lists, he rose, crossed to the daybed and handed a copy to Amanda; Reggie came up and took another.

The door opened; Jules stepped in. “Viscount Calverton,” he intoned in his heavily accented English.

Luc walked in, his gaze swiftly roving the room before coming to rest on them, gathered before the hearth. Jules stepped back and quietly shut the door. Luc blinked, surprised to see Amanda and Reggie—even more surprised as he took in the bandage swathing Reggie's head.

“Good God! What happened to you?”

Reggie frowned. “Some relative of yours shot me.”

“What?”
Luc glanced at Martin; reserve infused his expression. “I received your . . . summons, Dexter.” He gestured. “So here I am.”

Martin grimaced, and waved him to the chaise. “My apologies for the phrasing—I needed you here.”

Luc's brows rose. When Martin said no more, he came forward and sat, effortlessly graceful as ever, opposite Amanda. He shot her a hard, considering glance, then looked at Martin. “Why?”

Martin met his gaze. “I've just returned from Hathersage.”

Concisely, Martin related all they'd learned. Luc listened, his concentration absolute. He didn't interrupt; Martin seemed to anticipate his questions, digressing here and there to fill in details. He ended his recitation at the point where he'd discovered his parents had realized the truth, and tried without success to find him. He concluded with his resolution to discover which of their joint relatives had committed the dastardly deed.

Martin fell silent, waited. Luc dragged in a huge breath. “My apologies. I should have known better, but . . . at the time, I honestly didn't know what to think.”

Martin's lips lifted wrily. “As it happens, I can say the same to you.”

Luc thought, then stared. “You thought
I
did it?”

“Well, I knew I hadn't. And I didn't know until yesterday that Sarah had been forced. If not me, then the most likely to have swept her off her feet was you.”

Luc pulled a face. “I thought of her as you did—like a younger sister. To do that . . . it would be like casting covetous eyes on Emily or Anne.” He shuddered.

“Quite.” Martin sat on the daybed, stretching one arm along its back so his fingertips touched Amanda's frothing curls. He set the remaining two copies of their list on his knee, gestured to them. “We've made a start at defining the field—the murderer, presumably also Sarah's defiler and Reggie's attacker, must be one of these men.”

He explained about his father's ledger; Luc remembered it. Taking one list, Luc scanned the names. “It can't be Giles or Cameron.” He glanced at Martin. “I'd stopped at the Millikens' near Derby, so I reached Hathersage mid-morning. I didn't make it to the house. As I was crossing the yard, Giles and Cameron came out carting guns and a hamper; they challenged me to join them and I did. I was with them all day. We didn't get back until dusk.” He grimaced. “When the commotion was over and the decisions made. We were told not to attempt to speak with you. They took you away an hour later.”

His face impassive, Martin nodded, and considered the list. “That leaves nine.”

Luc rescanned the list. “All were at the house when we got back that day.” He glanced at Martin. “It's not going to be easy checking where people were, who remembers what, ten years after the fact.”

“True, but we have something more recent to check. Who was on the Great North Road three nights ago?”

Luc looked at Reggie, perched on an ottoman. “They actually shot you?”

Reggie looked at him. “Would you like to see the furrow in my skull?”

Luc winced. “I'll take your word for it.” He looked at Martin. “But why?”

“My guess is that he assumed
I
would be the man in the coach. Amanda and I were back down the road, before the curve before the turn-off, discussing matters. Reggie took the coach around the bend, intending to halt and wait for us. When the coach slowed, the murderer no doubt assumed it was turning for Hathersage. You know the place—it's an ideal ambush.”

Luc nodded. He looked down at the list.

Amanda steeled herself to insist that Edward's name remain on the list, but instead of arguing that point, Luc nodded again. “Right. I can check these names more easily than you. I'll have to ask Mama”—he held up his hand to stay their protests—“
without
telling her, to get the directions of Oliver and Bruce, who I haven't seen in years. I should be able to run most of them to earth at their clubs.”

Martin nodded. “If we can place people at a ball or any public function three nights ago, we can cross them off the list.”

“You're sure it's the same man—the murderer and the man who shot Reggie?”

“For the sake of the family, I sincerely hope so.” When Luc looked his question, Martin explained, “We have witnesses who'll swear they both ‘looked just like me.' “

Luc eyed Martin's face, then grimaced. “I'll start tonight.” He rose.

Martin rose, too. “Reggie's staying here, out of sight. Whoever he is, if the murderer isn't already wondering if it really was me he shot, he'll certainly be wondering who he hit once I reappear.”

“And when will that be?” Luc asked.

“At the Duchess of St. Ives' ball.” Amanda smiled as Martin turned to her. “Tomorrow night.”

 

“Well, my dear.” Her father shut the drawing room door having seen Martin out. “I thoroughly approve of your choice.”

He smiled as he crossed to stand before the fire, his eyes touching Louise's as he passed her, reclining on the chaise a book forgotten on her lap.

“There is the scandal to be dealt with but, overall, my verdict concurs with Devil's.” Taking up his stance, Arthur smiled fondly down at Amanda. “It'll be an excellent match, and Dexter's precisely the sort of gentleman we would have hoped to be welcoming into the family.”

Amanda exchanged a glance with her mother. Louise smiled, and rescued her book. “Amanda has suggested Honoria's dinner and ball tomorrow night as the most suitable time to declare the family's stance—by demonstration
rather than proclamation, in the circumstances—and with that, I concur. And so will Honoria and Helena, I'm sure.”

“I feel confident I can leave Dexter's social ressurrection safely in your delicate hands.” The twinkle in Arthur's eye was for them both. He continued to hold Amanda's gaze, his own rich with affection, but also, she realized, with shrewd assessment.

“I'm convinced, from all Devil and your cousins have reported, that the old scandal will prove to have been a dreadful mistake, and Dexter will emerge blameless. His character from the time he left England to the present . . . impossible to hide such a flaw for so long, especially under such challenging circumstances as those he has faced. From all you and he have now told me, it seems his plans to resolve the issue are well advanced.”

Arthur paused; she found herself trapped in his blue gaze. “Which brings us to the matter of the real culprit, who, judging by poor Reggie's head, remains dangerous. While I have no qualms whatever for your safety while in Dexter's company, you will please me, for the time you still remain in my charge, by taking all due care when you are not under his protection.”

There'd been a subtle change in her father's tone; he rarely laid down the law, but when he did speak in such fashion, Amanda knew better than to argue. “I will—I promise.” She glanced at Louise, who, one brow arched, was looking at her spouse.

“Is there truly any danger?”

Arthur met her gaze. “Dexter believes the potential exists, and he isn't the sort to jump at shadows.”

 

It was the perfect setting in which to effect a grand entrance—a grandiloquent gesture to capture the attention of the frenetic ton. The details were discussed and debated over the dinner that preceded Honoria's ball; the support of the ton's most influential hostesses—all of whom were present—was therefore engaged and assured from the start.

All agreed that Martin should make his bow with Amanda on his arm only once most of the ball guests had arrived.
When the moment came, Webster announced, first, Mr. Spencer Cynster and his wife Patience, escorting Lady Osbaldestone—who'd insisted on being part of the fun—and the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

That was enough to have people glancing toward the entrance, primed to hear the announcement of the next arrivals—Lord Martin Fulbridge, Earl of Dexter, accompanied by Miss Amanda Cynster.

Eyes widened, lips parted in momentary surprise, superseded by rabid speculation as the assembled host watched Martin, tall, starkly handsome, leonine mane winking golden in the chandeliers' light, bow before Honoria, then shake hands with Devil, all with Amanda at his side. The whispers had started even before they'd turned, side by side, Amanda's hand on Martin's sleeve, to descend the stairs in the Dowager's and Lady Osbaldestone's wake.

The ton was wide awake to the implications; everyone watching read the message with ease. When the next guests announced proved to be Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that an alliance had been sealed between two major aristocratic houses, and a formal announcement would be made in due course.

Formal announcements were never so much fun as being privy to such news ahead of others.

“I should think”—Lady Osbaldestone directed an evil grin at Martin as he and Amanda joined them in the ballroom—“that your impending nuptials will be the principal item of interest at every gathering tomorrow.”

Martin raised a nonchalant brow.

“Tomorrow?” Arthur, with Louise, joined the group, his gaze raking the frantically chattering hordes. “I'll wager the news will reach half the ton before they find their beds tonight.”

“No point wagering,” Vane replied. “You'll never get anyone to take you on.”

The three men exchanged long-suffering glances; their ladies had already turned to greet others, all dying to learn details of this most intriguing affair.

Amanda chatted, smiled, played her role of serenely confident
countess-to-be to the hilt, all the while guarding against those sly, probing questions that sought to define just where she and Martin had first met, just how she had come to know him, when he had proposed. With her mother on one side and her aunt Helena on the other, she encountered little difficulty maintaining the facade necessary to achieve tonnish acceptance.

Sharp-eyed matrons and shrewd observers departed, if not deceived, then satisfied that the proposed union was secure, stamped with the Cynsters' and others' unconditional approval, and all was as it should be.

A “suitable and felicitous match” was the ton's overwhelming verdict.

As the notes of the first waltz floated over the crowd, Amanda turned. Surrounded by their ladies chatting animatedly, Martin, her father, Devil and Vane stood in a group, tall, broad shouldered, arrogantly handsome, exchanging cynical comments—and keeping watch. Devil's gaze rested on Honoria; Vane's gaze flicked again and again to Patience. In her father, it was the habit of a lifetime. As for Martin, he caught her gaze, then took the step that closed the distance between them.

He smiled charmingly at the ladies with whom she'd been chatting, then his gaze returned to her face, “My dance, I believe.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

He took her hand and led her to the dance floor; she went into his arms and he whirled her away. Into the dance. Into their future.

Others held back, watching, then Louise and Arthur joined them, then Devil and Honoria, and Vane and Patience, then other couples stepped in and swelled the ranks.

“So far, so good.” Martin looked down into her smiling face and felt equally smug. “I'd forgotten how such things were done.”