Revealed (18 page)

Upon seeing Totty in the hall, Phillippa latched onto her with great verve and made that good lady accompany them down the length of the floor to a second set of stairs. A knowing look from Phillippa to Marcus told him what she was doing. If anyone should happen upon them, at least now Mrs. Tottendale would be with them, and things would not look improper. But they could not go down the main staircase, as Mrs. Tottendale had just come up it, and if anyone were watching, they would know that Totty had just joined Phillippa and Marcus, not that she had been with them any length of time.

Social subterfuge was an exausting business.

Marcus led the two ladies down the stairs and into what he knew was the Lord Whitford’s gallery. Not of paintings—no, it would be too simple for anyone to have a room used to its intended purpose—but filled with rifles, pistols, lances, spears, bayonets, and swords. Lord Whitford was an enthusiastic devotee of all things weaponry. So much so, that he had made a small fortune outfitting soldiers during the war with weapons of his own design. But Lord Whitford was not an arms dealer—oh no—he’d tell anyone who would listen he considered himself an artist and a collector. Given Marcus’s dislike of firearms, he nearly groaned when he saw the man himself giving just such a lecture to a small group of patient listeners at the other end of the long hall.

“And this is the oldest matchlock rifle in my collection. As you see, it has a spring loading feature, here. It comes from China, fifteenth century, at least. Ah, Mrs. Benning, Mrs. Tottendale, Mr. Worth! Have you been enjoying the festivities?”

Lord Whitford was a jovial fellow, a little shorter than average, so perhaps he thought having a gun at the ready made up for any height deficiency. He looked up at Marcus as one would size up an opponent but then let his mustached face split into a grin, since obviously, Marcus Worth had never posed a threat to anybody.

Whitford made his way over to Phillippa and Marcus, and the little group that had been held captive by his conversation took the opportunity to float away in pairs to different objets d’art in the long gallery.

“We’re enjoying the banquet very much,” Phillippa replied with that innate smoothness that never faltered for her. “I simply cannot wait to taste Marcel’s accomplishments this year!”

“Er, yes,” Marcus added, when he felt Phillippa tug ever so discreetly on his arm. “We’ve been admiring your collection while we . . . build up an appetite.”

Whitford’s round and shiny face burst into a grin of unfathomable delight. “It is the most marvelous private collection of weaponry in England, the curator of the British Museum told me so, when he came by to beg to display it. I couldn’t have that, of course, not while I’m alive at least; I enjoy it too much. And everything has a history attached to it, and I’m the only one who knows them all. What would I do if it were all at the British Museum? Go over and give tours there?”

Whitford guffawed on this last, forcing Phillippa and Marcus into placid smiles and placating noises.

“These look too new to have a history,” Totty said from her position across the gallery. She was peering through her monocle down at a glass box on a polished table. Whitford, Phillippa, and Marcus made their way over to her. “What story do they tell?” she asked as Lord Whitford, whose eyes lit up as he regarded what she was looking at: a pair of silver pistols, beautifully scrolled, lain on a bed of richly colored velvet.

“Ah,” Lord Whitford said, gently easing open the lid of the glass box. “These I purchased just last year from a broker who swears on his own grave the story I’m about to tell you. These pistols—beautiful work, I could only wish I designed them myself—were the property of none other than the Blue Raven.”

A sudden hush descended on the great hall. Those couples that were strolling idly started to drift toward Lord Whitford. Phillippa had gone entirely still, her hand resting on Marcus’s arm with no weight whatsoever, while Marcus did all that he could to keep his breath steady and his face schooled into only mild interest.

Totty, however, due to an unknown number of glasses of champagne consumed, was unaware of the currents around her.

“The Blue Raven? The spy? I always figured the
Times
made him up, to make the war a better read.”

“I thought that, too,” Mrs. Frederick whispered to her daughter, who replied with a gasp.

“Mother, of course he exists! Oh, he’s so
heroic
, so handsome—”

“So you know he’s handsome, do you?” Mr. Cuthbert spoke up from their left. “You’ve seen the Blue Raven with your own eyes?”

“Well, no . . .” Miss Frederick was forced to admit, as everyone else in the now good-sized group began to murmur their opinions about the Blue Raven’s existence, level of beauty, and acts of derring-do.

“I heard he works as Wellington’s secret bodyguard—”

“He’s gorgeous, has blond hair and eyes that could pierce the soul!”

“But he died, didn’t he?”

“I was told by an army colonel that the Blue Raven is stationed on St. Helena, just to make certain Boney doesn’t escape again . . .”

All the while, Marcus could only quirk his eyebrow and chance a surreptitious look down at Phillippa, who had apparently discovered a small embellishment on her gown that was suddenly very interesting, while she fought to keep her shoulders from jumping with laughter.

“Well, Mother,” Miss Frederick asked smartly, “if he doesn’t exist, then where did the pistols come from?”

All eyes turned back to Lord Whitford, who cleared his throat expectantly, obviously relishing the chance to finally tell his story.

“Legend has it,” he began, for it seemed the Blue Raven had transcended the stuff of rumor, “that these pistols originally belonged to a French aristocrat who, instead of fleeing when the guillotine became populated by his brethren, was certain that no harm would befall him. And when harm did befall him, he hid his young children with a baker in the city, with only these pistols to protect themselves, and if it became necessary, to sell for food. Well, the oldest son refused to sell the pistols, and when Napoleon came into power, he put the pistols to use serving the French cause. He had been in hiding most of his life, and used the skills he acquired then to his chosen profession, that of subterfuge. His name was—”

“Laurent!” Miss Frederick piped up, unable to hold her tongue in the excitement of the story.

“Yes,” Whitford agreed, a sharp warning eye on Miss Frederick to keep her interruptions limited. “The Comte de Laurent, who, as the papers have told us, was raised by the baker and therefore in league with the peasants’ cause, but knew he was an aristocrat and felt himself far above anyone else. He was a trickster, a sneak, bloodthirsty and mean.”

Some ladies shuddered at this, but everyone was riveted. Whitford continued.

“One day, and no one really knows how, the Blue Raven, who had heard of Laurent’s reputation, happened upon him down a dark alley. He saw Laurent murder a man who was discovered to be a fellow English spy and chased that treacherous Frenchman back through the maze of narrow streets in Paris. He lost Laurent, but in the chase, Laurent had lost one of these pistols. The Blue Raven took it and swore to end Laurent with it.

“But from that moment on, Laurent also swore to destroy the man who had stolen his father’s pistol. And so, Laurent became the archenemy of the Blue Raven and vice versa. They tracked and plotted against each other, until one fateful day, they faced each other—and the fact that both these pistols are on English soil can be taken as proof of who won.”

Lord Whitford finished his story to a round of enthusiastic applause. The crowd, which had been a good number of people originally, had grown to be rather substantial. Suddenly, a bell chimed throughout the house, marking the half hour.

“Goodness, half past eleven already? Ladies and gentlemen, I must make my way to the banquet hall to prepare for the feast. You have pleased me greatly with your attentiveness. But now, please my wife and my chef by working up your appetites on the ballroom floor.”

A smattering of chuckles followed that remark, as the group disbanded and headed for the ballroom. Marcus and Phillippa, however, held for a moment, utterly still. Marcus’s attention was locked on those pistols. Perfect scrolling carved into the handles and barrels, polished to an unearthly shine. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, until Phillippa gave his arm a delicate tug.

He looked up and around. The great gallery was empty. Even Totty had wandered away, conversing with Mrs. Frederick as they slipped through the doors that led to the gathered throng of beautiful people having fun.

Then he looked down into Phillippa Benning’s blue eyes. Strange. Sonnets had been composed about her blue eyes, but from here, he could see bits of green. He wondered briefly if any of those poets had ever stood this close. Amazingly, in those blue green eyes, Marcus could also see calm. For all her tempestuous activity, there was calm in those eyes.

“Come along,” she said. “You have to dance with me, remember?”

It wasn’t the waltz, more’s the pity, as Phillippa was just bursting with information and questions for Marcus, and the waltz would allow them some level of conversational privacy in which she could relay them. No, it was a maggot, a dance to an almost fuguelike tune that, to Phillippa, had always sounded melancholy and yearning at the same time. In this particular version, by a Mr. Beveridge, the violins rose and fell as the dancers came together, broke apart, rounded, and came together again. The cello provided the dignity but also that low thrumming that felt like a pulse of desire.

Marcus and Phillippa took their places in line across from each other. The music began. Until their cue, they simply stared at each other, lost for a moment to the rest of the world. Then they moved.

Totty had been right, Phillippa thought, as he took her hand in his and executed a turn. He does acquit himself well enough on the floor. More than well enough.

Certain that she should say something eventually, Phillippa decided it best to remark upon the decorations.

“Lady Whitford is rather fond of her country.” She spoke, her voice markedly graver, not as smooth and melodious as she was accustomed to.

“Yes,” Marcus replied sardonically, “that much is evident.”

Thematically, the entire ballroom—indeed, the entire house—had been done up like one great big Union Jack. Boughs of Roses were of the purest reds and white, with rich blue velvet tying the boughs together. The British flag hung from various points on the walls in between the garlands and portraits of the King, the Prince Regent, the Duke of Wellington, and Admiral Lord Nelson, who looked remarkably well for a man without an eye and an arm.

“Lady Whitford has hung those portraits every year in the hopes that one or all will attend the festivities.”

“She does realize that Admiral Lord Nelson is unavailable as he’s dead, and the King as he’s . . . at less than full capacity?”

A smile danced over Phillippa’s mouth as he took her hand in his, and they executed their steps. “I’m certain she is aware of the King’s illness and Lord Nelson’s permanent lack of a pulse. But from what Thomas Hurston was told by his mother, who happens to be very good friends with Mrs. Markham, who is Lady Whitford’s sister-in-law, Lady Whitford didn’t want to seem as if she were only honoring Wellington and the Prince Regent in the hopes they’d attend, and so put up the portraits of our country’s other leaders who could not possibly attend. You see?”

Marcus looked at her askance for a moment and then tentatively nodded as he released her hand and went by once more.

“Good. Now obviously, Wellington was unavailable until this year, but the Prince Regent popped in three years ago, and since Lord Whitford was such a supporter of the war effort—”

“To his own financial gain,” Marcus commented, recalling how Whitford’s own rifle and pistol designs had been prevalent among soldiers.

“Since he was such a supporter of the war effort, and he and Wellington belong to the same club, it’s possible that this year her hopes will not be in vain.”

He took her hand again, and she held on through the turn.

“Possible but not probable,” Marcus replied, “as it’s almost midnight, and that’s when the feast begins.”

“Yes,” Phillippa agreed, and unable to come up with any more to say without the benefit of privacy, she let silence fall as they continued the dance.

It was the oddest thing, but Phillippa was beginning to think there was something wrong with her hands. Whenever Marcus took her hand in his as they stepped through the turns, she felt it.

Which is ridiculous, because of course she felt it, she did have a sense of touch that would tell her whether or not someone had taken her hand. But it was stronger than that. It was as if her hand, without consulting her own thoughts, was especially attuned to being held in the hand of Mr. Marcus Worth. And as such, whenever he released her hand, it felt the lack of his.