Revealed (26 page)

“Marcus,” Byrne ventured, his hesitation marking his fear of what he was about to say. “If Laurent is still alive—and I’m not saying he is—but if he’s still alive, you’ve been wrong twice.”

L
ORD and Lady Hampshire, oddly enough, did not reside in Hampshire.

Their family seat was near Waltham Abbey, in Essex, a comfortable drive from the hustle and bustle of London. They kept a lovely house in town, of course, as Lord Hampshire was active in the House of Lords, but he enjoyed his weekends at Hampshire House, where he had converted a run-down tenant farm into the foremost horse breeding program in the country, the largest outside of Newmarket, Britain’s racing hub. Indeed, Lord Hampshire enjoyed his weekends of leisure, spending time hauling hay, mucking stalls, pretending his only cares were the state of his stables and the breeding of his horses. However, upon Lord Hampshire’s marriage, he found his weekends considerably altered.

Lady Hampshire was, and always had been, a social creature. Her husband knew this before he married her but thought that her youthful vivacity would calm once she was settled with children.

It did not.

Lady Hampshire loved London, her friends, her life. However, she also loved her husband dearly, and he her, and the two grumbled profusely about sleeping without the soft snores of the other close by. Therefore, when Lord Hampshire went to Hampshire House in Waltham Abbey, his wife accompanied him.

And generally several of her closest friends accompanied her.

It began innocently enough. Lady Hampshire would tell her husband, earlier in the week, that she thought her friend Mrs. Such-and-Such could do with a spell in the country. “Her color, you see,” she would say, and Lord Hampshire would be so touched by his wife’s concern for her friend, he would offer that she accompany them to Hampshire House that weekend. But by the time the coach was rigged for the three-hour drive, four other friends had voiced their need for country air, and suddenly an entire entourage of coaches and servants were following the Hampshires out of town on Friday and back into town the following Monday.

This pattern repeated itself all throughout the Season until Lord Hampshire finally put his foot down. His weekend retreats had become a noisy traveling circus! His household was overturned weekly! His household store of jams and jellies was nearly depleted! His stables, which housed prizewinning breeding stock, horses commissioned by His Majesty’s cavalry, had become so confused by the preponderance of new people gadding about, they were skittish at the sounds of approaching carriage wheels! If his wife couldn’t bear to be without her friends for one weekend, then he would go to Hampshire House alone!

After a miserable weekend spent apart, Lord and Lady Hampshire struck a compromise. There would be peace back at Hampshire House, and she would be limited to inviting people to one weekend per Season.

But what a weekend it would be.

Combining their two great loves, horses and society, the Hampshires’ Racing Party began. Lady Hampshire narrowed down her closest hundred or so friends to invite to a weekend of sport, competition, and delights. It was just enough time to rejuvenate away from the dirt and grime of the city, but short enough so no one would be in danger of missing anything. Lord Hampshire, in turn, constructed a massive racing pavilion on their land, as grand as Ascot, with Palladian villas surrounding the track. Other private breeding farms were invited to try out their stock, but it was Lord Hampshire’s unequaled stables that tended to rule the day.

Soon enough the Hampshires’ Racing Party took on a sort of cachet as the pre-Newmarket racing event. There were no purses or prizes, but if your horse did well on Lord Hampshire’s track, its odds for taking the thousand guineas on the Rowley Mile improved greatly.

The house was flooded with visitors starting on Friday evening, with the races themselves occurring on Saturday from first light to sundown. At luncheon, some of the guests were invited to compete in their own races: three-legged, riding backwards, any foolishness that could be wagered on and laughed over. If some ladies or gentlemen were not as horse-mad as the Hampshires or many of their guests, they were not allowed to be bored—oh no. There was an unending array of daylight delights afforded them, from gossip to tea to croquet to bowling. Hampshire House was fronted by a small lake for those who enjoyed fishing, and a large hedge maze had been constructed in the rear, losing several young giggling maidens annually, who had to be rescued by their beaux.

But ’twas when Saturday night fell that the Hampshires’ Racing Party earned its fantastic reputation.

Fireworks were imported from the best warehouses in China designed to light the sky in equine shapes. Feasts of the local farmers’ rustic cuisine graced the table. There was dancing, of course, in a ballroom grander in scale than many people’s London residences. Three separate orchestras were hired to play, so there would be no end to the music or the night. And with literally a hundred places to hide in the house and on the grounds, merrymaking and mischief ensued in no small measure.

Which was one of the many things that worried Marcus.

He and Byrne pulled up in Graham’s carriage (Mariah would not hear of them riding out on horseback especially with Byrne’s injury) to the warm, redbrick manor, built among the neat, clean lines of Georgian architecture, just as the summer sun dipped below the horizon. They were already exhausted by the nearly hour-long wait it took for their carriage to reach the front of the line.

“This is madness,” Byrne grumbled under his breath, “we should have just snuck in as servants.”

“Your leg’s a dead giveaway,” Marcus countered diplomatically.

“I could handle walking without a cane for a few days . . .” Byrne argued.

“And then be required to walk with one for the rest of your life? You’re a bigger idiot than I took you for. Besides,” he continued before Byrne could snap back, “too many people here already know me.”

“Thanks to Mrs. Benning,” Byrne replied irritably, his frown replaced by a scowl.

“Does it go against your principles as a spy to walk in the front door?” Marcus asked. “Sometimes its best to hide in plain sight, you know.”

But Byrne simply deepened his black look as the carriage door was pulled open by a liveried footman. Byrne disembarked, leaning heavily on his cane, taking deep gulps of air into his skeletal frame.

It had been a year, Marcus thought. Physically, he should be whole by now.

Only one small trunk of clothes between them, it was quickly taken by another footman up into the house, as yet another footman directed their driver to the carriage house and stables.

“There must be five hundred people here, counting the staff,” Byrne surmised.

“Counting all the racers, their breeders, their jockeys, and the locals that will come to watch tomorrow, I’d put it closer to a thousand,” Marcus revised, as they stepped into the grand main foyer.

Hampshire House was a truly impressive structure, fluted marble columns flanking the entryway, leading into a rose marble hall, whose ceiling stretched to the second story. The cold stone surface of the walls was relieved only by a score of paintings, each depicting horses either grazing contentedly in the field or running like the wind. Horse-mad, indeed, Marcus thought, as he stepped closer to one particular painting that depicted two rather, er, amorous beasts in either a fight for their lives or a different kind of tussle altogether.

The grand staircase was the centerpiece of the room and currently occupied by no fewer than two dozen bodies, either carting luggage up the stairs or processing grandly down it. One of the downward procession, a lady of middle years with a wide smile, greeted Marcus upon spying him.

“Mr. Worth!” Lady Hampshire said in surprisingly calm tones. Amid the chaos that surrounded her, she was calm and collected, reveling in the bustle of her own creation.

Marcus turned and bowed smartly to their hostess. “Lady Hampshire. A pleasure. May I introduce my brother, Byrne?”

“Mr. Worth,” she said turning to Byrne, eyeing his pallor, “very pleased to meet you. I’ve been told you recently returned from the country.”

“Yes, only to find my brother heading for it. Thank you for accommodating me at such short notice.”

But their pleasantries were interrupted by the arrival of another carriage, with occupants far more prestigious than Marcus and his brother, causing Lady Hampshire to gracefully excuse herself to greet the newly arrived.

Turning toward the stairs, they began their ascent, only to be stopped by Mrs. Tottendale.

“Finally,” that good lady said. “I’ve been waiting for all this time; now I can go join everyone else in the parlor.”

“Waiting for us, ma’am?” Byrne inquired, his voice cold and sharp. Marcus could see that Byrne’s sense of danger had spiked upon being greeted thusly, his entire body tensing for fight or flight. He inserted himself in between his brother and Totty.

“Byrne, this is Mrs. Tottendale, companion to Mrs. Benning,” Marcus said calmly, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face.

“No, not you.” Totty said, by way of reply. “I’ve been sent to tell the girls when
that one
arrived.”

She flung a long, bony hand in the direction of the entryway, where Lady Hampshire and the Marquis of Broughton were laughing gaily over some flippant remark of his. Marcus’s eyes narrowed, as he felt his body tense in annoyance. The smarmy git, he thought. Too polished by half, he told himself, Phillippa would have nothing to do, nothing to work on with him.

“You’d think I was some sort of servant girl,” Totty continued, oblivious to the effect of her remarks, “seeing as how I was dispatched like a spy in the night, simply to report back to my betters.”

“Mrs. Tottendale,” Byrne replied, coming to the aid of his suddenly mute brother, “no one would ever dare mistake you for a servant.” He bowed over her hand.

“Hmph. Or a girl for that matter,” she finished for him, earning a clipped smile from Byrne. Totty turned to go, only to be called back by Marcus, who had calmed his pulse enough to speak.

“Mrs. Tottendale, would you be so good as to let Mrs. Benning know that we have arrived as well?”

“No need for that,” Totty replied. “She spied your carriage in the drive over a half hour ago.”

Indeed, Phillippa had spied the Worth family carriage as it turned into the drive. She had been able to do this because for the preceding three hours, she had done nothing but chatter with the ladies in the main salon, keeping up conversation while keeping her eyes glued to the large glazed windows and the slow inch of traffic up to the main doors.

It had not gone unnoticed.

“Phillippa, you simply must tear your gaze away from the windows,” Nora said, placing down her teacup. And then, loudly, for the benefit of the rest of the room, “The Marquis of Broughton will be here soon enough.”

Phillippa had to smother her surprise. Nora thought all this time she had been holding vigil for Broughton, and in truth she had nearly forgotten about him.

The rest of the ladies in the room sent up a wave of titters, causing Phillippa to blush. Luckily, she did this most becomingly. It was no secret that every day for the past week, Broughton had come to call at Phillippa’s house. He did this, of course, during calling hours and was never alone with her, but his marked attentiveness was noticed by the foremost gossips of the Ton.

Nora, now in a hush to her friend, whispered, “I sent Totty as a lookout; she’ll let us know when he arrives.” Then, handing a tray of biscuits to Phillippa, Nora shot her friend a smirk. “Lady Jane and her father are not set to arrive until tomorrow morning; you’ll have Broughton to yourself all evening.”

If this was meant to make Phillippa calmer, it did not have that effect. Phillippa might be persuaded of Broughton’s preference for her, if only she was not aware of the fact that every day this week, after he had finished calling on her, he repaired directly to call upon Lady Jane. As such, if she were to win against the lovely Lady Jane and secure him, Broughton might expect that tonight she make good on her innuendos.

But Phillippa’s mind was far more occupied with Marcus Worth and the danger that lurked here at this party. Oh, how could no one else see it?

The Whitford Banquet had been the talk of everywhere for a week now. Did no one fear a reprisal of the same calamity here at the Hampshires’ Racing Party? For her part, Phillippa wished for nothing more than to search Lady Hampshire’s rooms and discover the guest list, seeing if she could put together any suspicious persons with those who were at the Whitford Banquet.

As it was, she was simply keeping her eyes open, cataloguing every carriage that came up the drive, every face that met her eye.

But she only discovered people she already knew.

This changed almost immediately.