Revealed (27 page)

An hour after Totty returned to the salon, breathlessly reaching for her favorite “strong” tea and announcing the arrival of the Marquis of Broughton to the assembled ladies, causing no few looks to be thrown her way, the ladies joined the gentlemen in the main parlor (not to be confused with the second parlor, the blue parlor, any of the sitting rooms, or the ladies’ salon) to await the call to dine.

Tonight was only Friday; it was meant to be a quiet evening, with supper and cards and some small musical amusements, as the racing began very early the next morning. As such, it was an informal meal, men forgoing their silk knee breeches for plainer satin, and ladies only wearing their second-best diamond necklaces.

Phillippa entered the main parlor to her usual acclaim, immediately began searching the room for Marcus, and found him chatting in low tones with . . .

Could it be?

He had the dark hair, so black it shone blue. He had the pale countenance and the cane. But what was the man from the park that day doing with Marcus?

“Mrs. Benning,” Marcus said, as she floated toward them. “May I introduce my brother, Byrne.”

A twinge of shock flitted down her spine. “Your brother.”

“Yes,” the dark haired man, Marcus’s brother, replied. “I understand I have you to thank for the invitation.” He bowed sharply, leaning on his cane.

“You . . . you have me at some disadvantage, I’m afraid. When Mar—Mr. Worth told me his brother had expressed an interest in coming to the Racing Party, I assumed he meant Lord Worth and Mariah.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Byrne is my second eldest brother, ma’am. He—”

“He was in the park that morning,” Phillippa finished for him.

“You’ll have to excuse him for that; he’d come all the way from the country just that day. He . . . he . . .”

“. . . didn’t expect to see you with Marcus,” Byrne curtly finished for him, letting his eyes roam the rest of the room, as if he had better things to do than converse with her.

Phillippa felt her hackles rise. What did he mean by that? That she was not good enough to be seen with his brother or vice versa? Either was an insult, and neither suited her temper today. But luckily, at that moment, supper was announced, and since Broughton had not come down yet, Phillippa allowed Marcus to escort her into the dining room. His brother trailed behind, off in his own little world.

“Marcus,” Phillippa took the opportunity to whisper, “I have kept my eyes open for anyone new, and I have seen nothing. Of course, I have not been belowstairs . . .” She looked down briefly at his hand and placed hers in the crook of his arm. “This place is massive; he could be hiding anywhere,” she continued. “The stables, the hedge maze, the forecourt, the hunting box . . .”

“We—Byrne and I—will search tonight, once everyone’s asleep, but I doubt anything will occur before tomorrow.”

To Phillippa’s mind, Byrne could barely hold himself upright, let alone patrol, but she let it go.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because that’s when there will be the most commotion, and at the party, I’m assuming many people will be drinking and letting their guards down in that respect,” he whispered back, leaning his head down to her ear. She could feel his breath on her neck, stirring the soft tendrils that danced at its nape.

She looked behind her and caught Byrne’s eye, regarding them intently.

“Marcus,” she breathed, her heart pounding, “your brother Byrne. Can he be trusted?”

“Implicitly.” Marcus returned immediately, slightly affronted tones to his voice.

“What I mean is, does he know about”—she pitched her voice even lower, barely more than mouthing the words—“the Blue Raven?”

Marcus looked at her for a moment, his eye catching hers for the briefest of seconds. “Yes,” he replied, “he’s the only one who does.”

Dinner was a gay affair for those who had no worries beyond wagering on what horse would win the three-year-old race tomorrow or what frock would look best in the morning sunlight at the racing pavilion. But for the three at the table who had other worries, dinner was slow torture, a dance of controlled movements to keep one from going mad.

Phillippa, while her concerns were likely the largest, had the most controlled mask, used as she was to hiding her emotions in society. She had been seated across from Broughton, who deigned to arrive just in time for the first course. But his lateness was forgiven as fashionable as soon as he flashed his smile at the hostess and turned his soulful eyes to Phillippa. He really did have very smooth manners, she thought to herself, as he folded his superior physique gracefully into his chair. A slow wink came to his eye, and in spite of her mind racing on other far more serious subjects, Phillippa could not help the smile that came to her lips. He was like a boy, she thought, all roguish charm and confidence. But while her dinner partner was all charm and smiles, her conversation faltered slightly, trying to categorize everyone around the table.

Mrs. Hurston, her turban, and Thomas Hurston, her son, both of whom would never have anything to do with foreign politics.

Lord and Lady Overton, who, if memory served, lived in Greece for two years some time ago; could they have sympathizer leanings?

The Quayles, the Finches, Lord and Lady Huffington, who had brought their friend Mr. Crawley, Lord Sterling and Penny, along with the Dunninghams, the Clovers . . . all of them people she was acquainted with, people she could not suspect!

Unfortunately, as Marcus was seated as far from her as mathematically possible, there was no one with whom she could share her concerns, and therefore, her discomposure did not go unnoticed.

“Mrs. Benning?” Broughton whispered from across the table. “Are you quite well?”

“Hm? Oh, my lord, of course I’m well. I simply was trying to recall . . . what the name of that particular tie you’re wearing is called.”

“This?” he lazily fingered his cravat and its multitude of knots, meant to look haphazard, but actually quite complicated. “It’s called the Dove’s Feather. See how it folds like the vanes of a feather? I invented it.”

“Well that’s very smart of you.” She smiled at him, letting a little heat into her gaze. “But what if your cravat is not white? What if your necktie is blue, or orange, or black?”

He smiled back at her, the heat in his gaze matching her own. “Well, if its blue, we shall call it the Bluebird. If it is orange, the Oriole.” She wrinkled her nose at that, causing him to laugh. “And if it is black, the Crow.”

“Oh no, not the Crow!” Nora spoke from two seats down. “Call it the Raven. It’s far more romantic.”

Broughton shot a smile to Nora, declaring, “For you, Miss De Regis, the Raven it is. But I warn you, I hold the patent. No one will ever know the secret to the Raven.”

Phillippa couldn’t help it; she shot a look down the table, finding Marcus’s gaze on hers.

No, no one ever would know the secret to the Raven.

Except her, she thought with a warm thrill.

Until the Benning Ball, that is.
The moment that thought crossed her mind, that warmth left her. She was to reveal the secret of the Blue Raven; it was going to be her shining moment; her history would be written.

So why did the thought no longer excite her mind the way it once did?

Her face must have reflected her unusual apprehension, because Marcus suddenly gave a small quirk of his brow, concern shadowing his features. Immediately, Phillippa put her smile back on and refused to think in such a melancholy fashion. Really, it likely did her features no good to be caught thinking.

And as such, she turned her attention back to Broughton and to the comfort of frivolity.

Upon exiting the dining room, leaving the men to their port, the women repaired again to the main parlor, leaving Phillippa in a quandary. She knew what Broughton was expecting of her. He had been sending her heated looks and pointed conversation all evening. His eyes had followed her form like a lion hunting its prey as she exited the room. However, her heart, which should not have entered into the equation, was suddenly forestalling her assignation with Broughton. It was not her emotions, she told herself; it was some other small feeling entirely: if Marcus and Byrne were going to search the premises that evening, she’d be damned if she was going to let them go alone.

So she needed some excuse to retire early—and alone. Illness was the easiest, and the one with a foundation already laid.

For the next twenty minutes, Phillippa acted unfocused, fractured. And it had not gone unnoticed that she had been discomfited at dinner.

“Darling, are you quite well?” Totty asked, her gaze suspicious over the rim of her glass.

Lady Hampshire had decided that there would be some music that evening, and until the gentlemen emerged from their masculine conversation, she allowed the younger ladies to practice their pianoforte and vocal exercises in the drawing room. Therefore, Totty had to raise her voice a bit above normal to be heard. And Phillippa had to raise her voice back.

“Totty, I’m afraid I’ve a bit of a headache—” she began, interrupted by Totty’s nodding.

“God, yes, terribly loud in here. Can’t understand anyone with the caterwauling going on.” Unfortunately, just before Totty said “caterwauling,” the cacophony came to an abrupt halt, causing no small amount of embarrassment for Totty, and Miss Louisa Dunningham and Miss Penny Sterling, who were the creators of the noise, and, of course, everyone in between.

Phillippa caught a slight smirk from Nora, as Louisa and Penny began to awkwardly pack up their music. With a disapproving frown at Nora, Phillippa said, a bit lower now, although their conversation became the focus of everyone, “No, it isn’t that. In fact, I found the music rather lovely, soothing in its way. No, I’m afraid, the, ah, travel from this morning has finally worn me out. I’ll take my leave.”

Penny and Louisa, after letting out visible sighs of relief, returned to their music. And Phillippa, assisted by Totty and Nora, excused themselves from the room.

“Phillippa, how could you!” Nora exclaimed as soon as they were out in the hall. “There’s nothing as dreadfully dull as a debutante bent on musical display; you told me so yourself!”

“Quite right, Nora,” Phillippa said patiently, “and if it had been anyone other than Louisa Dunningham, I would have let it be, but truth be told, she is a very accomplished soprano.”

“Well,” Nora, hemmed, knowing fully of Phillippa’s rightness but unwilling to admit to it.

“I should hate to ruin her confidence on that score, don’t you agree, Totty?” Phillippa asked, turning to her astonished companion.

“I . . . I suppose.”

“But you’re off to bed; I’m the one that will have to listen to her!” Nora wailed.

“Nora, not everyone has the advantage of your beauty and talents,” Phillippa said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “Louisa Dunningham needs all the accomplishments she can muster to catch a husband.”

Nora, satisfied with that explanation and the compliments to herself, returned to her smiling, mischievous countenance. “Oh well, I suppose I can stand Louisa and Penny for another hour or so.”

“Excellent. Now, before you return to your mother, I must ask something of you: Keep Broughton engaged this evening. He will be most disappointed when he discovers I’ve retired.”

But Nora looked at her queerly. “Phillippa, do you honestly think Broughton will remain downstairs with the likes of Louisa and Penny when he know you’re upstairs waiting for him?”

Phillippa blinked at her friend. “Waiting for him? I’m not, I will not—”

But Nora silenced her with a twinkling eye and a shake of her head. “Oh, Phillippa, everyone knows that your excuse to leave was just an excuse. I’ll bet you a shilling the Marquis of Broughton does not wait ten minutes to come and knock on your door.”

And with that and a knowing smile (although, really, when did Nora De Regis become so worldly as to portray knowing smiles?) Nora turned and flounced back to the drawing room, a giggle escaping her as she disappeared from sight.