The Beloved One (39 page)

"Yes, you really
should
check the ballroom, Charles," he said, his own blue eyes twinkling.

Was there some damned conspiracy going on here?  Thanking them, Charles strode out of the parlour.  He should have just stayed in that hot and stifling ballroom then, and searched her out in the maid's area where common sense told him she would have been all along.  He headed toward the great double doors, which were respectfully opened by a bowing servant, stormed into the ballroom —

And stopped in his tracks.

No.  Yes. 
Good grief.
  It couldn't be . . .

"
Amy?
" he breathed.

Two dancers, caught up in the dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him down.

"Lord Charles!  I
beg
your pardon!"

But he never heard them.  He never saw them.  He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry.  She was a ravishing young woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to insignificance.

Charles's mouth went dry.  His heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe.

Another set of dancers collided with him, knocking him to his senses.  Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was partnering a grinning Nerissa.  "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?" quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past.  "You should've stuck around to see her announced, Charles.  Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting . . ."

Charles had heard enough.  But as he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more.

"Well, His Grace told
me
she's an heiress . . ."

"Not just an heiress, but a princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ."

". . . came here to offer her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ."

Charles clenched his fists. 
Lucien.
  No one else could have,
would
have, started and circulated such a preposterously crazy rumor!  What the hell was his brother trying to do, get Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life forever? 
This
was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned sure!

His jaw tight, he stormed across the dance floor toward Amy.  He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've sworn she didn't have.

She had not seen him yet, and as Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent, that it made him think of doing something totally irrational.

Such as calling Perry out for dancing with
his
woman.

Such as killing Lucien for whatever little game he was playing.

Such as making a spectacle of himself and claiming her for his own.

For once in his life, Charles didn't care what anyone thought of his behavior.  He marched straight up to Perry, tapped him on the shoulder, and jerked his thumb to indicate that Perry had better relinquish Amy to him.

Now
.

Perry, grinning, bowed and backed off.  At the same time, Amy turned her head and saw Charles, her face breaking into such an expression of joy that he was nearly undone. "Charles!" she cried, and he knew then that if they weren't in the middle of a crowded ballroom, with everyone staring at them, she would've thrown herself straight into his arms.  As it was, she stumbled such that he had to catch her and set her on her feet, a move that he managed to carry off such that she barely missed a step.  "Oh, Charles, I've been waiting all evening for you to arrive!  Where have you been?"

"Looking for you."  He stared at her.  "Amy, you look . . . ravishing," he said, and it was all he could do not to claim those smiling, carmine-rouged lips and kiss her senseless.

"For once in my life, I actually
feel
ravishing!  Oh, Charles — will you look at all these powdered heads, the jewels and silks and satins, everyone having such a good time!  Isn't it just wonderful?  Isn't this just the most magical place on earth?"

He swung her through the steps.  "Amy, I do not wish to spoil your enjoyment, but exactly
what
are you doing?"

"I'm dancing!" she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling as he led her through the steps.  "Oh, Charles, this is such
fun
!  Your brother was so kind to give me this night . . . I feel like Cinderella!"

"What?"

"Lucien!  He was so grateful for what I did for you back in America that he gave me this night, this gown, a new identity, and . . . and, even these diamonds at my ears!  Well, he didn't actually
give
them to me, I understand that they belonged to your grandmother but he said that only someone with my coloring would be able to carry them off. . . ."  She blushed.  "Charles, you don't think everyone's staring at me because I'm the only one here with unpowdered hair, do you?  Lucien said that I really should leave it natural, and —"

"No, Amy," he said tightly, realizing that everyone
was
staring at her, and it had nothing to do with her hair.

It was because she was the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room and one couldn't
help
but stare at her.

"Charles, are you angry?"

"Yes, Amy, I am angry, quietly furious, in fact, but not with you."

"Then with who?  Certainly, not Perry I hope, because he's now dancing with your sister — she has a
tendre
for him, you know."

"And where did you learn that word, Amy?"

"Oh, Nerissa taught it to me.  I understand it is quite the thing to know some French.  Oh, Charles, please don't be angry with Perry, he did nothing wrong —"

"It's not Perry I'm angry with, it's Lucien."  The dance ended.  "And by God, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

His gloved hand capturing hers, he all but dragged her back through the crush, uncaring that everyone in the room was staring at them, the men elbowing each other, the women's fans fluttering wildly.  He saw Andrew and the king, accompanied by three of his entourage, going out the double doors, no doubt heading upstairs for a private viewing of the flying contraption before the big event.  And there was Lucien, elegant in darkest-blue velvet, standing near the refreshment tables and conversing with his barrister friend Sir Roger Foxcote.  Slowly, as though he'd been expecting it all along, he turned his head to regard Charles's approach — and in that enigmatic black gaze, Charles saw a swift blaze of triumph before it was quickly veiled.

"Why, Charles.  How good of you to finally rejoin us," his brother drawled, taking a sip of sherry and watching Charles from above the rim of his crystal goblet.  "Everyone was wondering about you, you know.  Damned rude of you to hide from your own ball, no?"

Charles, bristling with anger, responded instantly to the challenge.  "I wasn't
hiding
, and I'll thank you to stop interfering in people's lives, especially Amy's!  How dare you lift her up only to throw her down, how dare you give her a taste of something she can never have again, only to toss her back into obscurity!  I don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand for you hurting her so, Lucien, by God I will not!"

Around them, people hushed.

Amy, standing in confusion beside Charles, went very still.

And Lucien raised his brows and pretended to straighten the ruffles at his sleeve.  But he could not hide the faint smirk that touched one corner of his mouth, and Charles suddenly understood how Gareth must have felt, all those times that Lucien had goaded and taunted and insulted him into wanting to pull back and place his fist in it.  Lucien was enjoying this.

And enjoying it immensely.

"My dear Charles," he murmured, placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing servant and turning a benign, infuriating little smile on his brother.  "Given the fact that you no longer possess even the courage to jump your horse over a hedgerow, I really don't think you should challenge me so.  It could be rather . . . hazardous to your health."

"Lucien," said Charles in a very cold voice.  "You have just insulted me one time too many.  If you weren't my brother, I'd call you out right here and now."

"Pointless, Charles.  You would only lose.  For that reason, I would never accept the challenge."  Dismissing Charles, he took Amy's hand and raised it to his lips.  "My dear Miss Leighton.  Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"I am, Your Grace.  This has been the most magical night of my life and —" she looked at Charles — "now that your brother's here, it just got a hundred times better."

"Have I misled you in any way, disappointed you in any form?"

"No, Your Grace.  I don't know what Lord Charles is so upset about."

"There.  You see, Charles?  There is no harm done.  If you truly cared about Miss Leighton, you wouldn't begrudge her the chance to enjoy herself — and perhaps make an advantageous match.  It's obvious that
you
don't have the courage to make an immediate offer for her, but I daresay there are many here tonight who would."

Charles's eyes narrowed; he had caught the wicked little gleam in Lucien's eyes, and suddenly, belatedly, he understood.

"You conniving wretch," he said, his eyes blazing as he began to see how neatly he'd been manipulated.

Lucien, knowing the game was up, only raised a brow and smiled.

"You set this all up to try and force my hand, didn't you?"

"Now, really, Charles.  What reason would I have to do that?"  He looked up as Gareth approached through the throngs.  "Why hello, Gareth.  Your brother here has just accused me of interfering in Amy's life.  Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculously absurd?"

Gareth's mouth dropped open; he was caught in the middle and he knew it.

Lucien straightened one glove.  "And here I was having
such
fun watching her enjoying herself.  Really, Charles, the look on your face when you first saw her in that gown was worth more than all the tea in China —"

Sudden screams reverberated throughout the room.

Turning, Charles saw it all.  A young serving maid, just setting a Christmas pudding soaked with flaming brandy onto the refreshment table, had turned to laugh at something one of the footmen had said — and in so doing, suddenly tripped.  The pudding flew from the tray and instantly both the girl's petticoats and the tablecloth were on fire.

Panicking, she leaped to her feet and ran, shrieking, for the door, where the flames caught the bunting that hung there and whooshed toward the ceiling.

"Help, somebody help me!"

The music crashed to a stop and people began to scream.

"Help,
help
!"

Charles, with Gareth right behind him, was already sprinting through the crush after her, shoving stunned dancers out of the way, grabbing up a tablecloth as he raced past and sending china crashing to the floor in his wake.  "Gareth!  Dump the punch, get the cloth off that other table and stamp on it!  And get everyone out!"

Chapter 29

The old authority was back in Charles's voice.

But even as Gareth saw his brother tumble the screaming maid to the floor and smother the flames consuming her skirts, even as he and Perry worked to put out the burning tablecloth, even as he saw Lucien calmly escorting the queen and her attendants outside, he knew it was too late.  The fire had already spread to the bunting, to the decorations, and to the heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes.

In moments, the room was on fire.

An exodus of people surged toward the door that led outside, some crying out to loved ones, some coughing, the musicians running past carrying violins, cellos, and other instruments.  A few loyal servants began pulling priceless art from the walls, but already Charles, with the sobbing young maid in his arms, was shouting orders.

"Leave them!  Get out of the room and onto the lawn!  Everyone get outside on the lawn and
stay there
!"

He carried the girl outside, relinquished her into the care of Nerissa and Amy, and, coughing from the smoke, grabbed Gareth's arm.  "Get a bucket brigade started!  Keep the area around the door wet until we get everyone out!"  Pressing his handkerchief to his face, he raced back into the ballroom.

The room was rapidly dimming.  Inside, the settee and chairs were on fire.  The screens that had been erected to give people a private place to talk were aflame.  Fire was racing up the walls, engulfing the paintings, roaring up the drapes.  Looking up, Charles saw thick black smoke gathering along the ceiling, banking back down, bringing a wave of intense heat with it that felt like a blast from an open oven.  He could no longer see the great chandelier above his head.

Eyes watering, the handkerchief pressed to his nose, he hurried around the room, dragging the last people out and shouting for Gareth, lost in smoke over by the door, to keep the bucket brigade going.  And now the heat was building, beginning to parch his face, to dry his eyes and the inside of his nose.  It was getting hard to breathe.  Impossible to see.

I've got to get out of here.

"Is anyone left in here?" he shouted at the top of his lungs.  He worked his way along the edges of the room, desperately searching among the chairs and remains of screens.  The fire was roaring now, trying to drown out his voice, the smoke stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth and throat.  "If anyone's left in here answer me!"

"Charles!  Come on out, I've got the last of them!"

Disoriented, coughing so hard he could barely draw breath, he sprinted toward the sound of his brother's voice.  Every breath was agony.  Black smoke was halfway back down the windows now, meeting ugly yellow-gray smoke coming back up.  And there was Gareth's hazy form, still directing the bucket brigade and keeping the exit door wet until Charles could come safely through.  He grabbed Charles's arm and hauled him roughly outside, slamming the door shut behind him and dragging him away from it and onto the cool grass.