The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (23 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

N
IGEL MUTTERED A
hasty apology to the ladies and, throwing Lydia a stare that said they’d not seen the last of each other, he left them staring after him. He could forget about ever getting into Almack’s again. Not that he cared.

Charging into Ophelia’s library, he gave the bell pull a savage yank. A footman rushed in. “Inform Miss Palin that the Marquis of Blackshire is waiting for her in the library.”

Nigel didn’t have to wait for long. Ophelia entered in a puffed mass of silver-spangled green. “You must have made quite a muck of it, my boy.” She handed him a folded sheet of paper. “She came running into the ballroom a moment ago and handed me this. I read it of course.”

Nigel opened the note. It was written in a hasty scrawl with no salutation and no signature, not even so much as an initial.

My answer is no. I will not marry you. Make no attempt to discover my identity. Ophelia will not tell you, and neither will Lydia.

“Where is she?!” Nigel snarled.

“She has gone,” Ophelia answered, studying him, “and, by this time, Lydia is with her.”

“Her real name is not Rose, is it?”

“No, and do not ask me what her real name is, for I will not say.”

“Will you tell me nothing that will help me to find her?”

Ophelia shook her head sadly. “No, my boy. I am sorry. This is her decision to make. You can lead a mare to water, but you cannot make her say ‘I do.’“

Nigel turned without another word and headed home to Berkeley Square, where he spent the next two hours pacing in his library. He did not want brandy. Neither did he seek his bed. Sleep would not come to him, he was certain. Not when he was fighting a sense of emptiness, a sense of loneliness so profound it made him ache.

What was wrong with him? He did not truly want to marry the fairy. Certainly, he’d journeyed to Palin House in the hope of meeting her, but he’d wanted only to rid himself of his unacceptable fascination with Kitty Davidson, which had got in the way of his investigation. He’d needed to restore balance to his mind.

Now he was more off-kilter than ever.

The fairy’s touch had him reeling. Her power over him seemed almost magical. One kiss, and his desire for her had spun out of control. But that was not all the fascination she held for him. What he’d told her was true. She was clever and kind . . . and, by Jove, she truly wasn’t interested in his fortune.

Apparently, she wasn’t interested in Nigel, either.

She’d escaped. Her note to him made her feelings clear. The patronesses hadn’t seen her face. Her reputation was safe. He told himself he was glad. He told himself everything turned out the way it should have. She did not want him, and he could forget her now.

He made a fist and drove it into the chair.

THE NEXT EVENING, Kathryn’s hands shook as she waited for Blackshire to make an appearance. His town house burst at the seams with young people.

She had decided not to attend after all. This time she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from searching the topmost shelves of the library for Auntie’s diary. And if her search was fruitless, she’d bloody well walk right up to Lady Marchman, tell her the entire story, and beg for her help. She didn’t know if Lady Marchman would assist her—Aunt Ophelia was her oldest enemy, after all, no matter how well she regarded Kathryn!—but either way, there would be an end to this madness.

She was going mad.

At the last moment, however, she discovered that Blackshire had sent yet another gown, one made just for Jane’s ball. She almost didn’t take it out of its box, but in the end she couldn’t resist, and its beauty took her breath away.

It was a simple creation, really. Its many layers of whitest muslin were so light Kathryn hardly felt them brush and sway against her body as she moved. Seed pearls were scattered here and there. They nestled in the folds of the fabric like tiny white doves. Snowy gloves sheathed her slender arms and elegant satin slippers encased her feet. A white lace fan and a soft, matching lace shawl completed the ensemble. Jane had lent Kathryn ribbons and her ladies’ maid, who had fashioned Kathryn’s unruly hair into a fine crown of white satin and curls. Kathryn fingered the string of perfectly matched pearls at her throat. Oh, she had never dreamed of wearing such a treasure! She knew she looked lovely. She felt lovely.

She wanted him to see her dressed this way, just this once, even if he didn’t know it was she he’d proposed to last night. Even if he did not know she loved him. Even if she could not find the diary or if Lady Marchman refused to help her. Even if she had to fade into the obscurity of the country and never see him again.

She sighed and looked about her, trying not to dissolve into tears.

Kathryn could see little difference between Ophelia’s masquerade ball and Jane’s “little entertainment” but for the age of the participants—who were all under seven-and-ten—and the lack of costumes and masques.

“Is it not splendid?” Jane asked at Kathryn’s elbow. “I did not realize Nigel had gone to such trouble.” She indicated a shiny metal trough, festooned with garlands of flowers, which ran the length of one side of the ballroom. A miniature river where gold and silver fish swam amid waterfalls and islands of floating water lilies. “It’s said the Prince Regent is preparing a display like that for an occasion at Carlton House. Nigel beat him to it. I’ll wager Prinny will be furious!” She laughed.

The room glowed with the light of hundreds of candles. The scent of beeswax and the perfume of forced summer flowers wafted through the air, fencing with the cheerful sound of a small, yet charming orchestra. And amongst the young guests ran five puppies, creating a delightful melee of giggles and shrill barks. Washed and groomed, the little balls of sweet-smelling fluff were the darlings of the evening.

Kathryn gestured toward one of the puppies, which was diligently chewing, undiscovered, on an oblivious chaperon’s satin hem. “I thought you were to keep only one of them,” she said.

“You did not think Nigel would really banish them to Northumberland, did you?”

“Yes.” Truth to tell, before Lydia’s revelation, Kathryn had had visions of the puppies being thrown into an oubliette and forgotten.

“He is not so heartless as you imagine. In fact, Nigel has given orders for a little house to be built for them near the back door. I did not even ask him. He never had any intention of sending the little dears away.”

The puppies were helpless creatures, completely lacking in manners or usefulness, yet he had chosen to purchase them in the first place and then to keep them here in Town just to indulge Jane’s whim. It was a kindness. A gentleness. A goodness.

She looked through the open doors into the ballroom. The evening was almost over, and Kathryn had yet to glimpse Nigel. She ached with disappointment.

“Oh, botheration!” Jane said at her elbow. “Here comes George Princeton. Save me, dear friend. He is even more full of himself than his regal name implies, and he thinks it a great privilege for any young lady to dance with him. Let us be off! We shall pretend to be in deep conversation.” Jane looped her arm through Kathryn’s and steered her away from the cluster of chaperons, whose number included, at Lady Marchman’s insistence, Mary Gant. The two moved toward the open glass doors that stood at one end of the long ballroom. Kathryn’s nose twitched at the sight of the young peacock George, who stood staring after them with a sour look on his face. As soon as they had gained the terrace, both of them dissolved into laughter.

“Did you see his face?” Jane asked.

“Like he had tasted a sour pickle!”

Jane snorted. “A
rotten
sour pickle. Oh, poor George. I have been avoiding him all evening.”

Kathryn sobered. “Most of your friends have, Jane.”

“Not you, though,” Jane said. “I saw you dancing with him earlier. Why him? You have so favored only a few young gentlemen this night.”

“I felt sorry for him,” Kathryn said. “And besides . . . George is . . . not such an awful young man. He . . . he is quite good-looking, actually.” Their eyes met, and Kathryn tried to keep a straight face, but Jane’s incredulous look pulled from her a sudden explosion of giggles.

“Oh, Kitty! I do like you so very much. I am ever so glad we met. I’ve a feeling we shall be friends forever.”

Kathryn’s gaiety died. “I . . . am sure I shall never forget you either, Jane,” she said, knowing that after she fled London for Heathford, she’d never seen Jane again.

Jane laid a hand on her sleeve. “Kitty, I do not know what you are thinking, but do stop. This was meant to be a night of happiness and adventure. Beat back the blue-devils so you can enjoy the surprise I have in store for Nigel later on.”

“What surprise?”

Jane leaned close. “Today is his birthday. His thirtieth. He thinks no one knows, but I have circled word amongst the guests, and they are ready to toast his health.” She bit her lip. “If he ever makes an appearance.”

The marquis had disappeared soon after the guests arrived and had not been seen since. Kathryn had been late coming downstairs and had not seen him at all. “He is brooding, as he always does on his birthday, or so I have heard from the servants.”

“He does not seem the vain sort. Why dislike birthdays?”

Jane looked around to be certain they were alone and lowered her voice. “The servants say his mother died on his birthday. The poor darling was but five years old.” In hushed tones, Jane told Kathryn the rest of the story, about his father plummeting into a decline and virtually forgetting about his son from then on. “The servants say he blames himself—though of course he should not. How could a five-year-old be responsible for any of it?”

“Five years old,” Kathryn murmured, her heart filling with sadness and pity for the little boy Nigel had been as well as for the man he had become. “Poor Nigel!”

Jane sighed. “In years past, the servants have let him brood alone, but I shall not. He will come back downstairs before long. I will find you when he does. I do not wish to face the lion alone when he finds out what I have done.”

“Lady Jane,” a handsome boy with sparkling blue eyes said from a discreet distance, “may I have the pleasure of the next dance?” Jane squeezed Kathryn’s hand and walked off with the eager lad.

Not wishing to be similarly engaged, Kathryn slipped into the shadows at one end of the long terrace. Though she wanted very much to dance, the only partner she wished for was in mourning. She thought of him tenderly and lay her head against the cool stone of the outside wall of his magnificent house. Nigel had so much, but he was so poor.

Kathryn passed the time on the terrace restlessly. Sets formed, executed their figures, and reformed. The moon had risen high into the sky, and still the Marquis of Blackshire had not appeared.

Laughter spilled from the ballroom. A game of charades was under way. But Kathryn did not feel merry. It was late, and she was tired of avoiding young George Princeton and the queries of several other youngsters who entreated her to join their dancing sets or their games. So with a silent apology to Miss Gant, Kathryn finally slipped from the terrace and descended the curved stair to walk amongst the sleeping flowerbeds and tall hedges. The moon was nearly full, and its soft light illumined the carefully tended paths and boxy hedges, beckoning her deeper into the well-kept gardens. But she could not enjoy them. Plodding unhappily on, she pulled her delicate lace shawl closely about her. Attending Jane’s ball had been a mistake. It was like being allowed to gaze upon a gloriously laden table, knowing a meal was out of the question.

The air was chill, and a heavy fog was gathering. It was quite late. She thought of her parents and Ophelia and John and wondered what they were all doing just then. She wished she were with them. Anywhere but here. She looked up at the large house, where the windows of several upstairs rooms glowed with soft lamplight.
He
was up there, in one of those rooms, and Kathryn was uncertain if his proximity brought her more comfort, more fear, or more aching loneliness. Certainly, she was confused.

Her teeth chattered with the cold, but she was unwilling to go back to the ballroom.

As she rounded a corner, an enormous glasshouse appeared on her right and she walked to it, lured by the promise of warmth. Inside, the heat, the heavy scent of hothouse flowers, and the moonlight drugged her. Daffodils, delphiniums, hyacinths, lilies, carnations, roses. The blossoms glowed in the moonlight, and Kathryn walked amongst them inhaling deeply and trying to calm her insides. The glasshouse was a magical place, the perfect place to regain her balance.

As she bent to smell one particularly full white rose blossom, a voice behind her said, “You’re welcome to take one, if you wish.”

Kathryn stilled instantly.
Blackshire
. His voice, while deep and resonant, was nearly a whisper. It was all she could do not to run to him and throw herself into his arms and tell him exactly who she was. To tell him she loved him and to kiss him senseless.

So much for balance.

She willed her heart to slow. “There are so many varieties,” she said over her shoulder, “I could never decide.”

“You may have as many as you wish,” he told her.

She straightened, looked down, and fiddled with her fan. “I could not carry them all.”

“Then you may keep them here, and visit them whenever you wish.”

“I . . . I return home soon, and . . . and I do not think I shall be returning to London for a very long time. Perhaps never,” she added, a part of her hoping he would protest, but he did not.

He gestured about them. “Then you should have a glasshouse wherever you choose to live. When you marry, you must ask your husband to build one.”

Kathryn looked at him then, and her eyes widened. His black evening clothes were wrinkled and his hair needed combing. He had not shaved, and his snowy cravat hung limply over his neck, revealing a partially unbuttoned white shirt. She swallowed and dragged her eyes back to the flowers. Truth to tell, he appeared as though he had just crawled out of bed.

He looked wonderful.

“You look awful,” she told him.

One sardonic eyebrow rose. “Thank you.”