The Trouble With Being a Duke (8 page)

Chapter 8

“W
here on earth have you been?” Louise hissed as she drew up next to Anthony with her husband following dutifully on her heels. With a quick glance in Miss Smith’s direction, Louise narrowed her eyes. “Honestly, I thought you’d changed, but that is clearly not the case, is it?” As much as her words hurt (more so because of the truth in them), Anthony had no intention of having that particular discussion right now and decided to remain silent instead, eliciting a disappointed shake of the head from his sister. “Just so you know, people have been asking about you.”

“What people?” Anthony asked blandly as he stopped a passing footman and began handing a glass of champagne to Miss Smith before giving one to his sister and Lord Huntley.

“The guests, you numbskull, or have you forgotten that you’re supposed to be in the process of hosting the grandest ball of the year, and with the fireworks about to begin—Mama had to make the announcement herself! She was absolutely frantic, and rightfully so.” Louise hit him on the arm, much like she’d done as a child whenever he’d annoyed her.

Anthony groaned and took a sip of his drink. He knew his absence from the ballroom had lasted too long and was unlikely to go unnoticed, especially not by his mother, who was counting on him for support. “I’d best try and find her,” he said, determined to make it up to her. This evening was mostly for her benefit after all—a means by which to help her recover from her loss. Taking Miss Smith’s arm and linking it with his own, he then stepped forward while his sister followed behind with her husband.

With two hundred people cramming together on the terrace, it took a while for Anthony to locate his mother—particularly since it turned out that she wasn’t on the terrace at all but on the lawn below with Winston, Sarah and Casper. There were a few other people milling about down there—especially in the vicinity of the pumpkin carriage. With Miss Smith beside him, Anthony made his descent, arriving at his mother’s side a moment later. “I hope you will forgive my tardiness, Mama, but I was otherwise detained and lost track of time.”

“Lost track of your sanity, I’d say,” Casper muttered, to which Winston elbowed him in the ribs.

“I had hoped that you were past this sort of thing, Anthony,” his mother said, glancing briefly at Miss Smith. “You know all eyes are upon you this evening. To sneak off with any young lady is not only uncouth but could also result in permanent damage to the young lady’s reputation. You must try to be more civilized—you have responsibilities now.”

As if he hadn’t known that. His mother’s words grated, for if anyone had undergone a change of character from one day to the next, it was surely he. Casper could attest to that, as could Winston, for they had both been shocked when he’d said good-bye to his three mistresses, though Winston had been more pleased about it than Casper. This seemed insignificant now however, considering how easily he’d allowed his newly adopted righteousness to slip this evening. “I realize that, Mama.”

“After all,” his mother continued with a note of despair, “the invitation did say midnight fireworks. I waited as long as I could for you to return, but the guests were getting restless and—”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Anthony said, and he meant it. She’d always had her husband at her side whenever she’d hosted such events. This was her first public appearance without him, and Anthony had thoughtlessly abandoned her in favor of kissing Miss Smith. He felt like an ass.

His mother sighed, shook her head a little and then smiled. “Considering your lovely toast, I do believe I’ll accept your apology. Thank you for that, by the way—I know it was difficult for you.”

Difficult?

Nightmarish was more like it. His hands had started to sweat, his cravat had felt tighter than a hangman’s noose, and he’d felt his heart beating closer to his knees than to his chest. Not to mention that the pressure of saying the right thing and
not
making a fool of himself in front of everyone had made him feel faint. In fact, he was quite certain he’d lost all sensation in his toes for the entire duration of the ordeal.

His thoughts were interrupted by a bright burst of color in the night sky as the first firework exploded with a popping sound. Glancing down at Miss Smith, he saw her eyes light up as she watched the display, and it filled him with deep satisfaction knowing that he’d contributed to this small moment of happiness for her.

“I used to watch this from my bedroom window as a child,” she said, her voice so low and dreamy that Anthony wondered if she was aware that she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

He held quiet, hoping that she might say more, but she didn’t, so he eventually whispered, “Your parents didn’t mind you staying up so late?”

She didn’t turn her head to look at him, but he could see that she was smiling. “They didn’t know,” Miss Smith said. “They would put me to bed at a decent hour, but I would stay awake, imagining the extravagance of the ball while I waited—the pretty gowns, the dancing and the soft, flowing music. By the time the firework display began, I almost felt as though I was at the ball myself, amidst the splendor.”

There was a wealth of information to be found in what she’d just told him, and as shrewd as it might have been, Anthony decided to press the advantage that the moment offered. “Did you enjoy growing up in Moxley?”

“Oh, yes, I . . .” She looked at him then, her eyes unblinking and her lips slightly parted to form a startled expression. And then she frowned, and that frown turned to something else entirely—something sad and defeated that in turn made Anthony feel like a cad. She hadn’t wanted him to know, but he’d tricked her into telling him anyway. He regretted it, and yet he didn’t, because now he finally stood a chance—
they
stood a chance. If she lived close by, he would find her, no matter what.

“Kingsborough!” a deep voice called from behind him. Anthony turned to find Lucien Marvaine, the Earl of Roxberry, striding toward him, accompanied by the lovely Lady Crossby, recently widowed, a particularly sad affair, since she’d been left alone with the couple’s six-month-old daughter, Sophia.

Anthony smiled as they approached. He’d always gotten on well with Roxberry. He had an adventurous streak that Anthony found particularly entertaining. Stepping forward, he was just about to voice his own greeting when from the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement and then two things occurred at once. Anthony turned his head to see Daniel Neville dancing his way toward him with a lady he did not recognize. They were just coming up beside Lady Crossby and Roxberry when another firework exploded, a loud bang sounded and Neville’s dance partner screamed.

All else forgotten, Anthony ran forward to where Neville stood, his eyes wide open in shock as he held the limp lady in his arms. “Oh Jesus!” His eyes met Anthony’s in a frantic plea for help. “Someone shot her. Someone bloody shot her!”

Seeing the red patch of blood at the lady’s shoulder, Anthony knew he was right. “Get her on the ground,” he said as he removed his jacket for her to lie on. Next, he undid his cravat, bundled it into a tight wad and shoved it toward Neville, who was now kneeling at the lady’s side together with Roxberry, Winston and Casper, who’d all come to offer their assistance. “Put this on her wound, add some pressure, and try to stop the bleeding. Winston, I’m leaving you in charge here while I try to find out what the devil happened.”

Without a backward glance, Anthony started toward the steps leading up to the terrace. The majority of his guests were still congregated there, gazing up at the sky in expectation of the next firework, oblivious to the fact that a woman had just been shot. Taking the steps two at a time, Anthony quickly reached the terrace. He stopped to look around, searching the crowd for any sign of a perpetrator. Whoever had fired the pistol would have had to stand right at the edge of the terrace, up against the railing where the crowd was most dense.

Signaling a footman, he told the man to alert the guards and close off all the exits. He then pushed his way past the first few people and made his way toward the front, looking around as he went, but nothing struck him as strange or unusual.
Damn
. Whoever he was looking for had probably run off already. Seeing Lord Frompton, Anthony patted him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. “There’s been an incident. One of my guests—a woman, to be precise—has been shot.”

“Good Lord,” Frompton muttered. “Is she dead?”

“I’ve no idea. I left my brother and a few others to tend to her while I went in search of the villain. The lady in question was shot in the shoulder as she was turned in this direction, indicating that whoever did it must have been standing up here amongst the rest of you. Did you happen to see anything unusual? Someone’s sudden departure?”

Frompton shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but I’ll help you look. I’ll just inform my wife.”

Grateful for the extra bit of assistance the earl offered, Anthony gave him a curt nod before making his way over to one of the stone benches that lined the periphery of the terrace. Climbing up, he scanned the crowd again, but nobody was in a hurry to depart. In all likelihood, the would-be assassin had already left the grounds.

Jumping down, Anthony marched toward the doors leading back inside the ballroom. “Don’t let anyone else in,” he ordered the footman that he’d stationed there, “unless they’re a member of this household.”

Back inside, he didn’t break his stride as he glanced briefly at the orchestra—nothing out of place there. Hurrying onward, he ran up the grand staircase leading up to the foyer, saying, “Did someone else just come this way, Phelps?” to the startled butler.

“A lady, my lord, about ten minutes ago. She’ll be long gone by now though—her carriage was ready and waiting.”

“Christ! One of my guests has been shot.” At this Phelps blanched. “Please dispatch two footmen to fetch the constable along with Doctor Harper.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Phelps said stiffly as he turned about and hurried off.

Heading back toward the ballroom, Anthony was met by Neville, who was carrying the shooting victim in his arms, his face pale and filled with a desperation that Anthony had never before seen in the reprobate. He was accompanied by Winston, his mother and . . . Lord and Lady Grifton? Why on earth were they hurrying after Neville with such sour expressions?

Anthony frowned. He’d never cared for how miserly, selfish and arrogant they’d proven themselves to be in the time he’d known them, but their estate was close to his. It would have been badly done not to invite them.

Now was not the time to deliberate, however—there would be time for explanations later. Instead, it was imperative that they did whatever they could to help the woman who’d been shot. Looking beyond them all, he saw that the footman he’d stationed at the ballroom doors was starting to have trouble turning the guests away. It wouldn’t be long before someone pushed the man aside, demanding entry. “This way,” Anthony told Neville as he switched directions and began heading toward the green parlor. Ushering everyone inside, he closed the door behind him. “You can set her down over there, Neville. I’ve sent for a doctor, but in the meantime . . .” He hesitated before asking the dreaded question. “Is she alive?”

“It appears so,” Winston said while his mother—whom Anthony would have thought to be beside herself in light of how her perfect evening was turning into a rapid disaster—walked across to where the lady now lay and began pulling her sleeve down over her shoulder.

“The least we can do is try to clean this,” she explained. “Would you please give me some brandy and another cravat? This one’s soaked through.”

Anthony blinked, momentarily taken aback by his mother’s air of command. It had been years since he’d seen her like this. Eager to help in any way he could, he quickly poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it on the table next to where she knelt just as Winston and Neville both handed him their cravats. He gave one to his mother, who dipped the length of fabric into the glass of brandy, then pressed it against the lady’s open wound. Her mask had been removed, he realized, revealing a face he hadn’t seen since . . . well, he couldn’t quite remember since when, but he suddenly understood why Lord and Lady Grifton were present.

“I thought she was—”

“Quite,” Lady Grifton snapped. “Apparently she pulled the wool over all of our eyes.”

Trying to find an appropriate response to that and failing miserably, Anthony decided to go in search of Miss Smith. “I ought to explain the situation to our guests, but I’ll be back soon. Can you manage until I return?” It was partly true of course—the guests had looked quite disgruntled at being kept outdoors. Deep down inside, however, there was no denying that it was an excuse to find Miss Smith and at the very least bid her a good night before she left.

But when he returned to the ballroom, it was clear that panic had begun to unfold. The rest of the guests must have realized what had happened and were now worried for their own safety. Ignoring the jumble of nerves that tumbled through his stomach at the thought of addressing everyone, Anthony stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled—rather uncivilized perhaps, but it worked immediately, drawing the attention of one and all.