Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (44 page)

St. Ives
House

Grosvenor Square,
London

I
t really isn’t fair.” Elizabeth
Marguerite Cynster, Eliza to all, grumbled the complaint beneath her breath as
she stood alone, cloaked in the shadows of a massive potted palm by the wall of
her eldest cousin’s ballroom. The magnificent ducal ballroom was glittering and
glowing, playing host to the crème de la crème of the ton, bedecked in their
finest satins and silks, bejeweled and beringed, all swept up in a
near-rapturous outpouring of happiness and unbridled delight.

As there were few among the ton likely to
decline an invitation to waltz at an event hosted by Honoria, Duchess of St.
Ives, and her powerful husband, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, the huge room
was packed.

The glow from the sparkling chandeliers sheened
over elaborately coiffed curls and winked and blinked from the hearts of
countless diamonds. Gowns in a range of brilliant hues swirled as the ladies
danced, creating a shifting sea of vibrant plumage contrasting sharply with the
regulation black and white of their partners. Laughter and conversation
blanketed the scene. A riot of perfumes filled the air. In the background a
small orchestra did its best with one of the most popular waltzes.

Eliza watched as her elder sister, Heather,
circled the dance floor in the arms of her handsome husband-to-be, ex-foremost
rake of the ton, Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Even if the ball had
not been thrown expressly to celebrate their betrothal, to formally announce it
to the ton and the polite world, the besotted look in Breckenridge’s eyes every
time his gaze rested on Heather was more than enough to tell the tale. The
ex-darling of the ton’s ladies was now Heather’s sworn protector and slave.

And Heather was his. The joy in her face, that
lit her eyes, declared that to the world.

Despite her own less than happy state, much of
it a direct outcome of the events leading to Heather’s engagement, Eliza was
sincerely, to her soul, happy for her sister.

They’d both spent years—literally
years
—searching for their respective heroes among the
ton, through the drawing rooms and ballrooms in which young ladies such as they
were expected to confine themselves in hunting for suitable, eligible partis.
Yet neither Heather, Eliza, nor Angelica, their younger sister, had had any luck
in locating the gentlemen fated to be their heroes. They had, logically,
concluded that said heroes, the gentlemen for them, were not to be found within
their proscribed orbit, so they had, also logically, decided to extend their
search into those areas where the more elusive, yet still suitable and eligible,
male members of the ton congregated.

The strategy had worked for their eldest female
cousin Amanda, and, employed with a different twist, for her twin sister Amelia,
as well.

And, albeit in a most unexpected way, the same
approach had worked for Heather, too.

Clearly for Cynster females, success in finding
their own true hero lay in boldly stepping beyond their accustomed circles.

Which was precisely what Eliza was set on doing
except
that, through the adventure that had
befallen Heather within minutes of her taking her first step into that racier
world—namely being kidnapped, rescued by Breckenridge, and then escaping in his
company—a plot to target “the Cynster sisters” had been exposed.

Whether the targets were limited to Heather,
Eliza, and Angelica, or included their younger cousins Henrietta and Mary, no
one knew.

No one understood the motive behind the threat,
not even what was eventually intended beyond being kidnapped and possibly taken
to Scotland. As for who was behind it, no one had any real clue, but the upshot
was that Eliza and the other three “Cynster sisters” as yet unbetrothed had been
placed under constant guard. She hadn’t been able to set toe outside her
parents’ house without one of her brothers, or if not them, one of her
cousins—every bit as bad—appearing at her elbow.

And looming.

For her, taking even half a step outside the
restrictive circles of the upper echelons of the ton was now impossible. If she
tried, a large, male, brotherly or cousinly hand would close about her elbow and
yank her unceremoniously back.

Such behavior on their part was, she had to
admit, understandable, but . . . “For how long?” Their protective
cordon had been in place for three weeks and showed no signs of relaxing. “I’m
already twenty-four. If I don’t find my hero this year, next year I’ll be on the
shelf.”

Muttering to herself wasn’t a habit, but the
evening was drawing to a close and, as usual at such ton events, nothing had
come of it for her. Which was why she was hugging the wall in the screening
shadows of the huge palm; she was worn out with smiling and pretending she had
any interest whatsoever in the very proper young gentlemen who, through the
night, had vied for her attention.

As a well-dowered, well-bred, well-brought-up
Cynster young lady she’d never been short of would-be Romeos. Sadly, she’d never
felt the slightest inclination to play Juliet to any of them. Like Angelica,
Eliza was convinced she would recognize her hero, if not in the instant she laid
eyes on him—Angelica’s theory—then at least once she’d spent a few hours in his
company.

Heather, in contrast, had always been uncertain
over recognizing her hero—but then she’d known Breckenridge, not well but more
than by sight, for many years, and until their adventure, she hadn’t realized he
was the one for her. Heather had mentioned that their cousin-by-marriage,
Catriona, who, being an earthly representative of the deity known in parts of
Scotland as “The Lady,” tended to “know” things, had suggested that Heather
needed to “see” her hero clearly, which had proved very much to be the case.

Catriona had given Heather a necklace and
pendant designed to assist a young lady in finding her true love—her hero;
Catriona had said the necklace was supposed to be passed from Heather, to Eliza,
to Angelica, then to Henrietta, and Mary, before ultimately returning to
Scotland and Catriona’s daughter, Lucilla.

Raising one hand, Eliza touched the fine chain
interspersed with small amethyst beads that circled her neck; the rose quartz
pendant depending from it was hidden in the valley between her breasts. The
chain lay concealed beneath the delicate lace of the fashionable fichu and
collar that filled the scooped neckline of her gold silk gown.

The chain was now hers, so where was the hero
it was supposed to help her recognize?

Obviously not here. No gentleman with
hero-potential had miraculously appeared. Not that she had expected one to, not
here in the very heart of the upper echelons of tonnish society. Nevertheless,
disappointment and dragging dejection bloomed.

Through finding her hero, Heather had—entirely
unintentionally, but nevertheless effectively—stymied Eliza. Her hero did not
exist within tonnish circles, but she could no longer step outside to hunt him
down.

“What the devil am I to do?”

A footman drifting around the outskirts of the
ballroom with a silver salver balanced on one palm heard her and turned to peer
into the shadows. Eliza barely glanced at him, but seeing her, his features
relaxed and he stepped forward.

“Miss Eliza.” Relief in his voice, the footman
bowed and offered the salver. “A gentleman asked that this be delivered to you,
miss. A good half hour ago, it must be now. We couldn’t find you in the
crowd.”

Wondering which tedious gentleman was now
sending her notes, Eliza reached for the folded parchment resting on the salver.
“Thank you, Cameron.” The footman was from her parents’ household, seconded to
the St. Ives’ household to assist with the massive ball. “Who was it, do you
know?”

“No, miss. It wasn’t handed to me, but to one
of the others. They passed it on.”

“Thank you.” Eliza nodded a dismissal.

With a brief bow, Cameron withdrew.

With no great expectations, Eliza unfolded the
note. The writing was bold, a series of brash black strokes on the white
paper.

Very masculine in style.

Tipping the sheet to catch the light, Eliza
read:

Meet me in the
back parlor, if you dare. No, we’re not acquainted. I haven’t signed this
note because my name will mean nothing to you. We haven’t been introduced,
and there is no grande dame present who would be likely to oblige me.
However, the fact I am here, attending this ball, speaks well enough to my
antecedents and my social standing. And I know where the back parlor
is.

I believe it is
time we met face-to-face, if nothing else to discover if there is any
further degree of association we might feel inclined to broach.

As I started this
note, so I will end it: Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare.

I’ll be
waiting.

Eliza couldn’t help but smile. How
. . . impertinent. How daring. To send her such a note in her cousin’s
house, under the very noses of the grandes dames and all her family.

Yet whoever he was, he was patently there, in
the house, and if he knew where the back parlor was . . .

She read the note again, debating, but there
was no reason she could see why she shouldn’t slip away to the back parlor and
discover who had dared to send such a note.

Stepping out from her hiding place, she slipped
swiftly, as unobtrusively as she could, around the still-crowded room. She felt
certain the note writer was correct—she didn’t know him; they’d never met. She
didn’t know any gentleman who would have thought to send such an outrageous
summons to a private tryst inside St. Ives House.

Excitement, anticipation surged. Perhaps this
was it—the moment when her hero would appear before her.

Stepping through a minor door, she walked
quickly down a corridor, then turned down another, then another, increasingly
dimly lit, steadily making her way to the rear corner of the huge mansion. Deep
in the private areas, distant from the reception rooms and their noise, the back
parlor gave onto the gardens at the rear of the house; Honoria often sat there
of an afternoon, watching her children play on the lawns below the terrace.

Eliza finally reached the end of the last
corridor. The parlor door stood before her. She didn’t hesitate; turning the
knob, she opened the door and walked in.

The lamps weren’t lit, but moonlight poured
through the windows and glass doors that gave onto the terrace. Glancing around
and seeing no one, she closed the door and walked deeper into the room. Perhaps
he was waiting in one of the armchairs facing the windows.

Nearing the chairs, she saw they were empty.
She halted. Frowned. Had he given up and left? “Hello?” She started to turn. “Is
there anyone—”

A faint rush of sound came from behind her.

She whirled—too late.

A hard arm snaked about her waist and jerked
her back against a solid male body.

She opened her mouth—

A huge palm swooped and slapped a white cloth
over her mouth and nose. And held it there.

She struggled, breathed in—the smell was sickly
sweet, cloying. . . .

Her muscles went to water.

Even as she sagged, she fought to turn her
head, but the heavy palm followed, keeping the horrid cloth over her mouth and
nose. . . .

Until reality slid away and darkness engulfed
her.