"Indeed, 'tis I, the princess returned from the ball," she quipped as she threw herself into a leather chair, kicked off her slippers, tucked her feet up under her, and began unbuttoning her elbow-length gloves.
Her mother and father were seated in identical chairs in a ritual she had witnessed hundreds of times before. When one of the children was out of the house and expected back late, they would stay awake and keep each other company as they waited for the child who was due home. Her father would nurse a glass of scotch while her mother read, but they always ended up chatting. Alex had fallen asleep on the floor of the library to the sound of their discussions countless times as she was growing up. As difficult as her evening had been, it comforted her to join them.
Her father spoke first, his rich voice gently questioning, "That doesn't sound like the response of a young lady home from a thoroughly amusing evening."
"Was the ball not enjoyable, my love?" This from her mother.
"The ball itself was lovely," Alex shared, peeling one long sheath of satin down her wrist and off her hand, draping it across the arm of the chair. "Nicola was gorgeous and entertaining as ever, and Lord and Lady Salisbury were... well, Lord and Lady Salisbury." The last drew a smile from both her parents.
"If that's the case, why are you so subdued?" her father queried, teasing. "Did some oaf step on your toes during a quadrille?"
Alex offered him a half smile she didn't quite feel. "I wish that were the case. No, if you must know, Blackmoor and I had a falling-out."
"Whatever about?" asked the duchess.
Sighing, Alex focused entirely on her glove as she tugged each satin finger from her hand. "Well, everything was fine until I danced with someone of whom he did not approve."
"Who?" The duke perked up.
Yanking the glove from her hand, she waved it in frustration. "Freddie Stanhope! Thoroughly innocuous Freddie Stanhope."
"I thought Stanhope and Blackmoor were friends?" The duchess looked to Alex's father for confirmation. He didn't speak as Alex continued.
"So did I, until this season. Will, Nick, and Kit seem to enjoy Freddie's company as much as ever, but Blackmoor thinks him a rogue and not to be trusted around females. Especially me. Which is ridiculous, considering Freddie and I have been friends for ages."
"It is rather strange. I've always rather liked young Stanhope," said the duchess.
This elicited a laugh from His Grace. "I imagine that's exactly why Gavin thinks the way he does. For generations women have rather liked' the Stanhope men." Turning back to Alex, he asked, "Has young Stanhope been inappropriate in your presence?"
"Never," Alex spoke vehemently. "To the contrary, Freddie's been a capital friend — certainly a bit of a rake — but harmless. After all, I've known him for years and he's very close with Nick. We just have fun together and Blackmoor seems out to ruin anything that seems to entertain me. He takes his role as surrogate brother too seriously, and tonight he overstepped his bounds, leaving me a touch —"
She stopped and returned to working the fabric of her skirts. Her voice quieted as she finished her sentence on a whispered, "— incensed."
The duke laughed at the sheepish way she spoke her final word, but her mother did not seem so amused. "Oh, Alexandra," she spoke knowingly, "what did you do?"
"Nothing!" Alex's face and tone were the combination of perfect defensiveness. "He started it by implying that he was my keeper... as though I were some animal! He doesn't trust me to know what's best for myself or how to care for myself, and so I told him exactly what I thought!"
"Intriguing," spoke the duke, his tone laced with amusement. "In private, I hope."
"Well — you see — that's the problem."
Alex felt a blush rising as her father laughed out loud and her mother gasped, "Alexandra Stafford!" The duchess spoke to her husband sharply. "This is because you are too lenient with her." Turning back to Alex, she queried, "Where did you 'tel him exactly what you thought'?"
The answer sped out, "On the ball room floor... but no one heard!"
"Alexandra!" her mother cried.
"No one?" This from the duke.
"Well, no one except Freddie."
When her father spoke next, he did so with a tone of humor. "I'd lay odds that, considering Blackmoor's opinion of Stanhope, he hardly thinks of him as 'no one.'"
"Quite," Her Grace added. "Yes, well, that would explain why you and Gavin had a falling-out."
Alex was about to again defend herself when the sound of Harquist clearing his throat interrupted her. Alex turned in surprise, as Harquist rarely had much to say this late in the evening. The old man spoke quickly, "My lord and ladies, Lord Blackmoor is here and requests an audience."
Alex turned a stunned look on her mother and father, who looked surprised and curious respectively. She spoke in an urgent whisper. "Father, don't accept him, please? I can't have another moment of his overbearing attitude this evening."
"I most certainly will accept him, Alexandra," replied the Duke. "You’ll have to suffer through. Send him in, Harquist, thank you."
Alex sent a pleading look at her mother, who made no move to rescue her youngest child and only daughter. Alex wondered if she had enough time to escape the room before Blackmoor arrived.
"My lord," Gavin spoke as he crossed the threshold, "forgive me for calling at such a late hour."
Drat. No escape, Alex thought to herself as she patently avoided looking at him.
"It's never too late an hour for you, Gavin." Alex's father stood. "You look like the Devil. What's happened to you?"
Alex couldn't help but look up at Gavin upon hearing the tone in her father's voice. He did indeed look the worse for wear. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, as though he'd run all the way over. Was it possible he'd come to apologize? One of her eyebrows rose in curiosity as he opened his mouth to speak.
"I never would have bothered you had it not been a matter of particular import. You see —" Alex leaned forward. Could it be that he was going to confess his actions at the Worthington House dinner? What could he possibly be here for in the middle of the night?
"It's Blackmoor House. I've been robbed."
fourteen
He stalked his rooms, furious.
This night had been essential to his plans. He'd convinced his partners that they should give him one more chance — one more day to discover what they were desperate to find. He'd promised that he would find the documents they now knew the deceased earl had possessed. He'd sworn he could complete this — the smallest of tasks. For he knew that if anyone else found the information before him, his would be the first neck placed in the hangman's noose.
And he had failed.
He'd not given the study as thorough an inspection as he'd wanted. He'd started... he'd emptied the desk and searched the cupboards. He'd just begun to examine the bookshelves when he saw the carriage lanterns in the drive of Worthington House and realized that his time had run out.
If only the brat hadn't come home early from the ball. If only he'd stayed out with the rest of the shallow, debauched members of the ton, celebrating in excess, as though there were nothing in the world to worry about. What could have happened to force him to come home hours before he was expected?
Maybe the Worthington twit had taken ill... leaving
Blackmoor little more to do than escort her home. What good manners. He sneered at the thought.