“Who is this young woman, Weed?” the marchioness asked, eyeing the mismated slippers on Harriet’s feet in amusement. “One of the new scullery maids? Remember that we forgive the curiosity of the first week.”
“She’s a thief, madam.”
“Oh,” the marchioness said, “I see.”
“I shall have her removed immediately from the premises,” Weed vowed, lowering his hand to reach for Harriet.
“Wait,” Lady Lyons had said, in a powerful voice that halted the footman’s hand. “She cannot be observed by anyone at the party. For one thing, her hair has not seen a brush in at least a week. For another”-she fanned the air-“she smells so strongly that my eyes water.”
The marchioness took a delicate sniff. “That’s the new perfume Grayson bought me for my birthday.”
Harriet gave her a frank look. “Lovely, ain’t it?”
More than two years had passed since that ignominious day. Since then, fortunately, Harriet had never been caught in anyone else’s closet. Although Lady Jane teased her from time to time about her crime, she did so with a fond twinkle in her eye. She also paid Harriet the high compliment of seeking her confidence as concerning family secrets.
Within a half hour of her arrival tonight, Lady Jane had taken Harriet aside to whisper, “What is your opinion of the duke and his relations?”
Harriet admired Lady Jane. She was not merely pretty, generous, and kind, she was also a devious schemer who had sabotaged her own wedding, only to fall in love with her scoundrel of a marquess. “Lady Powlis is a double-edged sword,” Harriet whispered after a moment’s reflection. “The duke’s a moody one, and I’d be afraid to guess what Lady Edlyn’s got locked up in her turret.”
“Darling,” Jane said, drawing Harriet deeper into the shaded alcove. “What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t been at the academy long enough to get into trouble, I swear. But every time I’ve gone to her room she’s been sitting at her window as if she’s waiting, for whom or what I’ve no idea.”
Jane’s green eyes darkened in worry. “Poor lambkin. Could she have met a young wolf so quickly?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’ve got a sense for that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps she is still grieving her father,” Jane said quietly. “Is she close to the duke and his aunt, or are they estranged, as the gossips say?”
Harriet peered out into the vestibule. “Lady Powlis couldn’t love her more. But as for what Miss Edlyn and the duke feel for each other, well, your opinion would be better than mine, madam.”
Jane patted her on the arm. “I never fail to think of you whenever I buy a new pair of tapestry shoes. Now, now. Don’t blush. We all have our skeletons in the dressing closet.” She stepped out into the vestibule, gasping in pleasure as she spotted the tall masculine figure who stood in front of an enormous queue of guests. “Is that Griffin?”
Harriet stood on tiptoe to peek over Jane’s elaborate headdress. Somewhere between the thicket of ostrich feathers, she made out a bladed nose that belonged to a lean man in a black evening suit. Oh, dear. The duke appeared to have been caught in a receiving line and looked none too happy about it. Perhaps he had not been exaggerating when he’d complained that he had hordes of admirers.
“My goodness,” Jane whispered. “How handsome he is! And you never said a word. I always wondered what an infusion of Welsh blood would do to the line. I imagine the castle drawbridge had to be closed every night to keep him safe from the village girls.”
Harriet dredged up a pleasant smile. Never mind the village girls. The marchioness must have given every eligible debutante in London an engraved invite to meet the duke tonight.
Jane’s delicate face grew pensive. “I should have known. Why would I think the family could escape even one season without notoriety? My, my. We do have our hands full, don’t we, Harriet?”
“The Duke of Glenmorgan has-”
He had not even been properly announced by the majordomo before a swell of guests, ladies primarily, surged forth from the line to surround him. He’d lost sight of his aunt and Edlyn. He suspected that they were watching from the balcony above, where only family or the most favored guests were taken for a private introduction. He felt like a human sacrifice being fed to a flock of harpies in evening gowns.
He looked about for someone to rescue him. The only person he recognized in the crush was the flame-haired Miss Gardner, who sent him a wicked smile and promptly disappeared.
“Condolences on your brother’s untimely and cruel demise, your grace.”
“Congratulations on your calm grasp of duty.”
“Your grace, it is a privilege.”
“What a tragedy, your grace. All of London wept.”
“My daughter Anne-Marie has composed a poem in honor of your loss. If your grace could spare an afternoon this week to have it privately heard…”
Condolences. Congratulations. An arena of London’s weepy and conniving mamas sharpening their claws and quills with a ravenous appetite that gave him heart palpitations.
He knew he had promised his family that at some unspecified time in the future he would carry on the line. But he also knew he wasn’t about to marry any of the ambitious debutantes who were eyeing him like a supper course. In fact, it was all he could do not to shout something unforgivably rude to scare the lot of them away. And when one of them suddenly had the unmitigated gall to sneak up behind him to grab the tails of his coat, and another to slap her hand upon his shoulder like a sledgehammer, he ground his teeth and-
“Isn’t he pretty?” a hideous voice cooed as its owner tugged again on his evening coat.
“He’s the belle of the ball.”
“Ooh. Feel his shoulders. How strong he is.”
“I want the first dance.”
He might have known by the deep laughter accompanying this assault that he was being set up by his cousins. He swung around, expelling a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to dance, as flattered as I am by your attention.”
“Not even to save yourself?” the tallest of the three men surrounding him asked.
Lords Heath, Drake, and Devon. He would have recognized the three black-haired, blue-eyed demons as his cousins even if they weren’t grinning with the wicked intentions that distinguished a Boscastle male from other gentlemen. Unfashionably faithful to their wives, they still dabbled in mischief every now and then. Lord Heath, it was said, had a hand in something of an undisclosed nature for the Home Office. Their propensity for brewing scandals was as legendary in London as was their loyalty to the clan.
“Which one of you wants to dance with me first?”
Drake, dark and cynical at heart, nudged his older brother in the ribs. “Heath has always been lighter on his feet. And he’s a perfect gentleman.”
Devon, devil-may-care and friendly, said, “He’s more graceful, too. And he can whisper Egyptian endearments in your ear.”
“But Drake is more rugged,” Heath protested. “A man’s man. I know I’d feel safe prowling an alley with him at my side. Just don’t let him lure you out onto the terrace.”
“I have a brilliant suggestion.” Devon threw his arm over Griffin’s shoulders. “We could form our own set, and share you.”
“That seems a rather drastic way to take myself off the market,” Griffin said with a faint grimace.
Heath lifted his brow. “Anyone in particular on your list you’re hoping to avoid? Or capture?”
“I’ve only been in London a few days.”
“That long?” Drake gave him a skeptical grin. “And you haven’t found a woman to pursue yet? This might call for a family cabal.”