“She is her own worst enemy, Meredith. Mark my words, one day you will have no choice but to agree with me.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne while discussing Jane Huxley’s prospects for future spinsterhood.
It was painfully obvious the Duke of Blackmore was unaccustomed to rejection. A scowl dawned on his brow; perplexity narrowed his eyes. As though expecting her to correct her own statement, he glared down at her, waiting.
They stood as an island of silence amidst the din of chatter and music.
Jane felt an overpowering urge to squirm, but she forced herself to continue meeting his gaze and say nothing. Perhaps her red glow would eventually disgust him, and he would leave her to her spiced punch and velvet settee.
“Your grace!” Her mother’s exclamation made Jane’s heart lurch and pound. Oh, dear. Waving at them, Mama marched out of a cluster of matrons near the edge of where Miss Lancaster had brought the dancing to a temporary halt. “A most unexpected pleasure. Why, it has been an age.” Mama sidled up to Jane and curtsied to Blackmore, who bowed stiffly, his scowl easing into a frown.
“Lady Berne,” he said simply.
One might have thought his tone rather chilly, but Jane suspected for Blackmore, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly, it did not faze her mother, who gave the man a broad, beaming smile. “Lady Gilforth assures me a waltz shall begin momentarily.”
His body stilled, lips flattening into a grim line.
“Perhaps, if you are not otherwise engaged, my Jane would be a suitable partner?”
Oh. Oh, no.
In the past, Mama had pressed Jane into conversing with gentlemen, had encouraged her to more actively seek their attention, had insisted on buying her new, more flattering gowns each season. But never—never—had she directly solicited a dance on Jane’s behalf. And to do so from the all-mighty Duke of Blackmore was … words failed. Excruciating came close, but did not quite capture the resounding nature of her mortification.
Apparently, Blackmore was inclined to view the suggestion as a putrid smell wafted before him, because his hard-edged chin angled further upward, and his nostrils flared in displeasure. “I have made such an offer, madam, and it has been declined.”
Wondering idly if she would survive this night, Jane watched Mama’s eyes fly wide, her head tilt, her lips tighten. This was bad. Very bad, indeed.
Abruptly, Mama adopted a pleasant smile. Wrapping her hand surreptitiously through the crook of Jane’s elbow, she dug in harder than necessary and sent another beam up at Blackmore. “Nonsense,” she declared. “A misunderstanding, that is all. She would be delighted to dance with you.” The claws grew sharper, almost painful. “Wouldn’t you, Jane?”
Well, in the interest of preserving her arm, and quite possibly her life, Jane supposed one dance with the Ice King was not too much to ask. She nodded her assent.
Stiffly—it seemed he did everything stiffly—the duke bowed and held out a white-gloved hand. “Lady Jane.”
She slid her own hand into his, and he smoothly transferred it to his arm. The motion pulled her much nearer to him than she had ever been. Dimly, she noted that he smelled good, like freshly laundered bed linens dried in the sun. Must be the starch in his cravat, she thought. Plenty of that, no doubt. The thing could stand and salute Wellington all on its own.
Glancing to the side, she was struck by their differences. He was more than a foot taller. Strong and lean, though much broader at the shoulders than one perceived from a distance. Handsome as Hades—on second thought, Apollo was probably more appropriate, so she would stay with that comparison. Regardless, he was everything she was not.
We must appear a ludicrous pairing. Her gaze darted around the drawing room. Just as well I am too short to see past the crush. She did not relish the jeering dismay she was bound to find on every face.
Pulling her into the dance, Blackmore managed to make the unevenness of their heights less awkward than anticipated, shortening his strides and smoothly leading her through the turns of the waltz. Again, a great, yawning silence stretched and sagged between them. Two minutes on, however, she had to admit the dance itself was rather … lovely. Controlled. Graceful.
Before she could think better of it, her observation slipped out of her mouth. “You—you dance quite well, your grace. Surprisingly so.”
His brows arched, then his firm, straight lips tightened. “If you perceived me as a poor partner for the waltz, perhaps that explains your earlier rudeness.”
Her body stiffened, slowing their turn, but he applied pressure at her back, and they continued with nary a pause. “It is not my manners which should be in question, but yours,” she muttered furiously.
“Only a child would believe so.”
She shot a glare up past his infuriatingly perfect jaw, colliding with blue-gray eyes that flashed like sunlight glinting off new ice. “I am not a child. And I will thank you to cease treating me like one.”
“Age is merely a number denoting the passage of time, Lady Jane. One’s maturity is best measured by one’s actions and comportment—areas in need of improvement, where you are concerned.”
Her jaw worked as she struggled for breath. “You are a rare creature, your grace. I fear I have never encountered anyone as pompous and appallingly rude.”
His scowl deepened. “It is hardly rude to state the truth.”
“Then, allow me to return the favor. You are insufferable.”
The barest hint of a flush crept up along his cheekbones. “What I am, Lady Jane, is at the end of my patience. This is the last time I agree to grant a favor for my sister when it involves cheeky misses who lack the sense to discern between a duke and a dray horse.”
The statement stopped her cold. Even Blackmore’s nudging could not make her move. Breathless, arms heavy and limp, Jane asked, “What has Victoria to do with anything?”
For the first time that evening—or ever, that she could recall—he looked distinctly uneasy. After blinking several times, he cleared his throat. “She requested, if I should see you during the season, that I partner you for a dance.”
Before he finished his statement, her eyes slid closed against the truth, her head dropping forward to hang between them. It hurt. Deeply. Even her best friend thought Jane so pitiful that she must recruit her brother to offer a dance. Breathing through the tight ache in her chest, Jane attempted to tug her hands free.
“What are you doing?”
The music continued to play, but little of the song remained. Surely she could retreat to her settee in the far corner of the drawing room and return to blessed obscurity. Surely he would let her go.
But he did not. His back faced the crowd, hers a wall. His arms remained in place, refusing to release her.
Likely worried I will embarrass him. Mustn’t have that.
Suddenly, it was all too much. He was too much. She must say something to convince him to let her go. Eyes locked on his well-starched cravat, she gathered her breath and her anger and her courage. “Perhaps you are right, your grace,” she said quietly. “Perhaps I do not have the sense to tell a duke from a dray horse. But such a thing might prove easier if the former did not so perfectly resemble the latter’s backside.”
The music ended. His arms fell away.
Turning, she stumbled and pushed along the edge of the room, sidling past a group of young bucks discussing an excursion to Tattersall’s, and five young ladies fanning themselves furiously in a bid for attention. They were all a blur to Jane.
Dimly, she heard Penelope Darling laughing too loudly at one of Lord Mochrie’s witticisms. Then, a gruff apology from an elderly man as he elbowed Jane in the shoulder. She did not feel it. Her sole mission was to return to the dining room, and from there out into the corridor, and from there …
From there …
She did not know.
As an earl’s daughter, she was not permitted an escape route.
The dining room entrance loomed. She slipped out of the tightly packed drawing room and immediately thanked heaven for allowing her a breath of less-stagnant air. In front of her, footmen worked quickly and efficiently to set long tables for supper. To the left, a set of doors stood open, beckoning her into the corridor.
It was not a perfect solution, but at least it would give her a temporary reprieve, some privacy away from the tittering fools of the ton. She stepped out into the darker, hushed space. Two maids passed her without bothering to curtsy. Jane was accustomed to such disregard of her position. Many, many people seemed nearly incapable of noticing her. Most often, she found it alternately amusing and annoying. Tonight, she found it relieving.
Lady Gilforth’s home was not terribly ornate or ostentatious. Rather, it was quietly elegant, the walls of the corridor paneled in dark wood—walnut, perhaps. Her drawing room and dining room were coordinated in shades of blue and green, accented by moldings in white and furnishings in rich, jewel-toned fabrics. None of the rooms Jane had seen were overlarge, and yet they felt spacious and bright. But here, in the quiet corridor, the warm, dark wood seemed almost a friend, a promise to keep her secrets. She made her way to the end of the hall, tested a knob on a discreet door. Turning it slowly, she opened the door a mere inch, noting the lack of illumination in the space beyond.
Ah, yes. Perfect.
Many town houses in Mayfair had been built along similar lines as Berne House, and in her home, there was a closet in this very spot at the end of a corridor. She glanced behind her to make certain the duke had not decided to do something outlandish—following her, for example.
What she saw when she turned caused her to jerk around and slam her back against the door. It closed with a loud bang. Wincing, she blinked and adjusted her spectacles. No, she was not imagining things. There, his blond head swiveling to and fro as he searched the hall, was Victoria’s other brother, Colin Lacey.
The racket of the door closing must have alerted him, because he squinted in her direction, then charged forward as he recognized her. “Lady Jane!” A grin split his face, displaying white teeth in the dim light. “It seems I forever find you in corridors.”
She held up a hand. “Lord Lacey, I must warn you, I am not favorably disposed toward anyone of your bloodline at present.”
He stopped. “I don’t understand.”
“Did Victoria send you as well? Is that what all of this has been about?”
Coming within feet of her, he dared to appear both baffled and concerned. “Send me? I have not spoken to Victoria in months.”
“Why assign only one brother to the distasteful task of taking pity upon poor, Plain Jane Huxley, when you can send two?”
He took a deep breath to respond, then apparently at a loss, released it in a whoosh as he shook his head. “You have me at a disadvantage, Lady Jane. I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring.”
His puzzlement seemed genuine, forcing her to reconsider her assumptions. “Victoria did not ask you to feign a courtship?”
The sudden gurgle of laughter that burst from Lord Lacey caused an uncomfortable flush to prickle its way across Jane’s cheeks.
Seeing it, he immediately waved away her embarrassment. “Please do not mistake my laughter for mockery. It is not at your expense, but my own. Victoria would sooner deliver a basket of poisonous asps to your door than request that I pledge my suit to you.” The mirth slowly disappeared from his voice, replaced with something like regret. “My sister has a rather low opinion of my character. Deservedly so.”
“Oh.”
He smiled gently. “Tell me what happened.”
She sniffed and clutched her shawl a little tighter across her arms. “That is not important. It is sufficient to say I have noted stark contrasts between you and your brother.”
His brows arched.
“And it gladdens my heart that you are not him.”
Another smile curved his lips, this one slow and conspiratorial. “You cannot fathom what I have been forced to endure.”
“He is insufferable.”
“Stuffy.”
“Heartless.”
“Sanctimonious.”
“Tall.”
He chuckled. “Tall?”
Nodding emphatically, she explained, “He looms over me like a great, towering oak. A frigid, disapproving oak that does not even wish to be in my presence, but is merely tolerating such a trial because his sister …” Catching herself winding up for a potentially disastrous tirade, Jane stopped and clamped her lips together.
Colin’s eyes crinkled in sympathy. “I understand. Harrison is at his worst when he believes he is doing what is best—never mind what we lesser creatures might wish for ourselves. The Duke of Blackmore knows better.”
“That is it precisely! Who is he to stand in judgment?”
“Only a man.”
Jane swallowed, realizing that here was someone who understood—truly understood how galling it was to be the object of undeserved derision. She wanted to weep at finding a kindred spirit in the precise moment she needed one. Had she been the weepy sort, she just might. But she was not. It could be too easily perceived as weakness, and she had more than enough of that to contend with. “It can’t have been easy for you.”
“Having Harrison for a brother?”
She nodded.
His eyes grew serious, then sorrowful. He swallowed visibly and looked away, coming back with an empty grin a moment later. “Have I told you of my most recent interaction with the duke?”
Shaking her head, she felt her curiosity pique. Would this be another amusing tale ending in Blackmore’s abject humiliation? Surely, that was just the balm she needed after this dreadful night. A good laugh before she must return to the dining room and breathe the same air as His Royal Iciness during supper.
Colin cleared his throat. “It involves a necklace. My mother’s necklace. Or, rather, our mother. His and mine. And Victoria’s, of course.”
“Yes, yes. Your mother. Do go on.”
His nose wrinkled on a sniff. He plucked idly at his coat sleeve and glanced down at his boots. “I lost it.”
She frowned. “You lost your mother’s necklace?”
The look he sent her was sheepish, but also something else. Nervous, perhaps. “It is a family heirloom, meant for the future Duchess of Blackmore.”
“How did you lose—”
“I’d been drinking. A great deal.”
“Ah. Yes, well. That explains it.”
A quiet smile warmed his eyes. “Not entirely. A former friend, Lord Milton, was curious about it and dared me to show it to him. So, I took it from Clyde-Lacey House and brought it to his town house.” Seeing her dismay, he quickly interjected, “A dreadful mistake, one of many I am now attempting to set right.”
She sighed. “Go on.”
“Somehow—I do not recall how—I left and returned home without the necklace. When I later asked Lord Milton about it, he claimed that I took it with me, but I know that is untrue. My belief is that he deliberately stole the necklace as retribution for his own ill fortune with cards.”
“He stole a family heirloom as recompense for your defeating him at the gaming table? What sort of gentleman—?”
“The low sort. As I have stated—”
She waved a hand. “Yes, yes. You are attempting to reform.”
He nodded. “To that end, I recently confessed the loss of the necklace to Harrison. He was … displeased.”
Releasing an inelegant snort, she asked, “What did he say?”
“That I should not speak to him again unless I was prepared to return what I had lost.”
She crossed her arms beneath her bosom, a single finger tapping along the edge of her long glove, just above her elbow. “Do you know, I have a brother and four sisters, each of whom has vexed me greatly at one time or another. But I never once considered cutting them from my life.”
Colin shrugged, implying he had long ago given up battling against his brother’s inflexibility. “It is his way. One can scarcely blame him. At least he has granted me the opportunity to repair the damage I have caused.” Smiling weakly, Colin shifted from one foot to the other.
“Have you a plan to retrieve the necklace?”
He had lowered his head to once again examine his boots, but at her question, he glanced up, his gaze oddly bright. “Yes.” He straightened his shoulders as though bracing himself. “I have determined the location where Milton is hiding the necklace. It is still in his house, here in London. But I cannot retrieve it while he is there, as he will surely be watching, knowing that I suspect him of the theft.”
She frowned. “Then, how will you gain access to his home?”
“I will not have to. All I need do is lure him away, leaving the house empty and unguarded for several hours, during which anyone could easily slip in and take back what is rightfully mine, with no one the wiser.”
By the time he finished, his gaze was intensely focused. On her. The implication was unmistakable.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. I agreed to convey my favorable impression of you to Victoria. I did not agree to become your partner in burglary.”
“I would not dare ask it of you—”
“Is that not what you just did?”
“—but you are my only hope, Lady Jane. It must be someone I can trust not to simply flee with the necklace, someone who would not raise suspicion, nor be particularly associated with me. I promise you will not be in a moment’s danger; I will make all the arrangements. You need only enter Milton’s house, retrieve the necklace, and return it to me the next day.”
“I’m sorry, Colin. I cannot h—”
“Harrison has given me an ultimatum—retrieve the necklace within a week, or he shall never speak to me again. And he will advise Victoria to do likewise. No doubt he expects me to fail, and this is merely his excuse to cut all ties.” Colin reached for her hands, forcing them out away from her body and squeezing them in his own. “Please, Lady Jane. You are my only true friend.”
His urgency was, indeed, severe. She felt it radiating from him in waves. He was desperate for her help. But how could she agree? If she were caught in such an illicit act, the consequences for her reputation would be nigh immeasurable.
On the other hand, she could not help picturing the Duke of Blackmore’s face upon being presented with the necklace he had demanded as the price for his loyalty, imagined him being forced to retreat from his rigid position, to bend toward forgiveness. It would be humbling to a man of his nature to be proven wrong.
For some reason, that mattered to Jane—more than it should. The Duke of Blackmore. Humbled. And, unbeknownst to him, she would play a role. She, Plain Jane Huxley, could bring the Ice King to his knees. All she must do is be a little daring.
Unfortunately, “daring” was one of many things she was not. She had read about daring, dreamed about it occasionally, witnessed it a few times. But it simply wasn’t her.
Colin squeezed her fingers, reminding her of the need to respond. She looked into his eyes. A half-shade less green than Victoria’s, and a half-shade less gray than Blackmore’s, they were quite a lovely blue. And quite troubled.
In the end, that was what convinced her.
“Very well,” she said, squeezing in return. “What would you need me to do?”
*~*~*