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Ned had been caught sharing an indiscreet embrace with Lady Kathleen, who was now considered thoroughly compromised. In the intervening minutes since this had happened, Ned had been punched in the nose, and he’d bled through somewhere between two and five handkerchiefs. Whether the punch had been thrown by the lady herself or by her father, the Duke of Ware, was unknown.
Bad enough on its own. But matters grew worse.
Even if the duke hadn’t thrown the punch, it was clear the man had not stood idly by. There was a challenge. A duel, in this day and age. Pistols or swords, Ware had offered, and Ned had little experience with either weapon. Not that it mattered, because Ned couldn’t fight a man well in his sixties, and a peer of the realm.
The hostess’s attempts to calm the man had been to no avail; the point, Ware had apparently announced to the titillated hordes, was not to satisfy honor but to slay the bastard who’d touched his daughter.
“Oh, Blakely. Thank heavens.”
Gareth halted at the gasping words. They were the first anyone had dared speak to him all evening. Even through the stress and strain and tears that threatened to choke the speaker, he recognized her voice.
He turned to greet his sister.
Laura skidded to a halt in front of him. For one horrendously awkward moment, he thought she might actually throw herself into his arms. In public. With everyone watching. The flowers in her hair dangled on broken stems and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
Unfortunately, she checked her impulse toward affection. Gareth drew himself up, straight and tall. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have wanted to comfort her in front of all these people, anyway.
“Where—” He didn’t even have time to start.
“Come with me. You have to come with me.” She was hoarse. Little pockets of interested silence formed around the two of them. Everyone managed to look not quite in their direction, heads cocked and ears open.
The spectacle clearly had not yet finished. Gareth had no desire to play out this scene for public consumption, knowing it would be repeated ad nauseam in every last London drawing room for the next weeks. He’d go to the devil before he heard his sister’s name on everyone’s lips.
As Laura turned to lead him away, Gareth realized his options were extremely limited. He was already on the devil’s doorstep.
Gareth followed his sister. The crowds parted for them, and the murmurs grew to a roar. They walked sedately, not touching. Not that it would have mattered if they’d linked arms and skipped the length of the hall, because all eyes were on them nonetheless. Once they entered a hallway, Gareth felt relief from the pressure of that attention almost immediately. No suffocating crowds. No watching eyes.
He need only deal with whatever madness Ned had managed to create. Laura paused before a door, squared her shoulders and opened it.
Inside, all the parties had congregated. This, then, was the room where the incident had taken place. A long table stretched end to end. The chairs were strewn about the room in a chaotic whirl, arranged for a madman’s tea party. Lady Kathleen huddled in one corner, her mother fluttering over her like a protective warbler. Ned’s own mother sat in the corner, watching Ned with dark, sad eyes. And there in the middle, straddling an upholstered chair, sat Ned. He slumped miserably, his arms folded against the back of his seat.
Next to him, the Duke of Ware towered. The man’s bald pate shone in the orange gaslight. He, too, was gesturing. And talking at—definitely at rather than to—Ned. At Gareth’s entrance, he curtailed his tirade.
“Blakely.” The older duke had clearly been waiting for this moment.
Gareth returned his nod. “Ware.”
Gareth walked closer. Ware stepped carefully around Ned to make room for them both. The careful dance reminded Gareth of two predators circling the same carcass, each uncertain whether to share the kill or fight for solitary rights.
“Your boy here—” Ware jerked his head in angry indication “—can’t explain himself worth a damn.”
“That’s hardly news to me. Nonetheless,” Gareth said, “I can’t allow you to kill him. His death would be a terrible inconvenience for me.”
Ware snorted. “If this is a sample of his behavior, his death couldn’t be so inconvenient as his life.”
Ned didn’t even wince at that blow. Undoubtedly he’d been showered with compliments in a similar vein ever since this scene had collapsed in on him.
And collapse it had. A man with half Gareth’s intelligence could easily make sense of everything that had taken place. Ned believed that Gareth was supposed to marry Lady Kathleen. And Gareth had been supposed to arrive half an hour earlier.
If it hadn’t been for Madame Esmerelda and her tea, Gareth, rather than Ned, might have been caught in this scrape.
“Ah,” Gareth said.
Ned buried his forehead deep into his arms.
The damned thing was Gareth couldn’t even work up a proper temper. He should have been angry. He should have been fuming at Ned’s machinations.
What he felt instead was a terrible sympathy for the boy folded into that chair. What Ned had done was wrong. But Gareth understood what drove that impulse. It had been pride, a desire to be right at all costs, and that damned, trusting loyalty.
It was the same impulse that had driven Ned to offer Lady Kathleen the elephant, that had pushed the boy to his feet, clapping and shouting, after Gareth finished that terrible song. Ned had somehow convinced himself this was the right thing to do.
“Blakely.” Ned’s voice was obscured by so much superfine sleeve. “It wasn’t supposed to be me here. It was supposed to be you.”
“What?” Ware purpled, and grabbed the back of Ned’s coat. “You compromised my daughter, and you didn’t even want her for yourself?” He hissed the words. “If you ever tell her that, I’ll—”
Gareth held up his hand. There were not many men who would have the effrontery to silence a duke. There were fewer still who could do so successfully. By some small miracle, Gareth discovered he was one of the lucky few. Ware relaxed his hold on Ned’s jacket.
“Ware. We will talk to you. First, however, I must ascertain what has transpired here, and why.”
“I’ve been trying to ascertain the whys all evening,” Ware growled, “and your boy here hasn’t made a lick of sense.”
“I need to talk with him alone. At this point of the proceedings, I doubt we could settle anything in an intelligent fashion. Take your daughter and your wife home, and we can discuss this later.”
“But I want to kill him now.”
Gareth met the man’s eyes. “You want to kill him. But you’ll take your daughter home instead.”
The duke’s square jaw snapped shut. For a long while, he met Gareth’s gaze, clearly longing to lay waste to marquess and hapless cousin alike. Then he turned on his heel. “Come, poppet. No sense staying where tongues will wag. Let’s get you home.”
Gareth escorted the remaining players from the room. But even as he shut the door on the last one, Ned remained slumped in his seat on the chair. He hadn’t even lifted his head from his sleeve.
“I shall make your confession easy.” Gareth tried to gentle his voice. It didn’t work. Instead, his words came out a fierce rumble. “I have already determined it was I who should have been trapped in whatever elaborate and idiotic tableau you had planned.”
Ned didn’t lift his head. Instead, he mumbled into his sleeve. “I did it for your benefit. It was supposed to be for the best. Someone has to be able to fix this.”
That someone, Gareth thought, was going to be him. Responsibility again. Responsibility and, he realized, fault. He’d been a cold, unfeeling brute to Ned. Now, perhaps, he had a chance to patch matters up.
“I’m sorry,” Ned said. “I knew it was up to me. And I—I just couldn’t do it. She told me to rely on myself,” Ned continued. “I did. And so it has to come out right. Doesn’t it?”
“She?” A cold chill collected in Gareth’s lu
ngs. “Ned,” he said slowly, “I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell me as best you can exactly what Madame Esmerelda told you to do.”
IT HAD BEEN MORE THAN AN HOUR, and Lord Blakely had not yet returned.
Unable to sleep, unable even to rest, Jenny paced up and down the front room. At first, every noise she heard set her heart fluttering in anticipation. The leisurely beat of shoe leather against cobblestones started her pulse racing. She rushed to the windows—and then turned away in disappointment as an elderly ragman tramped by in the gloom. The warm spring night brought many such disappointments—noises that could have heralded his return. The passage of high-stepping horses. The slap of reins against hindquarters the next street over. London streets teemed with activity, even at this late hour. If one expected company, every last sound brought hope.
