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Chapter Seven
As Reginald returned to the ball, he was haunted by the image of the woman he’d seen in the gardens. He ought to forget her. She was a distraction from his goal, which was to charm Lady Marcella, his betrothed, and yet he couldn’t help but sneak glimpses of the enchanting young woman.
What a lovely creature she was.
Of course, fate would force him to marry some vain lady of thetonwhen such a delectable, clever creature wassotemptingly near. She didn’t know him, though. That lady didn’t know who he really was or what he’d done, and if she did, Reginald was quite sure that she’d treat him just as the others had—an object of pity and curiosity.
“You look as though you’re set to be hanged, dear cousin,” Simon drawled.
Simon meant the comment in jest, but Reginald couldn’t find any humor in it when he’d been so near to hanging himself.
“I detest this event,” Reginald said. “That’s all.”
He looked at his wine glass, filled with something light and bubbly. Reginald hadn’t the faintest idea what it might be, but it didn’t have the same bite as the beers he’d consumed in London’s taverns. This concoction tasted bitter on his tongue.
“That’s rather ungrateful of you,” Simon said. “I’d be beyond pleased if the Duke of Mavis was hosting such a grand ball in my honor.”
“You’re welcome to it,” Reginald replied dryly, draining his glass in a few heavy gulps.
Simon grimaced, seemingly finding fault somewhere. Reginald assumed it was how he’d chosen to finish his wine. God, he’d forgotten so much over the years.
“I’d take it if I could,” Simon replied, cavalierly waving his own glass. “Alas, I’m instead occupied with trying to find my future wife. My prospects have become increasingly unpredictable, however, with your return. Thank you for that.”
“You’re assuming the courts rule in my favor,” Reginald replied.
“His Grace is quite sure of it.”
Reginald averted his gaze, searching once more for the woman he’d met in the garden, but she’d vanished somewhere into the crowd of dancers. Simon was right; the courts likely would side with Reginald. That was, unless the courts found him unsuitable as a Marquess, which they very well might. Suddenly, Reginald understood the importance of renewing his engagement with Lady Marcella and in them agreeing to wed. It was a small gesture which would show that Reginald was taking the reclaiming of his title seriously.
“I suppose we’ll see,” Reginald replied. “Will there be any ill will between us depending on the ruling?”
“No,” Simon said, his smile strained. “Of course, I will fight for my right to keep the title and lands, or rather, my attorneys will. After being absent for ten years, I’m sure you’d understand if you were deemed…unsuitable, despite your good breeding.”
Reginald searched the room, trying to see if he might find his soon-to-be bride’s face, but there were too many ladies. Besides, he’d last seen Lady Marcella when she was ten. The only familiar woman was his aunt, Blaire, who was across the room, deep in conversation with another woman. Reginald strained to remember the lady’s name. She didn’t look especially old, but her auburn hair was already threaded with white.
He remembered so few people.
“What is Lady Marcella like?”
“Unlikeable,” Simon replied. “She’s pretty enough for a man to forget that, though. Her fortune is quite impressive, too.”
Reginald’s thoughts drifted to the woman in the garden. She’d been an odd creature, too. It seemed that all sorts of oddities had appeared in his absence.
“Did you enjoy your time in London?” Simon asked mockingly. “It was as a highwayman, wasn’t it? Such a romantic profession.”
Reginald clenched his jaw. “I wouldn’t call it romantic.”
“Oh,” Simon said. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, I suppose.”
“Perhaps, I’ll show you some time,” Reginald replied, without pausing to think. “Then, you’ll be able to learn if everything you believe about highwaymen is true.”
“I’ve no interest in learning if it’s true,” Simon said. “I wouldn’t say such things, either, if I were you. It’s better to bury the past.”
If nothing else, Reginald had been quite fervently trying to bury his, and yet it kept coming back for him. The past had emerged like some sort of monster in those novels Emma Smythe delighted so much in reading. Reginald felt a pang in his chest for the Smythe family, who’d always been so warm and loving.
If he’d never been found by his father and brought to his country estate, he’d have been in London at that precise moment. He might’ve been having dinner with Smythe, who would talk about his work and his family. Or Reginald might’ve been at a tavern with Charles, Edward, and Isaac. They might’ve been plotting their next target.
“What do you do if the past pursues you?” Reginald asked. “Has that ever happened to you?”
