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The dowager, who’d possessed more spirit than anticipated, had promptly tossed her champagne punch into the cheat’s face. Face dripping, the cheat had jumped up and accused Graeme of lying. Since that was not the sort of insult any Kendrick could allow to stand, events had quickly escalated.
The end result had seen the cheat sprawled on the floor amid the remains of Her Grace’s Chinese screen. Fortunately, the Duchess of Leverton—who happened to be Victoria’s cousin and a bit of a hellion, herself—had simply told Graeme that his actions were perfectly understandable.
The Duke of Leverton, however, had been decidedly less impressed. Graeme had generally made a point of steering clear of His Grace ever since.
Fortunately, the duke and his duchess had left town for the summer months. Most of the nobility, wishing to escape the heat, had followed suit. Still, there were enough left in the city to make Lady Peregrim’s ball sufficiently crowded.
That was why Graeme now lurked behind a pillar like an idiotic character from a melodrama as he watched the guests laden with jewels, gold watches, and gem-encrusted snuffboxes. The Peregrims were hosting one of the largest events of the summer and, in both Aden’s and Graeme’s opinions, it would be too tempting a target for the gang of thieves to resist.
Unfortunately, he’d yet to see any hint of a thief in the ballroom, so it was time to investigate other parts of the house, including the library. There, Lord Peregrim kept a priceless collection of snuffboxes in a glass case, under lock and key.
As Graeme well knew from his youthful escapades, a lock never stopped a determined thief.
He slipped out to the hall. Aden was hanging about somewhere, and there were guards posted on the grounds. Aden’s coachman and grooms were also out front, keeping their eyes on arrivals and exits. They were finally well positioned to catch the thieves in an inescapable net.
As Graeme passed the main drawing room, he stuck his head in for a quick look for Aden and almost collided with the doorframe.
Lady Sabrina Bell was seated on a velvet chaise under a massive pier glass, surrounded by a small group of fawning suitors. And seated next toheron the bloody chaise was the bloody Marquess of Cringlewood.
Disturbingly, the lass seemed receptive to his attentions, with her head tilted politely in his direction as she listened to what were no-doubt smarmy lies. Clearly, Vivien’s warning had failed to take. Since Cringlewood was both handsome and a marquess, Graeme told himself he shouldn’t be surprised.
True evil lurked beneath Cringlewood’s polished exterior, an evil that destroyed lives without hesitation. The thought of an innocent young woman like Sabrina falling into his clutches . . .
Graeme forced himself to punch through the fury clouding his mind. A public confrontation with Cringlewood would reignite all the ugly gossip about Ainsley. Graeme’s best course was to find Aden and send him to deal with the situation. After all, the girl was sitting in a drawing room, surrounded by friends. She wouldn’t come to harm in the few minutes it would take Graeme to hunt down his chief.
Bollocks to that.
As he crossed the spacious but crowded room, Graeme’s brain issued a stern directive to march back in the other direction. That also failed to take, and he came to a halt in front of the chaise. Lady Sabrina had just turned her attention to a clearly smitten lad with bad skin and a worse cravat across from her. She glanced up at Graeme and her peacock gaze popped wide, her pink mouth rounding in a surprised oval.
“Oh . . . ah, Mr. Kendrick,” she stuttered. “How are—”
“Lady Sabrina, I regret the interruption, but this is our dance,” Graeme said firmly.
She blinked, politely nonplussed, as was her little group of suitors.
But not Cringlewood. The marquess glared up at him with an unconcealed hatred that even a blind man could have sensed.
Graeme half turned his back on Cringlewood to focus on the other men. “Forgive the intrusion, gentlemen, but I’m sure you can understand my desire to claim my dance.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Graeme saw Cringlewood flush at the deliberate cut. Sabrina’s other suitors looked vaguely horrified.
Sabrina regarded Graeme with a slightly quizzical smile, as if waiting to see what would happen next.
The lad with the blemished skin spoke first. “Oh, absolutely. Devastated to lose her ladyship’s company, naturally, but none of us can blame you one bit.” He stood and gave Graeme a carefully correct nod. “I’m Reggie Park, by the way. My parents are Lord and Lady Peregrim.”
“Our gracious hosts,” Graeme said with a smile. “They throw a splendid party.”
“Reggie, this is Mr. Graeme Kendrick,” Sabrina said. “I believe your parents know his brother, Lord—”
“Arnprior. Quite a barbarian, even for a Scot,” Cringlewood interrupted in an elegant drawl. “I confess to some surprise that Lady Peregrim has lowered her excellent standards by inviting riffraff like a Kendrick to her affairs.” He flashed Reggie a smile. “Surely that was an oversight on your dear mamma’s part.”
Reggie blinked, and Sabrina’s two other suitors went rather pale. One, a sober, middle-aged gentleman, mumbled something about meeting his mother and all but scuttled backward in his haste to escape. The other, a genial looking fellow about Graeme’s age, also stuttered an excuse and made his exit.
Sabrina barely gave them a glance before turning to narrow her gaze on the marquess. Despite the fact that she was a dab little lass, at least by Graeme’s measurements, she did an excellent job of staring haughtily down her nose at Cringlewood.
Graeme had to swallow a chuckle. The idiot was so consumed with his hatred for all things Kendrick that he’d failed to notice how he’d offended the woman he was trying to woo.
Reggie was also leveling a glare at Cringlewood. “If my mother invited Mr. Kendrick, I’m sure he’s perfectly up to scratch, sir.”
