Liza would not trust them with her middle name, but they made delicious company. “Darlings,” she cried.
“Looking smashing,” Katherine drawled as they pressed cheeks. “I see you’ve a new toy. She looks very young. Shall I encourage Nigel to play with her?”
Liza laughed. “I can think of no more dangerous man on which to cut one’s milk teeth. Do be kind,” she added to Nigel.
“Never,” he said, flashing his teeth in a lazy grin.
“Very dramatic repartee,” commented the Baroness Forbes. She was a larger woman, whose upper arm wobbled quite vigorously as she fanned herself. But a kind woman—warm and expansive in her interests—who would do well by Jane even if her husband’s interest made her itchy. “I must say, it was good of you to give us a reason to flee London. You know my husband would insist on remaining until every house on Park Lane was shuttered.”
The baron heard this remark. “I enjoy town in the summer,” he called with a shrug.
This comment caused Katherine and Nigel to stare. “How bohemian,” Katherine said, in the same tones that a doctor might use to diagnose a contagious disease.
No. Don’t think of doctors. Liza smiled all the more brightly. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, and turned for the corner where, as fortune would have it, both her likely prospects lay.
In fact, it struck her as very good luck that Hollister and Weston should be standing together. She hadn’t known they were friendly, but there was no quicker route to securing one man’s interest than convincing him he was in competition with another.
“My lords,” she said as she sailed up. “I hope your journey to the back of beyond went smoothly?”
Bows and handshakes ensued. “If only all journeys ended in such fair views as this one,” said Hollister, with an admiring look that traveled from her head to her toes and back again.
Weston put his hand over his heart. “Hollister is a flirt, but I am a man of total sincerity. And I tell you, I would travel to Timbuktu if you waited there.”
Her light laugh felt false. It sounded false. For a beat of panic, she hesitated. Had she forgotten how to do this?
Don’t be foolish. “You’re both too kind,” she said. Both wealthy. Both attractive, though she did not favor blonds, which put Weston at a disadvantage. Hollister’s black hair had a pretty wave to it. Their eyes, she thought, were not particularly beautiful, being a lackluster brown and a muddy green, respectively.
Eyes did not matter. Their bank accounts did. And both were extraordinary in that regard.
“We were speaking of the Ascot,” said Hollister. “Did you wager correctly? Weston claims he’s never lost, but then, I trust no man who claims to be sincere.”
“A lady never tells, sir.” She’d wagered far too much and lost every penny of it. Such idiocy, in retrospect.
As she glanced around the room, it occurred to her that one couple was missing. “Where are the Sanburnes?” She was eager to see James; he and Lydia had returned from their honeymoon only a week ago, after an endless sojourn in Canada, the purpose of which still puzzled her. Twelve months in Canada, of all places. Where next? And for how long? Siberia for a decade?
“They went for a stroll in the garden,” said Weston. “Apparently Sanburne has developed an appreciation for foliage.” He traded a wry look with Hollister, who smirked.
Liza did not like that expression on him. Advantage, then, to Weston, whose arm she briefly touched. “Newlyweds,” she sighed. Had her touch raised a hint of color in his cheeks? Very promising. “Always stealing off to admire the ferns.”
“Surely, after a year, one would think—” Hollister paused. “Ah, here they come now.”
Her heart lifted. James was a childhood friend, and she had missed him terribly, and so much had happened in his absence, and she could not wait—
Half turned, she came to a stop.
Michael Grey was walking into the room.
For a brief, stupid second her heart soared. And then reality crashed in and she gaped.
Michael Grey was here. Dressed in evening wear.
Where had he found formal tails? The suit looked . . . very expensive. And elegant. The snowy white necktie set off his square jaw, his tanned face, to perfection. He was devastatingly attractive; he might have fit in anywhere. But not here. He was barging into her party!
Shock held her paralyzed, even as Sanburne called out a greeting to her, and his wife—who looked shockingly pretty, much prettier than Liza remembered, her dark hair done up in a stylish twist—lifted a hand.
She could not believe Michael’s gall. To expressly ignore her wishes, to thrust himself upon her friends—for Sanburne leaned over and spoke something in his ear, as though they were not perfect strangers, and in response, Michael laughed and nodded, and—dear God but her heart turned over in her chest, for his laughter was low and rich and musical, and it spoke to parts of her ungovernable by good sense. His eyes met hers, and her skin seemed to come alive with heat.
No. No, no, no. Weston and Hollister stood right beside her! Focus. Focus on his brazenness—his presumption—simply because she had slept with him, he thought he could overrule her wishes, bully his way into her party?
Oh, but they had not slept. She could not imagine being calm enough, beside him, to sleep—
She lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said sweetly to Weston and Hollister.
“Oh, for certain,” said Weston. “Didn’t know de Grey would be here.”
Her next step hitched. That—she hadn’t heard that right. How would he know Michael Grey?
Sanburne and his wife had been intercepted by the Hawthornes. She strode directly for Michael. His gaze lifted. Their eyes locked and for the span of a heartbeat everything in her swelled like a symphony.
She bit her tongue hard as a punishment. What unforgivable cheek! Had he gone mad? What did he think he was about?
He did not look away from her as Nigel spoke to him, some remark that caused him to smile faintly. He would not be smiling in a minute!
She drew up before the group. Something in her movement must have betrayed her agitation, for the Hawthornes, ever alert to scandal, broke off their conversations to study her.
Sanburne stepped in front of them. “My God,” he said as he looked her over. “Looking very purple tonight, Lizzie.”
Sanity fell over her like an icy rain. She could not make a scene here. A scene would make the Hawthornes wonder. And the Hawthornes, set to wondering, did not stop until they solved the mystery. “Is that”—she cleared her throat—“is that really all you can say, James? Well, I suppose I should be grateful. After twelve months in Canada, it’s a wonder you speak English at all.”
“But that’s the main language of Canada,” said Lydia, Viscountess Sanburne, in tones of puzzlement, even as her husband discarded convention and pulled Liza into a hug.
Over Sanburne’s shoulders she once again met Michael’s eyes. Get out, she mouthed.
His smile broadened. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Chudderley.”
James must have felt her go rigid, for he lifted his brow in a silent question as she pulled away. “I hadn’t realized you two knew each other,” he said.
What was he talking about? Liza could not focus, for now the viscountess was addressing her. “So good to see you,” Lydia said, and she, rattled enough to forget whom she was dealing with, leaned in to kiss the viscountess’s cheek.
Not a warm and cuddly sort, Lady Sanburne. Reformed spinsters so rarely were. But she proved surprisingly game for Frenchness, even giving Liza’s shoulder a squeeze before retreating to her husband’s side. “What lovely gardens you have,” she said, and darted an abashed glance toward—Michael. “Lord Michael said you had a way with roses. I’d not realized you favored horticulture.”
Lord Michael! Roses! The brazenness! Liza gritted her teeth. “Prowling about, was he?”
“De Grey was always a bit slinky,” Sanburne said.
&nbs
p; De Grey? “This man . . .”
Michael de Grey. She knew that name.
Lord Michael. The de Greys. Why . . .
“Ah, yes,” said Nigel to Michael. “Now it comes to me where I’ve seen you. How fares your brother?”
“Didn’t he just sack you from your own hospital?” asked Katherine with a pleasant smile. “I believe I read something about it.”
Sanburne touched her arm. “Lizzie,” he said in an undertone, “are you quite all right?”
No. She was not all right. Sanburne knew this man. Nigel knew of this man. Which meant her doctor was no country rustic, but a fraud.
And he was watching her with a smile that was distinctly unkind. “More accurately, I would say I stepped down,” he replied to Katherine. “Other matters required my . . . particular attentions.”
Why did those words ring a bell?
She gasped. Those were her words—spoken to him . . . about him. For, God help her, she had no choice but to conclude that he was the brother of . . .
“The Duke of Marwick is not seen much of late,” Nigel said. “Katherine speculated he might be ailing. But I reminded her, with a doctor for a brother, he’ll have to use another excuse.”
The ringing of the dinner bell saved her. Were it not for the bell, the entire room would have heard Liza whimper.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“So curious,” Katherine Hawthorne said, her voice cutting clearly through the conversations of the six people who sat between her and Liza. “How on earth does one miscalculate the number of place settings?”
The answer was simple: one did not know that a rat would crash one’s party. But one did not confess such, lest one wished one’s relationship with said rat to receive a very uncomfortable degree of speculation.
Instead, from her place at the head of the table, Liza pretended not to hear. Her wine made a good excuse for inattention. She reached for it—her third glass; she’d managed to drink two, very quickly, as the table settings were rearranged. Yet somehow she wasn’t tipsy. Or perhaps the wine’s effect was indistinguishable from the shock that had already set her head to spinning.
Not only a liar, but brother to the Duke of Marwick. No playwright could have designed a better irony. How Nello would have laughed!
Lord Weston leaned in from her right elbow, his face full of sympathy. “Good help can be very hard to find,” he said.
He had a very nice nose, did Lord Weston. Straight and firm, not at all oversized. His lips were not so full as one might wish, but they were honest and did not speak lies. “How true,” she said.
“Is Ronson slipping? I’ll be glad to steal him away.” This from Sanburne, who sat at her left and, until this moment, had been entertaining himself by flirting with his wife. They made a curious couple, Lydia being a prim and reserved scholar, James being one of England’s handsomest men—and, until recently, one of its most dissolute scapegraces, to boot.
“There is nothing wrong with Ronson,” Liza said. He was probably standing behind her right now. She didn’t dare look. Her butler was capable of the most tremendous scowls.
“Dementia, is it?” James asked with interest.
Liza looked very quickly over her shoulder—but Ronson had abandoned his place by the sideboard, probably to check on matters in the kitchen. Thank God! “Only bad tempered,” she said as she turned back. “But his hearing is excellent, mind you.”
“All the better,” said James cheerfully. “We can sic him on my father, and hope for a homicide.”
“James,” said Lydia in a chiding tone.
He sighed. “You’re right, Lyd. It would be too cruel to Ronson.”
Liza finished her wine and was gratified by a footman’s quick approach with more. Her staff was excellent. And very prideful. “If you don’t wish your soup poisoned, James, I would confine your witticisms to the guests.”
Lydia abruptly laid down her spoon.
Goodness. That was a clumsy misstep. She cast a quick look at Weston, who was frowning into his own soup. “Only a joke,” Liza said, and tried to laugh reassuringly, for nobody liked a bitter hostess. Instead her laughter squeaked like a rusty hinge. Or perhaps like something unhinged.
No wonder poison was on her mind! Against her will, her gaze swung across the table, to the man who sat diagonally across from Lydia.
Michael de Grey was doing a splendid job of ignoring her. Currently his attention focused on his dinner partner, Baroness Forbes, who had been delighted to meet “the famous doctor.” Apparently she knew all about his hospital. Probably she also knew about his other talents. That would explain her quivering interest in him.
For Michael de Grey was nothing more than a rake! Her decent, upstanding country swain was in fact notorious for his womanizing exploits—or at least one of them, for Lady Heverley herself still fed the rumors, fanning herself and sighing every time his name was mentioned in public. She was desperate, probably, to remind the world that a man had once wanted her. She must be fifteen years older than de Grey.
But what of it? Michael de Grey was not known for his select tastes. No—he was known simply as widows’ catnip!
A flush stung Liza’s cheeks—a violent blush fed by her mortification. Why, now she had become one of his desperate widows! One among a great number of women generally characterized as grasping and hungry, avid for the smallest crumb of attention a man like de Grey might cast their way—
“Mrs. Chudderley,” called Katherine Hawthorne in a gay, bright voice. “How grim you look! I suppose I should look grim as well, were my staff so forgetful! How on earth did they miscount the table settings?”
A dozen pairs of eyes swung in her direction—but not, she noticed, those belonging to the widows’ catnip. He remained focused on the baroness. Somebody should point out to him that she was not a widow. The baron remained very much alive, presiding genially over the foot of the table.
The rat’s hair was too long for a duke’s brother. Where had he gotten that jacket? It molded to his body in a manner that suggested bespoke tailoring from Savile Row. Had he hidden his finer clothing away in that little house he’d rented? Oh, what a laugh he must have had when she recommended Mr. Broward’s haberdashery!
“I’m quite well,” she said. And she would be once she’d kicked the cad out of her house. It would have to be a quiet expulsion, done while the others were distracted. That did not mean it would be peaceful. “I confess, it was my fault that we were lacking one cover—will you forgive me, darling, if I admit that it had quite slipped my mind that you were coming?”
Katherine did not miss a beat. “Oh, not in the least,” she said with a laugh. “Why, I almost forgot I was coming. These little events do tend to slip my mind!”
On a deep breath, Liza reminded herself that she had invited Katherine for a reason. Excellent training for Jane, and a guaranteed diversion should boredom set in. Nevertheless, at this moment, she wished the woman to the devil, for she needed no distractions beyond the liar two seats away. “I’m sure your social calendar is packed to the gills, darling. But take care; I find regular rest very beneficial to one’s looks. You really should try to make more time for it.”
“Point to Lizzie,” Sanburne said, and picked up his wineglass. But where a year ago he might have drained it and joined Liza on the fourth round, marriage had altered his habits: when he returned the wine to the table, its level was barely diminished.
Liza, looking from his glass to hers, grew conscious of a strange unhappiness on that count. It was so much easier to drink deeply when one had a companion in it.
Michael was not drinking at all.
Her eyes fixed on his untouched glass. How malicious were his intentions here? The possibilities were dark, though she could not bring herself to believe the worst of them. Even if he knew that Nello had cuckolded his brother, it would make no sense to punish her for it. When Nello had taken up with the duchess, Liza had also been betrayed.
Perhaps he didn’t even know about
the affair. Perhaps this was some cosmically unhappy coincidence. In which case . . . she felt nothing but wrath. Of course he required no wine to be comfortable at her table. His brazenness served him better! He practically lounged, and if he was aware of Katherine’s ongoing effort to brush her breasts against his arm, he showed no sign of it.
God in heaven. She had warned him that her grand friends might discomfort him—when his brother outranked everyone in this room!
She wanted to take his comfort and smother him with it.
The force of her glare finally registered on him. For a second, across the span of the candlelit table, his eyes met hers. In the candlelight, he looked like a medieval icon, his strong cheekbones underlaid by dramatic shadows. The light even softened the line of his nose. He looked positively, typically handsome. No wonder Katherine kept trying to win his attention from the baroness!
“Perhaps we need more light in here,” Liza said. “It’s very dim.” That nose would benefit from the glare.
“Good God, must we see what we’re eating?” asked James. “How barbaric—” Wincing, he came to an abrupt stop.
“It’s a very fine spread,” Lydia said. “I should love to see it more clearly.”
“Ouch,” said James. “That leg you kicked belongs to your loving husband. Have a care with it.”
“Such lovely centerpieces,” Lydia said emphatically.
“Really, Lyd, you could have played football.”
“Oh, let the lights be,” said Weston. He offered Liza a warm smile. “You’re the consummate hostess, Mrs. Chudderley, and I can think of no finer atmosphere. Indeed—I’m informed that you have a great roster of wonders in store for us this week!”
Liza called up an answering smile. To the devil with de Grey! She would deal with him later; in the meantime, let him flirt with whomever he liked. Her quarry was here. And tomorrow, with the less conventional seating she’d arranged, she would evade the tiresome rules of precedence and give Hollister a chance to be her dinner escort. A fair contest between her eligible bachelors. “Someone has been telling secrets,” she said. “I wished to keep the entertainments a surprise!”