The young lady glanced around, nervousness escalating in the face of Kirby’s dismissive contempt. He watched, unmoved, as she lifted a bag—a cloth sack of the type maids used when shopping; fumbling within, she drew forth a snuffbox.
Kirby took it; he glanced around, confirming they were unobserved, then raised the box so the light struck the miniature painting on the lid.
“Is it . . .” The young lady swallowed, then whispered, “Do you think it will be worth something?”
Kirby lowered his arm; the box disappeared into one of the capacious pockets of his coat. “You have a good eye. It’ll fetch a few guineas. What else?”
The lady handed over a perfume flask, crystal with a gold lid, a pair of lorgnettes, old but riddled with small diamonds, and a pair of small candlesticks, silver and finely wrought.
Kirby briefly assessed each item; one by one, they disappeared into his pockets. “Quite a nice little haul.” He saw the young lady flinch, observed her dispassionately. “Your excursion to Hightham Hall was well worthwhile.” Voice lowering, he added, “I’m sure Edward will be grateful.”
The young lady looked up. “Have you heard from him?”
Kirby studied her face, then calmly replied, “His latest communication painted a grim picture. When such as Edward are cast off”—he shrugged—“it’s not easy for them to find their feet in the gutter.”
The lady sighed despondently and looked away.
Kirby was silent for a moment, then smoothly said, “I’ve heard rumors of a wedding.” He pretended not to notice the stricken look in the lady’s eyes as she swung to face him; instead, drawing that morning’s Gazette from another pocket, he gave his attention to the item he’d circled. “It appears it’ll be held at Somersham Place next Wednesday.”
Lifting his gaze, he fixed it on her face. “You’ll be attending, I’m sure, and that’s an opportunity too good to miss.”
One hand rising to the lace at her throat, the lady shook her head. “No—I can’t!”
Kirby studied her for a moment, then said, “Before you make that decision, hear me out. The Cynsters are as rich as bedamned—wealthy beyond belief. Word has it Somersham Place is crammed full of objects and ornaments collected over the centuries by members of a family who’ve always had the means to indulge their expensive tastes. Anything you pick up there will be worth a small fortune, yet it’ll be one small item from a sprawling mansion filled to bursting with similar things. The chances are one or two things will never be missed.
“And we shouldn’t forget that Somersham Place is only one of several ducal residences. On top of that, there are the residences of other family members—not all, perhaps, will be as richly endowed, but all will contain artwork and ornaments of the highest standard—of that you may be sure.
“Now, let’s contrast this with Edward’s dire situation.” Kirby paused, as if selecting his words, censoring his knowledge; when he continued, his tone was somber, subdued. “It would not be untrue to say Edward’s case is desperate.”
Fixing the young lady with a hard and steady gaze, he went on, “Edward has nothing—as he wrote in his letter to you, his brother has refused to support him, so he’s reduced to eking out a living in any way he can. A rat-infested garrett, stale bread and water his only food, he’s at the limit of his resources and in a very bad way.” Kirby heaved a tight sigh and looked across the square at the houses fronting it. “I seek only to help him, but I’ve already given all I can—and I don’t have access to the places, to the homes, to the people who own things it won’t hurt them to lose.”
The young lady had paled; she swung away—Kirby reached out to haul her back, but she turned back of her own accord, wringing her hands. He lowered his arm unobtrusively.
“In his letter, he only asked me to get those two things—the inkstand and the perfume flask. He said they belonged to his grandparents and had been promised to him—they were his, all I did was to bring them to you so he could have them.” The lady lifted her eyes, beseechingly, to Kirby’s face. “Surely, if he believed those two things would see him through, then together with the other items”—she nodded at Kirby’s pockets—“the ones I’ve just given you, and the others, too, then Edward should have enough to survive for a few months?”
Kirby’s smile was rueful, patronizing, but understanding. “I’m afraid, my dear, that Edward is, in his present arena, no more up to snuff than you. Because he so desperately needs the money these items will bring, he cannot get much for them. That’s the way such things work.” He paused, then added, “As I said, he’s in a very bad way. Indeed . . .” He seemed to recollect himself and stopped, then, after transparently wrestling with his conscience while the young lady watched, he sighed and met her gaze. “I should not say such a thing, yet I greatly fear I cannot answer for what he will do if we cannot get him decent funds soon.”
The young lady’s eyes grew round. “You mean . . . ?”
Kirby grimaced. “He won’t be the first sprig of an aristocratic house who couldn’t face life in a foreign gutter.”
One hand rising to her lips, the young lady turned away. Kirby watched from under hooded lids, and waited.
After some moments, she drew in a shaky breath, and turned back to him. “You said anything, any little item from Somersham Place, will be worth a small fortune?”
Kirby nodded.
“So if I take something from there, and give it to you, then Edward will have enough to live on.”
Kirby’s nod was immediate. “It’ll keep him from starving.”
“Or doing anything else?”
“That’s in the lap of the gods, but at least it’ll give him a chance.”
The young lady stared across the square, then she drew in a breath, and nodded. “Very well.” Lifting her chin, she met Kirby’s gaze. “I’ll find something—something good.”
Kirby studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Your devotion is to be applauded.”
Briefly, he told her where to meet him, where and when she should bring her next contribution to Edward’s well-being. She agreed and they parted. Kirby watched her cross the square, then turned and strode in the opposite direction.
Why the devil had he decided on Wednesday?
Returning to Calverton House on Monday afternoon, Luc stalked into his study, shut the door, then flung himself into an armchair and stared at the empty hearth.
If he’d said Monday instead . . .
He’d avoided Upper Brook Street on the day the notice announcing their nuptials had appeared in the Gazette. Predictably, all fashionable London, or so it had seemed, had descended on the Cynsters to congratulate Amelia and gossip about the wedding. Even here, at Calverton House, his mother had been besieged by callers throughout the morning; after luncheon, she’d shrewdly decided to join Amelia and Louise in Brook Street, so the wishful could have at them all at once.
Saturday evening they’d spent under the full glare of avid—not to say rabid—scrutiny at Lady Harris’s soirée, one of the last major engagements before the ton retired to their estates for summer. The weather had already turned warm, the ladies’ gowns commensurately revealing. To his relief, Amelia had restrained herself; she’d appeared in a demure sheath of gold silk to parade on his arm, ineffably calm and courteous to all those who paused to wish them well.
He hadn’t had a chance for so much as a moment in private with her. Lecturing himself that the evening was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, he’d accepted the fact with what he’d thought at the time to be reasonable grace. The intent look Amelia had bent on him when they’d ended the evening and parted, under her mother’s watchful eye, had suggested that she, at least, had seen past his mask—sensed the restless dissatisfaction he’d concealed.
Deciding he wasn’t averse to her sensing his impatience, he’d called the next afternoon—Sunday—expecting to whisk her away, to spend at least some moments alone with her, moments with her attention all his, only to discover t
he females of her family had congregated to confer and plan the wedding.
Vane, having escorted his wife, Patience, to the gathering, was leaving as he arrived. “Take my advice—White’s would be much more to your taste.”
It had taken less than a second for him to consider, and disgustedly agree. White’s at that hour was thoroughly unexciting; it was, however, safe.
On Sunday evening, he and his mother had hosted the more or less traditional formal dinner for the families of bride and groom. He’d never seen his staff so excited; Cottsloe spent the entire evening beaming fit to burst. Mrs. Higgs exceeded her own high standards; despite once again being denied any chance of a private word with Amelia, he had to admit the evening had gone well.
Devil, of course, had been present. They’d come upon each other in the drawing room later in the evening. Devil’s eyes had searched his, then he’d grinned. “Still not broached the painful subject?”
He’d calmly turned to survey the company. “You can talk.” He’d waited only a heartbeat before adding, “However, I can assure you no mention of that particular topic will occur before the wedding.”
“Still determined?”
“Absolutely.”
Devil had sighed exaggeratedly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.” Turning, he’d met Devil’s eyes. “You could, of course, send me pointers . . .”
Devil had humphed and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t press your luck.”
They’d parted amicably, their common difficulty a bond. The fact had only served to raise the issue more definitely, embed it more firmly in his mind.
He would have to tell her sometime.
The knowledge only fueled his impatience.
He’d called in Upper Brook Street that morning, early enough, so he’d thought, only to have the butler, old Colthorpe, gravely inform him that Amelia and Louise were already in the drawing room with four other ladies.
Swallowing his curses, he’d considered sending in a note, asking her to slip away. Then the front door bell pealed. Colthorpe had caught his eye. “Perhaps, my lord, you might prefer to wait in the parlor?”
He had, listening as the bevy of elegant matrons who’d come to call were shown into the drawing room. In to see Amelia.
With a growing sense of disappointment, and a hollow, indefinable unease, he’d accepted the inevitable and departed the house. He hadn’t left a note.
He’d gone to his club; various friends had taken him to lunch. Some would travel down to Cambridgeshire tomorrow, as would he; that afternoon had been the last time they and he could celebrate as all bachelors. And celebrate they had, yet although he’d laughed and outwardly enjoyed their company, his mind had already moved on—his thoughts had been fixed not on old friends, but on the woman who would be his wife.
Eyes trained unseeing on the cold hearth, he tried to decide what he felt—how he felt. Why he felt as he did. When the clock struck six, no further forward, he rose and went up to change.
Lady Cardigan’s grand ball had one thing in its favor—it was a ball, it therefore featured dances. Times during which he would have Amelia in his arms, albeit in the middle of a dance floor. In his present state, he was thankful for even that.
“Are you all right?” she asked, the instant they stepped out in the first waltz. “What’s the matter?”
He stared—very nearly glared—at her. “Nothing.”
Amelia let her joyful mask slip long enough to flash him a disbelieving look. “Don’t.” She deliberately used his earlier injunction. “I can see it in your eyes.”
They were not just dark but turbulent; the sight left her certain something was wrong. In her opinion, they were too close to the vital moment—exchanging their vows—to let anything stand in their way.
“Stop being difficult.” She felt her own chin setting and had to force her features to ease.
When he simply hid behind his impassive mask, she drew a deep breath, and broached what she’d decided had to be the problem. “Is it money?”
“What?” He looked thunderstruck, but that might simply be his reaction to any lady discussing such a subject with him.
“Do you need funds for something—now, before the wedding?”
His features were no longer impassive. He looked as horrified as she’d ever seen him. “For God’s sake! No. I don’t need—“
His eyes flashed. She’d obviously hit a nerve, but remained unrepentant. “That just goes to show that you ought simply to tell me, rather than leave me to guess.” She waited while they went through the turns at the end of the room, conscious of his arms tightening, drawing her close—and then of him forcing them to ease so they wouldn’t cause a sensation.
“So what is the matter then?” she demanded as, in acceptable order, they swung back up the room.
He looked down, trapped her eyes. “It’s not money I need.”
She searched his eyes, somewhat relieved. “Very well—what then?”
Exasperation and frustration reached her clearly, yet he didn’t rush to answer her. They were halfway back up the room before he replied, “I just wish it was Wednesday already.”
Her brows rose; she smiled spontaneously. “I thought it was brides who were eager for their wedding.”
His midnight blue eyes locked with hers. “It’s not the wedding I’m eager for.”
If she’d had any doubt of his meaning, the expression in his eyes—not just heated, but knowing, awakening—quite deliberately stirring—memories of their previous intimacies—dispelled it. Warmth, definite but not too intense, rose in her cheeks, but she refused to lower her eyes, refused to play the innocent when, thanks to him, she was no longer that. “Are you sure you want to travel on that afternoon?” Brows lightly rising, she held his gaze. “We could always remain at Somersham for the night.”
The line of his lips eased; the intensity in his eyes did not. “No. With the Chase only a few hours away . . .”
The waltz ended and the music died; he whirled her to a halt, caught her hand. Trapped her gaze as he brushed a kiss on her fingers. “It’ll be infinitely more appropriate for us to retire there.”
She had to quell a shiver—an instinctive reaction to the subtle suggestion in his voice, to a situation that was looming as an unknown. While he’d let her organize the wedding entirely as she pleased, he’d insisted that after the wedding breakfast they would leave for Calverton Chase. Her first night as his wife, therefore, would be passed in his ancestral home.
A sense of, a commitment to, starting out as they meant to go on seemed to hover between them, as if they both knew it in themselves, and now recognized it in the other.
Somewhat cautiously, she acknowledged the fact with an inclination of her head, a smile, not light but intent, curving her lips. He saw—distracted, he glanced up as others bustled toward them—quickly looked back and nodded, his eyes serious as they touched hers.
With that mutual, unvoiced agreement, they turned to smile and chat with those who gathered about them.
The evening progressed as such evenings had before, but this time it was only during the two waltzes they shared that they were private enough to talk—and during their second waltz, neither bothered with words.
She was breathless when that waltz ended, prefectly ready to stand beside the dance floor and chat to acquaintances while the tension that had seized her nerves, that had sent tingling anticipation spreading over her skin, slowly faded.
Toward the end of the evening, Minerva approached; leaving Luc to deal with Lady Melrose and Mrs. Highbury, Amelia gave his mother her attention. They quickly confirmed the members of his family who would be attending the wedding; Minerva was about to move on when Amelia saw her gaze lock on the pearl-and-diamond ring Luc had given her.
Smiling, she extended her hand, displaying the ring. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? Luc told me how the betrothal ring was passed down through the family.”
Minerva studied the ring, then s
miled warmly. “It suits you perfectly, dear.” Her gaze moved on to her son; her smile faded. “If you don’t mind, Amelia, I’d like a quick word with Luc.”
“Of course.” Turning back to the wider conversation, Amelia drew the two ladies’ attention, releasing Luc to his mother.
Luc turned to Minerva; she put her hand on his arm and urged him a few steps away. He leaned closer when she spoke, her voice low.
“Amelia just showed me her ring.”
Before he could stop himself, he’d stiffened. His mother fixed him with a sharp glance.
“It seems,” she continued, “that Amelia believes it to be the betrothal ring passed down over generations of Ashfords.”
He held her gaze; after a long moment, he grudgingly admitted, “I mentioned the betrothal ring when I gave her that one.”
“And doubtless left her to make the connection herself?” When he said nothing, she shook her head. “Oh, Luc.”
It wasn’t quite condemnation he saw in her eyes, but whatever it was, it made him feel twelve years old. “I didn’t want her to worry about where the ring came from.”
Minerva’s brows rose. “Or to think too far along those lines?”
She waited, but he refused to say more, to justify his stance or his behavior.
After a moment of reading his eyes—she was one of the few who could regularly manage it—she sighed. “I promised not to meddle, and I won’t. But beware—the longer you delay making your revelation, the more difficult it will be.”
“So I’ve been told.” They were talking of two different revelations, but one led inexorably to the other. He looked at Amelia. “I promise on my honor I will tell her. Just not yet.”
He glanced at Minerva; again she shook her head, this time with a latent smile. Pressing his arm, she stepped away.
“You’ll go to the devil in your own way. You always have.”
He watched her walk away, then rejoined Amelia.
Early the next morning, Amelia left for Somersham Place in company with her father and mother, her brother Simon and her younger sisters Henrietta and Mary, their butler Colthorpe and various family servants. The latter were to lend their support to the staff at the Place, Devil’s principal residence, a huge sprawling mansion that in many ways represented the heart of the ducal dynasty.