It was, after all, quite necessary to bring a touch of new money into the family fold every hundred years or so. And since the Oxbridges possessed not one, but two rather attractive daughters and no male heirs, their arrival on Regent Street was even more welcoming than they’d expected. Every younger son in search of a promising bride, and older son attempting to repair the family fortune, made it a point to be present everywhere the Oxbridges deigned to appear.
Thus it was that the Oxbridge ball was filled to overflowing. Marcus, sauntering to the receiving line, absently greeting acquaintances as he went, almost winced at the way Lady Oxbridge drew up on seeing him. She looked rather like an overstuffed sausage, her thick body encased in white feathers and blazing red silk. Marcus had a fondness for red silk, and it made him wince to see the expensive material so strained.
“The Marquis of Treymount!” Lady Oxbridge trilled, just loudly enough to be heard by every person in the grand hall. “What a pleasure to have you at our humble entertainment!”
Lord Oxbridge puffed up as well, blustering out a hello and bowing in a ridiculously fawning manner. “Devilish good to see you, Treymount! Didn’t think you normally attended this sort of ruckus, but I’m glad you did.”
Lady Oxbridge laughed in an affected manner, her eyes blazing a second. “Oxbridge, how you do go on! Lord Treymount is known to be very particular in which amusements he attends, but there is no reason to think he will find anything wanting at one of our little events!”
“Indeed,” Marcus murmured, glancing past the florid lady and into the rooms beyond. Where was the card room? He’d wager a crown he’d find Lord Melton comfortably ensconced there, frittering away what tiny bit of income he still had left.
Lady Oxbridge took his interest in the other rooms in a different manner. She leaned over and said in a low voice, “I daresay you came to see Jane, haven’t you?”
Marcus blinked. “I…ah, Jane. I don’t believe I—”
Lady Oxbridge smacked his arm with her fan. “Don’t play coy with me! I can see that you’re pining away to join the young ones on the dance floor! Oxbridge, give the man a bow and let him be on his way.” She leaned closer to Marcus and said in a loud whisper that he supposed she imagined to be an undertone, “My eldest, Jane, is in white and pink sarsonet beside the refreshment table. Tell her to give you her last dance before supper. I told her to save it in case the Prince should have shown.” Lady Oxbridge shrugged. “It doesn’t appear as if he will, so you may take his place.”
Good God, it was more horrid than he’d ever imagined. Even Lord Oxbridge had the decency to look a bit shocked at this loud hint. “Judith! Really now, no sense in teasing the man!”
Lady Oxbridge took immediate exception to this public correction. Turning bright pink, she fluffed up like an outraged cat and snapped back an answer.
Marcus decided now was a good time to make his escape. Without interrupting the quarreling couple, he managed a short bow, turned on his heel and made his way into the ballroom. It was fairly easy to find the card room simply by following the trail of men making their way to two wide doors that were held open by attending footmen.
Marcus immediately spotted his prey; Lord Melton sat at a green-felt-covered table, his cravat perfectly tied, his face flushed from the contents of a half-empty glass at his elbow, a wild, desperate gleam to his eye. He was a young man, always fashionably dressed, and held by most to be both personable and quite handsome. But Marcus knew him for what he really was—a profligate gambler who had sold an ancient estate down the Thames on the flip of a single card.
Yet here he was, drinking and gambling yet again. Marcus moved to one side, offering a polite bow when Melton’s gaze finally found him.
The younger man’s smile—faint as it was—faded from his lips. He paled and grabbed impulsively at his glass and took a gulp, then set it back on the table, his hand visibly shaking. “Treymount.”
The others at the table glanced curiously from the young lord to Marcus.
Marcus nodded coolly, keeping his gaze locked on Melton. “Good evening, Charles. I trust you are well.”
Lord Pultney looked up from where he was shuffling the cards, his extra chins quivering with the effort. “It’s a good thing you aren’t playing, Treymount. The devil’s own luck is in it tonight. Neither Charles nor I have won a hand all night.”
Marcus could feel his teeth almost grinding. Bloody hell, what was the fool thinking? Here he sat, his estates mortgaged to the hilt, his finances in a state of ruin, tossing hand after losing hand upon the green felt table. If there was one thing Marcus could not accept, it was irresponsible behavior. “Melton, I had hoped to see you this evening.”
The young man was suddenly as red as he had been white. He started to lift the glass once more to his lips, but stopped when he realized it was empty. He set it back on the table and forced a broad smile to his colorless lips. “Well, here I am in all my glory!” He suddenly became quite animated, gesturing to a passing footman to refill his glass. “Come, Treymount, have a glass!”
“No, thank you.”
Melton’s eyes rested on Marcus, a strange glitter in their depths. “Too good to have a drink with me? Is that it?”
Pultney glanced from beneath his heavy gray brows at the young lord. “Heigh-ho, Melton. I daresay Treymount has just arrived and, like a shrewd man, is simply pacing himself. Daresay he’d have a spot of the golden with you later.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus said, though he thought it highly unlikely. “Lord Melton, I was hoping that you would do me the honor of calling on me in the morning. We have unfinished business, we two. I’d like to conclude it as soon as possible.”
Melton tossed his cards onto the table. “I believe I am busy in the morning.”
“Oh? Then perhaps we should just discuss our business here. Now.”
Melton cast a quick glance around, then colored an even deeper red. He shot Marcus a look of pure venom. “No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Good. Ten, then?”
“I won’t be up at ten. Make it noon.”
Marcus shrugged. “Noon. I really don’t care, one way or the other. Just see to it that you are not late.” He met the young man’s gaze coolly. “Do we understand one another?”
Melton’s jaw tightened, but he had no choice. He gave a jerky nod. “Noon it is.”
“Excellent. Good day, gentlemen.” With that, Marcus turned and left. Good lord, but Melton was a hothead of the worst sort—intemperate and filled with passion. No wonder the fool had lost his fortune. Be that as it may, the jackanapes would come in the morning and provide the necessary information and then sign the blasted papers or Marcus would track him down once again, only this time it wouldn’t be as pleasant. Unless the fool was willing for the world to know the extent of his own foolery, he’d do as he was bid.
Marcus glanced at an ornate ormolu clock that graced the wide marble fireplace on one side of the salon. He still had almost fifty minutes to spare before Herberts returned, blast it. Perhaps this would be a good time to make himself seen and prove Anthony yet again wrong in his estimation of Marcus’s character.
His gaze idly swept the room, lingering on a redhead here, a blonde there. He supposed he should at least take a walk about the room and see if any of his other acquaintances were present. Perhaps the Duke of Exeter was here; Marcus hoped to interest the man in a mining venture that could prove quite profitable for them both.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Marcus turned to stroll into the ballroom when his gaze fell upon a couple standing by the bottom of the grand stairwell. Because of the milling crowd, he couldn’t quite make out the face of the man, but the woman was easily identifiable—it was none other than Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed.
Well! What had brought the gorgon out on such a night as this? Although…he had to admit that she didn’t look anything like a gorgon this evening. In fact, she looked very attractive, beautiful even. Dressed in a pale blue gown that made h
er hair seem a deeper chestnut, that intriguing streak of white gleaming at her temple before sweeping up through her coif to disappear at a sparkling tiara, she was distinctive and easily outshone the rather mundane simpering misses he’d so far witnessed.
As he watched, she tilted up her face and laughed, the gentle sound lifting over the voices of those around them and floating through the hall. To his surprise, Marcus found himself smiling a little in return. She appeared younger and far more carefree in this setting. Almost…enchanting.
His gaze flickered to her eyes. They were lively and expressive, the line of her throat and shoulders graceful and elegant. Had it not been for her slightly aquiline nose and too firm chin, she would have been outstandingly beautiful. As it was, she was arresting. Entrancing. Even exotic, with that striking lock of white at her brow. As Marcus watched, she shook her head at something her companion said, her laughter dying and a sudden wary look replacing her amusement.
Marcus frowned. What had happened? And who the hell was she speaking to? He took a step back, leaning to one side so he could see around the milling throng to where she stood. Her companion’s face came into view—a man of medium height with a handsome if somewhat aging countenance.
Bloody hell, she was speaking to Lord Radmere! Marcus’d had plenty of dealing with the old reprobate. Radmere was a collector of no small means. He approached each auction, each purchase, as a battle. The fool seemed to take particular delight in snatching purchases from beneath Marcus’s nose. Surely Miss Baker-Sneed wouldn’t—
Honoria removed her glove and held her hand out to Radmere for his inspection, the silver sparkle of the talisman ring evident even from Marcus’s vantage point. “Bloody hell!”
From Marcus’s side, a lazy voice said, “Is that any way to greet a half brother?”
Marcus glanced over to find Anthony by his side, looking resplendent in a black evening coat, his cravat tied to perfection. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I don’t believe I’ve seen you at a ball in over a year.”
Marcus shrugged. “I believe we had this conversation this afternoon.”
Anthony’s smile faded, his brow lowered. “Are you still upset? I was only—”
“No. I’m not upset, I just…I suppose some of what you said came a little too close to the home fires.” Marcus managed a smile. “I’m not sure I agree with your total estimation of my character, but parts of it were spot on.”
Anthony flushed slightly. “Marcus, I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t a good person or a good brother, it’s just that—”
Marcus held up a hand. “Perhaps we can spend an evening together without discussing my character in quite as much depth as you seem to enjoy.”
“Actually, I wasn’t going to discuss anything but the lovely women who are decorating the room.” Anthony’s gaze flickered past Marcus to Honoria. “My. She’s a lovely one. Who is she and what has you using such shocking language in public?”
“That is Miss Baker-Sneed.” Marcus watched as Honoria smiled up at Radmere. Marcus was certain Radmere was flattered at such a look of complete attention, but those familiar with Miss Baker-Sneed would recognize the smile for what it was—a tempting ploy and nothing else. She wanted something from the man and Marcus was certain he knew what it was. “Someone should throttle that woman.”
“Or kiss her. Chase heard correctly; the mysterious Miss Baker-Sneed is indeed lovely. Far too lovely to throttle.”
“Don’t let her appearance fool you. She may look harmless, but in truth she is irritating, scheming, stubborn, irksome and obdurate.”
“All the better. Demure women are a bore.”
“Anthony, that woman is showing the talisman ring to Radmere. If he finds out that I am interested in it…it will not be good for any of us.”
“There is enmity between you?”
“He and I often brangle on the auction floor. Last month I outbid him on an ancient Chinese vase. He has not yet forgiven me, which is why I do not like seeing Miss Baker-Sneed in his company.”
“You worry that she might be charmed by him?”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” Marcus snapped, not quite sure why such an innocent query made his chest tighten in such a way. “I worry that Miss Baker-Sneed might sell Mother’s ring to that fool. There will be hell to pay if that happens; he will charge me a fortune to get it back from him, if he consents to sell it at all.”
“She wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“You don’t know Honoria Baker-Sneed. Or Radmere. He’d give his eye teeth to outdo me in some way or another.”
Anthony regarded the couple from across the room. “Radmere is certainly taking his time examining Mother’s ring. He hasn’t let go of Miss Baker-Sneed’s hand for a second. You know, Miss Baker-Sneed may think she’s tempting Radmere with the ring, but I believe he has other things in mind.”
Marcus’s expression darkened. He wished he could see her face more clearly. Radmere was a reprobate and possessed the morals of a gutter rat, while Honoria…He frowned. Honoria was not a complete innocent; no, she’d been on her own far too long to be thought that. But still, her experiences weren’t the sort to prepare her for a man like Radmere.
Marcus thought of his interview with her. Though she was brazen enough when it came to bargaining about the ring, it had been painfully obvious that her experience with men was limited at best. There had been a refreshing air of innocence about her, almost hidden by her poise and confidence, but there nonetheless. “Blast it! Perhaps I should see what is happening with Miss Baker-Sneed and that lout. Radmere is a dissolute fool and I would not put it past him to behave in an inappropriate manner.”
Anthony’s brows rose, surprise flickering through his brown eyes. “You are going to play knight-errant? That’s a new role for you.”
“Oh, be quiet. Wait here while I go and see what’s to be done.”
“Yes, march over there and make a cake of yourself. I will come and watch.”
“No, you will not.” It was certainly an odd coincidence that Honoria had presented herself here, tonight of all nights. There was really only one reason that Marcus could think of to lure her to the Oxbridge’s…but how had she known he would be there? Surely he was mistaken and this was all a coincidence.
But the troublesome thought would not let him be. For one thing, she’d admitted herself that she was in need of connections to garner enough invitations to sport her sister about. And for another, she and apparently every other person in London appeared to know that he didn’t attend functions of this sort often at all. Yet there she was, presenting his ring to Radmere, of all people.
Each well-reasoned thought led him to the conclusion that she’d come for one reason and one reason only—to bedevil him. Fuming, Marcus made his way toward the stairwell, though his way was impeded with gushing greetings from a number of matchmaking mamas. Gad, but he hated social functions.
He was just about to break through a group of especially clinging mothers when a hand was placed on his elbow. He turned, excepting to see Honoria. “There you—”
It wasn’t Honoria. Instead, a pair of familiar violet eyes blinked up into his.
Stifling his impatience, he said, “Lady Percival.”
She looked as she always looked—blond and coolly elegant. Only a faint flush on her cheeks seemed different. “Marcus,” she purred, her hand on his sleeve. “I have been thinking of you.”
“Indeed?” Well, he hadn’t been thinking about her. “It’s nice seeing you. How have you been?” He looked over her head, trying to see through the crowd for Honoria and her escort. Blast it, where were they?
The hand on his arm tightened. “Marcus, I’ve missed you.”
He leaned to one side, catching a glimpse of Honoria’s distinctive hair. “Uhm-hm.” Where was she now? He couldn’t see a damn thing through all the turbans. Whoever had invented that particularly silly item deserved to be shot. Blast i
t, where was Honoria? Had Radmere convinced her to leave with him? Marcus’s heart began to pound more fiercely.
“Marcus!”
He looked down and found that the melting violet gaze had hardened into a more icy one. “Yes?” he said, trying to hide his own irritation.
Violet turned her head, her gaze narrowing in the direction he’d been looking, her mouth thinned unpleasantly. “Who are you looking at?”
“No one.” He shook his arm free, catching sight of Honoria’s delectable profile in a sudden part in the crowd. “Lady Percival, it is delightful running into you. Perhaps another time—” Before she could collect herself enough to protest, he bowed and then slipped away, threading through the crowd, intent on catching his quarry.
He lost sight of Honoria and Radmere about halfway there, thanks in part to a very large woman wearing no less than three ostrich feathers. The silly widgeon looked like an overblown pin cushion.
Making his escape, he slipped through another throng of people, careful not to make eye contact. Good God, did everyone have to be at the same place at the same time? The ton was a herd of unruly sheep, the lot of them. It was no wonder he’d eschewed society whenever he could.
Finally, Marcus broke through the melee. He was now standing on the other side of the great hall, at the foot of the stairwell.
But he was too late. Honoria and Radmere had disappeared.
Chapter 8
I am certain Miss Heneford will find your new coat something to admire, especially if you stand near the Prince Regent. He always manages to appear over-dressed and overfed, which is a boon to those beside him.
Lord Southland’s valet to his lordship, while brushing that young man’s new coat in preparation of attending a party at Carlton House