Elizabeth felt a tremor run through her entire body, but she looked at him without flinching. “I do.”
The waltz was dwindling away, and with a supreme effort he let her go. They walked through the crowd together, smiling politely at people who intercepted them without the slightest idea of anything that was said. When they neared the Townsendes’ group Ian delayed her with a touch of his hand. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you,” he said. Scrupulously keeping up appearances, he reached out to take a drink from a tray being passed by a servant, using that to cover their having stopped. “I would have told you before, but until now you would have questioned my motives and not believed me.”
Elizabeth nodded graciously to a woman who greeted her, then she slowly reached for the glass, listening to him as he quietly said, “I never told your brother I didn’t want to wed you.”
Her hand stayed, then she took the glass from him and walked beside him as they made their slowest possible way back to their friends. “Thank you,” she said softly, pausing to sip from her glass in another delaying tactic.
“There’s one more thing,” he added irritably.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I hate this damn ball. I’d give half what I own to be anywhere else with you.”
To his surprise, his thrifty fiancée nodded complete agreement. “So would I.”
“Half?” he chided, grinning at her in complete defiance of the rules of propriety. “Really?”
“Well—at least a fourth,” she amended helplessly, giving him her hand for the obligatory kiss as she reached for her skirts, preparing to curtsy.
“Don’t you dare curtsy to me,” he warned in a laughing underbreath, kissing her gloved fingers. “Everywhere I go women are falling to the floor like collapsing rigging on a ship.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders shook with mirth as she disobediently sank into a deep throne-room curtsy that was a miracle of grace and exaggeration. Above her she heard his throaty chuckle.
In an utter turnabout of his earlier feelings, Ian suddenly decided this ball was immensely enjoyable. With perfect equanimity he danced with enough old and respected pillars of the ton to ensure that he was guaranteed to be regarded as a perfectly acceptable escort for Elizabeth later on. In the entire endless evening his serenity received a jolt only a few times. The first was when someone who didn’t know who he was confided that only two months ago Lady Elizabeth’s uncle had sent out invitations to all her former suitors offering her hand in marriage.
Suppressing his shock and loathing for her uncle, Ian had pinned an amused smile on his face and confided, “I’m acquainted with the lady’s uncle, and I regret to say he’s a little mad. As you know, that sort of thing runs,” Ian had finished smoothly, “in our finest families.” The reference to England’s hopeless King George was unmistakable, and the man had laughed uproariously at the joke. “True,” he agreed. “Lamentably true.” Then he went off to spread the word that Elizabeth’s uncle was a confirmed loose screw.
Ian’s method of dealing with Sir Francis Belhaven—who, his grandfather had discovered, was boasting that Elizabeth had spent several days with him—was less subtle and even more effective. “Belhaven,” Ian said after spending a half hour searching for the repulsive knight.
The stout man had whirled around in surprise, leaving his acquaintances straining to hear Ian’s low conversation with him. “I find your presence repugnant,” Ian had said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I dislike your coat, I dislike your shirt, and I dislike the knot in your neckcloth. In fact, I dislike you. Have I offended you enough yet, or shall I continue?”
Belhaven’s mouth dropped open, his pasty face turning a deathly gray. “Are—are you trying to force a—duel?”
“Normally one doesn’t bother shooting a repulsive toad, but in this instance I’m prepared to make an exception, since this toad doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut!”
“A duel, with you?” he gasped. “Why, it would be no contest—none at all. Everyone knows what sort of marksman you are. It would be murder.”
Ian leaned close, speaking between his clenched teeth. “It’s going to be murder, you miserable little opium-eater, unless you suddenly remember very vocally that you’ve been joking about Elizabeth Cameron’s visit.”
At the mention of opium the glass slid from his fingers and crashed to the floor. “I have just realized I was joking.”
“Good,” Ian said, restraining the urge to strangle him. “Now start remembering it all over this ballroom!”
“Now that, Thornton,” said an amused voice from Ian’s shoulder as Belhaven scurried off to begin doing as bidden, “makes me hesitate to say that he is not lying.” Still angry with Belhaven, Ian turned in surprise to see John Marchman standing there. “She was with me as well,” Marchman said. “All aboveboard, for God’s sake, so don’t look at me like I’m Belhaven. Her aunt Berta was there every moment.”
“Her what?” Ian said, caught between fury and amusement.
“Her Aunt Berta. Stout little woman who doesn’t say much.”
“See that you follow her example,” Ian warned darkly.
John Marchman, who had been privileged to fish at Ian’s marvelous stream in Scotland, gave his friend an offended look. “I daresay you’ve no business challenging my honor. I was considering marrying Elizabeth to keep her out of Belhaven’s clutches; you were only going to shoot him. It seems to me that my sacrifice was—”
“You were what?” Ian said, feeling as if he’d walked in on a play in the middle of the second act and couldn’t seem to hold onto the thread of the plot or the identity of the players.
“Her uncle turned me down. Got a better offer.”
“Your life will be more peaceful, believe me,” Ian said dryly, and he left to find a footman with a tray of drinks.
The last encounter was one Ian enjoyed, because Elizabeth was with him after they’d had their second—and last permissible—dance. Viscount Mondevale had approached them with Valerie hanging on his arm, and the rest of their group fanned around them. The sight of the young woman who’d caused them both so much pain evoked almost as much ire in Ian as the sight of Mondevale watching Elizabeth like a lovelorn swain.
“Mondevale,” Ian had said curtly, feeling the tension in Elizabeth’s fingers when she looked at Valerie, “I applaud your taste. I’m certain Miss Jamison will make you a fine wife, if you ever get up the spine to ask her. If you do, however, take my advice, and hire her a tutor, because she can’t write and she can’t spell.” Transferring his blistering gaze to the gaping young woman, Ian clipped, “ ‘Greenhouse’ has a ‘u’ in it. Shall I spell ‘malice’ for you as well?”
“Ian,” Elizabeth chided gently as they walked away. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She looked up at him and smiled, and Ian grinned back at her. Suddenly he felt completely in harmony with the world.
The feeling was so lasting that he managed to endure the remaining three weeks—with all the requisite social and courtship rituals and betrothal formalities—with equanimity while he mentally marked off each day before he could make her his and join his starving body with hers.
With a polite smile on his face Ian appeared at teas and mentally composed letters to his secretary; he sat through the opera and slowly undressed her in his mind; he endured eleven Venetian breakfasts where he mentally designed an entirely new kind of mast for his fleet of ships; he escorted her to eighteen balls and politely refrained from acting out his recurring fantasy of dismembering the fops who clustered around her, eyeing her lush curves and mouthing platitudes to her.
It was the longest three weeks of his life.
It was the shortest three weeks of hers.
28
Nervous and happy, Elizabeth stood before the full-length mirror in her bedchamber on Promenade Street while Alexandra sat upon the bed, smiling at her and at four of the maids Ian had sent over to help her dress and do her packing. “Excuse me, milady,” ano
ther maid said from the doorway, “Bentner said to tell you that Mr. Wordsworth is here and insists he must see you at once, even though we explained it is your wedding day.”
“I’ll be right down,” Elizabeth said, already looking around for a dressing robe that would be acceptable apparel for greeting a male caller.
“Who is Wordsworth?” Alex asked, frowning a little at the idea of Elizabeth being interrupted in her bridal preparations.
“The investigator I hired to try to discover what has happened to Robert.”
Wordsworth was prowling anxiously across the carpet, his hat in his hand, when Elizabeth stepped into the little salon. “I’m sorry to disturb you on your wedding day,” he began, “but in truth, that is the very reason for my urgency. I think you ought to close the door,” he added.
Elizabeth reached out a hand that was suddenly shaking and closed the door.
“Lady Cameron,” he said in a worried voice, “I have reason to think your future husband could be involved in your brother’s disappearance.”
Elizabeth sank down on the sofa. “That is—is preposterous,” she stated shakily. “Why would you say such a thing?”
He turned from the window and faced her. “Are you aware that Ian Thornton dueled with your brother only a week before Robert disappeared?”
“Oh, that!” Elizabeth said with relief. “Yes, I am. But no real harm was done.”
“On the contrary, Thornton—er, Kensington—took a ball in the arm.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you also know your brother fired before the call to fire was given?”
“Yes.”
“For now, it is important that you consider the mood that must have put Kensington in. He was caused pain by a dishonest act on your brother’s part, and that in itself could be reason for him to seek retribution.”
“Mr. Wordsworth,” Elizabeth said with a faint smile, “if Ian—Lord Kensington—had wanted some sort of violent retribution, which I think is what you’re implying, he’d have gotten it on that dueling field. He is an extraordinary marksman. He didn’t, however,” she continued, carried away with her loyal defense of Ian, “because he does not believe in dueling to the death over personal disagreements!”
“Really,” said Wordsworth with unhidden sarcasm.
“Really,” Elizabeth averred implacably. “Lord Thornton told me that himself, and I have reason to know it’s true,” she added, thinking of the way he’d declined Lord Everly’s challenge when Everly called Ian a card cheat.
“And I have reason to know,” Wordsworth said with equal implacability, “that the Scotsman you’re marrying” —he loaded the word with all the scathing scorn many English felt for their “inferior” counterparts—“hasn’t a qualm about taking a man’s life in a duel.”
“I don’t—”
“He’s killed at least five that I know of for certain.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I’m certain he had—had just cause, and that—that the duel was fair.”
“If that is what you wish to believe . . . however, there is more.”
Elizabeth felt her palms grow moist. Half of her wanted to get up and leave, and the other half was paralyzed. “What do you mean?”
“Let us remember, if you please, what we already know: Thornton was wounded and undoubtedly—even justifiably —furious at your brother’s jumping the call to fire.”
“I know that . . . at least, I’m willing to accept it. It makes sense.”
“And did you also know, my lady, that three days after your brother’s unsuccessful attempt to kill Thornton in a duel your brother tried again—this time on Marblemarle Road?”
Elizabeth slowly stood up. “You’re wrong! How could you know such a thing? Why would Robert suddenly decide to . . .” Her voice trailed off. Three days after their duel Viscount Mondevale had withdrawn his offer, and with it all hope of financial reprieve for Robert and herself, and her brother had vanished.
“I know it because with the information you gave me I have been systematically re-creating every move your brother made during the week of his disappearance. It is standard procedure to go backward in time in order to pick up the threads that lead us forward through the mystery. Three days after his duel your brother spent the afternoon in the Knightbridge Club, where he became foxed and began talking about wanting to kill Thornton. He borrowed a carriage from an acquaintance and said he was going looking for his prey. I was able to ascertain that his ‘prey’ was in London that day, and that he left in the late afternoon for Derleshire, which would have meant he took Marblemarle Road. Since he would have had to change horses somewhere on the road, we began checking with the posting houses to discover if anyone meeting Thornton’s or your brother’s description could be recalled. We had luck at the Black Boar; the posting boy there remembered Thornton well because he gave him half a crown. What be also remembered, very fully, was a hole near the window of Thornton’s coach and his conversation with Thornton’s coachman, who was shaken up enough to talk about how the hole came to be there. It seems there had been an altercation a few miles back in which a man bearing Robert’s description—a man Thornton told him was Robert Cameron—had ridden out on the road and tried to shoot Thornton through the window.
“Two days later your brother spoke of what he had done to cronies of his at the Knightbridge. He claimed that Thornton had ruined you and him, and that he would die before Thornton got away with it. According to one of Thornton’s grooms, that very night your brother again rode out of the darkness and accosted Thornton on the road to London. This time, your brother shot him in the shoulder. Thornton managed to subdue him with his fists, but your brother fled on horseback. Since Thornton couldn’t pursue him through the woods in his coach, your brother made good his escape. The next day, however, after leaving his club, your brother abruptly disappeared. He left everything behind in his rooms, you said. His clothes, his personal effects, everything. What does all this say to you, Lady Cameron?” he asked abruptly.
Elizabeth swallowed again, refusing to let herself think beyond what she knew. “It says that Robert was obsessed with avenging me, and that his methods were—were not exactly—well, aboveboard.”
“Has Thornton never mentioned this to you?”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth added defensively, “Robert is something of a sore subject between us. We don’t discuss him.”
“You are not heeding me, my lady,” he burst out in frustrated anger. “You are avoiding drawing obvious conclusions. I believe Thornton had your brother abducted, or worse, in order to prevent him from making additional attempts on his life.”
“I’ll ask him,” Elizabeth cried as a tiny hammer of panic and pain began to pound in her head.
“Do not do any such thing,” Wordsworth said, looking ready to shake her. “Our chances of discovering the truth lie in not alerting Thornton that we’re seeking it. If all else fails, I may ask you to tell him what you know so that we can watch him, see where he goes, what he does next—not that he’s likely to be overt about it. That is our last choice.” Sympathetically, he finished, “I regret being the cause of your having to endure further gossip, but I felt you must be apprised before you actually married that murderous Scot!”
He sneered the word “Scot” again, and in the midst of all her turmoil and terror that foolish thing raised Elizabeth’s hackles. “Stop saying ‘Scot’ in that insulting fashion,” she cried. “And Ian—Lord Thornton—is half-English,” she added a little wildly.
“That leaves him only half-barbarian,” Wordsworth countered with scathing contempt. He softened his voice a little as he looked at the pale, beautiful girl who was glowering defiantly at him. “You cannot know the sort of people they can be, and usually are. My sister married one, and I cannot describe to you the hell he’s made of her life.”
“Ian Thornton is not your brother-in-law!”
“No, he is not,” Wordsworth snapped. “He is a man who made his early fortune gambling,
and who was more than once accused of being a cheat! Twelve years ago—it’s common knowledge—he won the title deed to a small gold mine in a game of cards with a colonial while he was in port there on his first voyage. The gold mine panned out, and the miner who’d worked half his life in that mine tried to bring charges against Thornton in the colonies. He swore your fiancé cheated, and do you know what happened?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Your half-Scot killed him in cold blood. Do you hear me? He killed him. It is common knowledge, I tell you.”
Elizabeth began to tremble so violently that her whole body shook.
“They dueled, and that barbarian killed him.”
The word “duel” fell on Elizabeth’s shattered senses like a numbing anesthetic. A duel was not quite murder . . . not really. “Was—was it a fair duel?”
Wordsworth shrugged. “Gossip has it that it was, but that is only gossip.”
Elizabeth shot to her feet, but the angry accusation in her eyes didn’t hide her own misgivings. “You dismiss something as gossip when it vindicates him, yet when it incriminates him you rely on it completely, and you expect me to do so as well!”
“Please, my lady,” he said, looking truly desperate. “I’m only trying to show you the folly of proceeding with this wedding. Don’t do it, I implore you. You must wait.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that,” she said, hiding her fright behind proud anger.
His jaw tight with frustration, he said finally, “If you are foolish enough to marry this man today, then I implore you not to tell him what I have learned, but to continue in whatever way you’ve been doing to avoid discussion of Robert Cameron. If you do not,” he said in a terrible voice, “you are putting your brother’s life in jeopardy, if he is still alive.”
Elizabeth was trying so hard to concentrate and not to collapse that she dug her nails into her palms. “What are you talking about?” she demanded in a choked cry. “You’re not making sense. I have to ask Ian. He has to have a chance to deny this slander, to explain, to—”