There on the balcony, leaning over and peering down into the entrance foyer, stood her father, his neckcloth hanging loosely over his starched white shirt. So much for the “surprise,” Whitney thought ruefully as she walked over and stood beside him. Below, the local guests were arriving in a steady stream, exchanging greetings in boisterous whispers while a harassed Sewell shepherded them toward the drawing room, admonishing, “Ladies and Gentlemen—Madam, Sir—I must request that you lower your voices.”
Her father’s puzzled grimace swung from the guests below, to the long hall beside him where two bedroom doors were opened and quickly banged shut again, as the relatives spied their guest of honor standing on the balcony. Whitney pressed a self-conscious kiss on his bristly cheek. “They’ve come to celebrate your birthday, Papa.”
Despite his stern, disgruntled expression, Whitney could tell that he was touched. “I take it that it’s to be a surprise, and I’m not supposed to notice this clamor in my house?”
“That’s right.” Whitney smiled.
“I shall try, my dear,” he said, awkwardly patting her arm. Suddenly there was the ear-splitting sound of glass shattering on the floor. “Oh my goodness, goodness gracious!” trilled an agitated female voice.
“Letitia Pinkerton,” Martin identified the voice with his head tilted slightly to the side. “That is her favorite and only expression of dismay.” With an odd catch in his voice, he looked at Whitney and added, “I used to send your dear mother into spasms by threatening to teach Letitia to say ‘Goddamn!’ ” With that, he turned and strolled off toward his bedchamber, leaving Whitney staring after him in silent laughter.
Half an hour later, with Whitney on one arm and Lady Anne Gilbert on the other, Martin made his way toward the drawing room. At Whitney’s nod, Sewell threw the doors wide and Martin was greeted by exuberant cries of “Surprise!” and “Happy Birthday!”
Anne started forward to begin performing her duties as hostess, but a footman forestalled her. “Pardon me, my lady, but this letter was just delivered by special messenger, and Sewell instructed me to bring it to you directly.”
Anne glanced at the letter, saw the familiar, beloved scrawl that was Edward’s hand, and with a quick gasp of joyous relief, she took it from him and hurriedly broke the seal.
Whitney looked for Paul, and when she didn’t immediately see him, she made her way to the dining room to make certain that everything was exactly as Aunt Anne and she had planned.
The doors dividing the salon from the dining room had been pushed back, creating one vast area of small tables, each seating six. Enormous clusters of red, white and pink roses reposed in gigantic silver bowls and atop tall floor stands. Silver and crystal gleamed in the candlelight, and her mother’s finest linen, in a soft shade of pale pink, was spread on all the tables.
She walked through the salon and peered into the ballroom. Like the other two rooms, the ballroom was lavishly decorated with bouquets of roses that lent color and drama to what had been a cold, austere room.
From behind her she heard Paul’s deep voice, and she smiled softly as she turned.
“I missed you today,” he said. His gaze drifted appreciatively over her elegant ivory satin gown then lifted to her glowing features. “Who would have guessed,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms for a long, tender kiss, “that you were going to turn into such a beauty?”
Anne’s eyes were still devouring the contents of Edward’s missive as she walked into the dining room. Glimpsing Whitney’s ivory gown at the opposite end of the long room. Anne began at once in a happy voice, “Darling, I have finally had word from that laggard uncle of yours! He has been on holiday . . .” She glanced up just in time to witness the hastily broken embrace, and her eyes widened in shock.
“It’s all right, Aunt Anne,” Whitney explained, blushing gorgeously. “I’ve been dying to tell you for days, and I can’t wait any longer. Paul and I are going to be married as soon as he has Papa’s permission. He’s going to try to speak to him tonight, so that we— Aunt Anne?” Whitney said as her aunt abruptly turned on her dainty, satin-shod heel and marched away. She apparently had not heard a word Whitney had said. “Where are you going?”
“I am going over to this table, and I am going to pour myself a very large glass of this burgundy,” her aunt announced.
In amazed silence, Whitney watched Anne pluck a crystal goblet from the table, snatch up a bottle of burgundy, and fill the glass to the brim.
“And when I have finished this glass,” her aunt added, transferring the glass to her left hand and picking up her mauve silk skirts with her right, “I am going to have another.” With that she swept regally from the room. “Good evening, Mr. Sevarin,” she said, graciously inclining her dark, silver-streaked head at Paul as she passed him. “So nice to see you again.”
“She’ll have the devil of a head in the morning, if she plans to keep that up,” Paul observed wryly.
Whitney looked up at him, her face full of confusion and concern. “Head?”
“Yes, head. And you, my girl, are going to have your hands full tonight.” Placing his fingers beneath her satin-sleeved elbow, he reluctantly guided Whitney toward the drawing room. “Unless I miss my guess, your aunt isn’t going to be of much help entertaining your guests.”
Paul’s prediction was certainly accurate, Whitney thought with an inward sigh an hour later, as she stood at the entrance to the drawing room, welcoming latecomers. In France, Aunt Anne had always performed the endless duties required of a hostess; now, bearing the full burden of responsibility herself, Whitney felt as if she needed another pair of eyes and ears.
She signalled to a servant for more trays of drinks to be passed among the guests, then turned to greet Lady Eubank. Whitney’s eyes riveted in horror on the dowager’s startling combination of purple turban and red gown. “Good evening, Lady Eubank,” she managed, fighting to keep her face straight.
Ignoring her greeting entirely, the dowager raised her monocle and looked about the room. “It doesn’t look like a ‘good evening’ to me, Miss,” Lady Eubank snapped. “I perceive Mr. Sevarin standing over there with Elizabeth Ashton on one arm, and the Merryton girl on the other, and I don’t even see Westland in the room.” She dropped her monocle and directed a disgusted scowl on Whitney. “I credited you with spunk, girl, and you’ve let me down. I thought you were going to snare the most eligible bachelor alive right in front of these tiresome neighbors of ours. I’ve half expected to hear a betrothal announcement, and instead, I find you standing by yourself and—”
Whitney couldn’t stop the beaming smile that lit her face. “I have snared him, my lady, and you are going to hear an announcement. If not tonight, then as soon as Paul returns from his trip.”
“Paul?” Lady Eubank echoed blankly, and for the first time since Whitney had known her, the dowager seemed at a loss for words. “Paul Sevarin?” she repeated. Suddenly a look of unabashed glee danced in her eyes as she again scanned the crowd. “Is Westland coming tonight?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“Good, good,” her ladyship said, and she began to chuckle. “This should be a most diverting evening. Most diverting!” she chuckled, and strolled away.
By half past nine, the stream of arrivals had dwindled to a trickle. Standing near the entry where she was greeting latecomers, Whitney heard one of them speak to Sewell out in the hall. A moment later, Clayton Westland appeared in the doorway.
Whitney watched him coming toward her. He looked almost breathtakingly handsome in fastidiously tailored black evening attire that hugged his wide shoulders and long legs, and contrasted beautifully with his dazzling white ruffled shirt and neckcloth.
In the spirit of relaxed friendship that had sprung up between them during their afternoon of chess two days ago, Whitney smiled and extended both her hands to him in a cordial gesture of greeting. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” she said.
Clayton grinned with satisf
action as he took her hands in his. “That sounds very much as if you’ve been watching and waiting for me.”
“If I had been, I’d never admit it, you know,” Whitney laughed. Looking at him now, she could scarcely credit her belief that he was an unprincipled libertine bent on her seduction, and then she realized that he still retained both her hands in his, and that he was standing so close to her that the starched ruffles at his shirtfront lightly brushed against the bodice of her gown. Self-consciously withdrawing her hands, Whitney took a small step backward.
His eyes mocked her cautious retreat, but he made no comment on it. “If losing two games of chess to you on Thursday has finally put me in your good graces,” he teased, “then I promise to let you defeat me in all future contests.”
“You did not let me defeat you at chess,” Whitney reminded him with an exasperated sidewise glance. Catching the eye of a footman, she signalled him to approach. With the finesse of a natural hostess, she asked him to fetch a whiskey for Mr. Westland. When she turned back to Clayton, she glimpsed his surprised pleasure at the fact that she remembered his preference in drink.
It showed in his eyes as he said, “We seem to be at a stalemate. I won our race, but you’ve won a majority of our chess games. How will we ever prove which of us is the better man?”
“You are impossible!” Whitney berated him, smiling. “Merely because I think that a female should be as well-educated as a man, does not mean I wish to be a man.”
“It’s just as well,” he said, and his gaze drifted meaningfully over her exquisite features and provocative figure. His warmly intimate appraisal made Whitney’s pulse leap in a bewildering combination of excitement and alarm. “At any rate,” he continued, “I doubt there’s any other contest of skill in which we could compete evenly. As a male, my youthful pursuits were naturally more vigorous, while yours were sedate and ladylike.”
Whitney flashed him a jaunty smile. “How are you with a slingshot?”
His hand stilled in the act of reaching for the drink the footman was handing him. “You can use a slingshot?” he said with such exaggerated disbelief that she burst out laughing.
“I wouldn’t tell just everyone this,” she said, leaning a trifle closer, while she resumed her vigilant surveillance of her guests’ well-being. “But I used to be able to snap the petals off a daisy at seventy-five paces.” Across the room, she saw Paul start toward her father and for one moment, it looked as if he would be able to catch him alone, but two of her relatives were already bearing down on him from the other side. Inwardly, Whitney sighed.
Clayton knew she was preoccupied with her guests and that he was monopolizing her time, but she looked so damned beautiful that he was loath to leave her side. Besides, she was practically flirting with him, and he was enjoying every moment of it. “I’m very impressed,” he murmured.
Whitney scarcely noticed the betraying huskiness in his tone. She was watching one of her elderly uncles approach a gaily laughing group. “Do any of you know about prehistoric rocks?” Hubert Pinkerton demanded loudly. “Devilish interesting topic. Let me tell you about them. We’ll start with the Mesozoic era . . .” In growing dismay, Whitney watched the gay atmosphere of the group deteriorate to polite attention, then restrained antagonism. And she’d so wanted her father’s party to be gay and lively!
She turned to Clayton, intending to leave him and try to divert her uncle. “Will you excuse me, I—” She turned her head as a harried-looking footman approached and said that they were running low on champagne. He was immediately followed by another servant requesting instructions about supper. After handling both minor calamities, Whitney turned apologetically to Clayton and saw him frowning as he looked about the room. “Where is your aunt this evening? Why isn’t she helping you attend to these details?”
“She’s feeling a trifle indisposed,” Whitney explained lamely, watching his piercing gaze rivet on Anne, who was clutching a wine goblet and staring trancelike out a window.
“Please excuse me,” Whitney said, tipping her head toward Uncle Pinkerton. “I have to rescue those people from my Uncle Hubert. He will bore everyone to distraction talking about prehistoric rock formations, and they already look antagonized enough to do him an injury.”
“Introduce me to your uncle,” Clayton said. She looked so astonished that he added, “I will divert him so that you can look after the rest of your guests.”
Whitney gratefully brought him over and performed the introductions, then watched in fascinated admiration as Clayton bowed to the elderly man and said smoothly, “I was just now telling Miss Stone how much I would enjoy discussing our mutual interest in the rock formations of the Mesozoic period.” Positively emanating enthusiasm, Clayton turned to Whitney and said, “Will you excuse us, Miss Stone? Your uncle and I have much to discuss.”
He carried off his flagrant deception with such skill that Whitney could hardly tear her eyes from him as he guided Uncle Hubert off to a deserted corner and appeared to become instantly absorbed in whatever her uncle was saying to him.
* * *
The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety as Whitney waited for her father to return had taken its toll. By half past ten, as she gently urged the stragglers into the dining room, Whitney could think of nothing as inviting as finding a quiet corner where she could relax. The guests were making their way along the longest table, filling their plates from the sumptuous array of foods, when Elizabeth Ashton’s father’s sudden exclamation halted the line and stopped conversations in mid-sentence. “You say the Duke of Claymore is missing?” he demanded of a visiting relative from London. “You mean Westmoreland?” He clarified as if unable to believe he’d heard right.
“Yes, I thought everyone knew,” the relative replied, raising his voice for the benefit of the people who had turned to stare at him. “It was in the papers yesterday, and London is buzzing with speculation over where he is.”
The level of conversation in the room soared to a fever pitch. Whitney’s neighbors picked up their plates and crowded together at tables where better informed guests from out of town could impart their news. After supper, it was impossible to thread one’s way through the people who were clustered between the tables, speculating over the Duke of Claymore’s disappearance. Whitney was standing with a large group which included her aunt, Lady Eubank, and Clayton Westland, while Paul was hopelessly trapped across the room, wedged between Elizabeth Ashton and Peter Redfern, unable to make his way to her.
“Claymore’s in France this time of year, if you want my guess,” someone said.
“Oh? Do you think so?” Lady Anne asked, her face flushed with a vivacious interest that Whitney attributed to too much wine. At the first mention of the Duke of Claymore, her aunt’s distraction and lethargy had vanished. But while her aunt was obviously enjoying the gossip and speculation about the man, the subject made Whitney’s father fidgety and nervous, and he was periodically slaking an uncharacteristic thirst for whiskey.
Personally, Whitney found the subject excessively boring and she stifled a yawn.
“Tired, little one?” Clayton whispered beside her.
“Yes,” Whitney admitted as Clayton drew her hand through the crook of his arm, covering it with his own strong fingers as if he were trying to infuse some of his stamina into her. He shouldn’t call her “little one,” she thought, and he shouldn’t be holding her hand in such a familiar way, but she was too grateful for his assistance tonight to cavil over such trifles.
“I heard that his mistress took her own life in Paris last month,” Margaret Merryton said, turning to address her stunned audience. “Apparently Claymore cast her aside and she went all to pieces. She cancelled her European tour, went into seclusion, and—”
“—And,” Amelia Eubank put in frigidly, “she is now spending a fortune renovating a country estate she just purchased. Do you expect us to believe she’s a ghost, you henwit!”
Flushing furiously under the assault of Lady Euba
nk’s sharp tongue, Margaret wedged herself around and looked appealingly to Clayton. “Mr. Westland has lately been in Paris and London. Surely you’ve heard the news of her suicide?”
“No,” Clayton replied curtly. “I’ve heard nothing of the kind.”
Margaret’s papa’s thoughts had taken another twist. Stroking his goatee, he said thoughtfully, “So St. Allermain’s bought a country estate and is spending a fortune renovating it, is she?” Laughter rumbled in his belly as he turned a slow, knowing leer on the gentlemen. “It sounds to me as if Claymore has pensioned her off—with a bit extra for good behavior!”
Beneath her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in Clayton’s forearm harden. Tipping her head to see his face, she found him looking at Mr. Merryton and the others with an expression of such excruciating distaste and cold boredom that she almost flinched. Unexpectedly, his gaze slid to her and his expression softened into a faint smile.
Inwardly, however, Clayton was not smiling. He was furious at his secretary for failing to put a stop to the speculation over his whereabouts by giving out the story that he was somewhere! He was mentally dictating a sharp note of reprimand to the man when he realized, to his infinite disgust, that the guests were now wagering on the identity of his next mistress.
“I’ll wager £5 on the Countess Dorothea,” Mr. Ashton put in. “Do I have a taker?”
“Indeed you do, sir,” Mr. Merryton declared with a sly laugh. “The countess is old news! She’s been dangling after Claymore these past five years, even followed him to France with the poor old earl still on his deathbed. And what happened?—I’ll tell you what: Claymore cut her dead in front of half of Paris. Lady Vanessa Standfield will be his next choice, but the duke will marry her. She’s been waiting patiently for him since her come-out. My £5 says his grace’s attention will next turn to Lady Standfield and that he’ll marry the young woman. Can I interest anyone in that sporting wager?”