Almost Heaven (43 page)

Grinning, the two men shook hands and sat down. Since Jordan had also just arrived at the club, they had to wait for a table. When they were seated a few minutes later they enjoyed a drink together, caught up on events of the past year and a half, and then got down to the more serious and pleasurable occupation of gaming, combined with desultory conversation. Normally the gaming would have been a pleasurable occupation, but tonight Ian was preoccupied, and every man who walked by the table felt it incumbent to pause and talk to one or both of them.

“It’s our long absence from the city that makes us so popular,” Jordan joked, tossing chips into the center of the table.

Ian scarcely heard him. His mind was on Elizabeth, who had been at the mercy of her loathsome uncle for two years. The man had bartered his own flesh and blood – and Ian was the purchaser. It wasn’t true, of course, but he had an uneasy feeling Elizabeth would see it that way as soon as she discovered what had been done without her knowledge or consent. In Scotland she’d drawn a gun on him. In London he wouldn’t blame her if she fired it. He was toying with the idea of trying to court her for a few days before he told her they were already betrothed, and simultaneously wondering if she was going to hate the idea of marrying him. Belhaven might be a repulsive toad, but Ian had grievously and repeatedly wronged her. “I don’t mean to criticize your strategy, my friend” – Jordan’s drawl drew Ian’s wandering attention – “but you have just wagered £1,000 on what appears to be a pair of absolutely nothing.”

Ian glanced down at the hand he’d just turned over and actually felt a flush of embarrassment steal up his neck. “I have something on my mind,” he explained.

“Whatever it is, it is assuredly not cards. Either that or you’ve lost your famous touch.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ian said absently, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

“Do you want to play another hand?”

“I don’t think I can afford it,” Ian joked wearily. Glancing over his shoulder, Jordan nodded to a footman to bring two more drinks to their table, then he shoved the cards aside. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his own legs out, and the two men regarded each other, a portrait of indolent, masculine camaraderie.

“I have time for only one drink,” Jordan said, glancing at the ormolu clock on the opposite wall. “I’ve promised Alexandra to stand at her side at a ball tonight and beam approvingly at a friend of hers.”

Whenever Jordan mentioned his wife’s name, Ian noted with amusement, the other man’s entire expression softened.

“Care to join us?”

Ian shook his head and accepted his drink from the footman. “It sounds boring as hell.”

“I don’t think it’ll be boring, precisely. My wife has taken it upon herself to defy the entire
ton
and sponsor the girl back into the ranks. Based on some of the things Alexandra said in her note, that will be no mean feat.”

“Why is that?” Ian inquired with more courtesy than interest.

Jordan sighed and leaned his head back, weary from the hours he’d been working for the last several weeks and unexcited at the prospect of dancing attendance on a damsel in distress – one he’d never set eyes on. “The girl fell into the clutches of some man two years ago, and an ugly scandal ensued.”

Thinking of Elizabeth and himself, Ian said casually, “That’s not an uncommon occurrence, evidently.”

“From what Alex wrote me, it seems this case is rather extreme.”

“In what way?”

“For one thing, there’s every chance the young woman will get the cut direct tonight from half the
ton
–
and
that’s the half that will be willing to acknowledge her. Alex has retaliated by calling in the heavy guns – my grandmother, to be exact, and Tony and myself, to a lesser degree. The object is to try to brave it out, but I don’t envy the girl. Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to be flayed alive by the wagging tongues tonight. Whatever the bastard did,” Jordan finished, downing his drink and starting to straighten in his chair, “it was damaging as hell. The girl – who’s purported to be incredibly beautiful, by the way – has been a social outcast for nearly two years.”

Ian stiffened, his glass arrested partway to his mouth, his sharpened gaze on Jordan, who was already starting to rise. “Who’s the girl?” he demanded tautly.

“Elizabeth Cameron.”

“Oh,
Christ!”
Ian exploded, surging out of his chair and snatching up his evening jacket. “Where are they?”

“At the Willingtons. Why?”

“Because,” Ian bit out, impatiently shrugging into his jacket and tugging the frilled cuffs of his shirt into place,
“I’m
the bastard who did it.”

An indescribable expression flashed across the Duke of Hawthorne’s face as he, too, pulled on his evening jacket.
“You
are the man Alexandra described in her note as an ‘unspeakable cad, vile libertine,’ and ‘despoiler of innocents’?”

“I’m all that and more,” Ian replied grimly, stalking toward the door with Jordan Townsende beside him. “You go to the Willingtons’ as quickly as you can,” he instructed. “I’ll be close behind you, but I’ve a stop to make first. And don’t, for God’s sake, tell Elizabeth I’m on my way.”

Ian flung himself into his coach, snapped orders to his driver, and leaned back, counting minutes, telling himself it couldn’t possibly be going as badly for her as he feared it would. And never once did he stop to think that Jordan Townsende had no idea what motives could possibly prompt Elizabeth Cameron’s “despoiler” to be bent on meeting her at the Willingtons’ ball.

His coach drew up before the Duke of Stanhope’s townhouse, and Ian walked swiftly up the front steps, almost knocking poor Ormsley, who opened the door, on to his feet in his haste to get to his grandfather upstairs. A few minutes later he strode back down and into the library, where he flung himself into a chair, his eyes riveted on the clock. Upstairs the household was in an uproar as the duke called for his valet, his butler, and his footmen. Unlike Ian, however, the duke was ecstatic. “Ormsley, Ian
needs
me!” the duke said happily, stripping off his jacket and pulling off his neckcloth. “He walked right in here and
said
it.”

Ormsley beamed. “He did indeed, your grace.”

“I feel twenty years younger.”

Ormsley nodded. “This is a very great day.”

“What in hell is keeping Anderson? I need a shave. I want evening clothes – black, I think – a diamond stickpin and diamond studs. Stop thrusting that cane at me, man.”

“You shouldn’t overly exert yourself, your grace.”

“Ormsley,” said the duke as he walked over to an armoire and flung the doors open, “if you think I’m going to be leaning on that damned cane on the greatest night of my life, you’re out of your mind. I’ll walk in there beside my grandson unaided, thank you very much. Where the
devil
is
Anderson?”

“We are late, Alexandra,” said the dowager duchess as she stood in Alex’s drawing room idly examining a magnificent fourteenth-century sculpture reposing on a satinwood table. “And I don’t mind telling you, now that the time is upon us, I have a
worse
feeling about this now than I did earlier. And my instincts are never wrong.”

Alexandra bit her lip, trying to fight down her own growing trepidation. “The Willingtons are just around the comer,” she said, dealing with the matter of lateness before she faced more grim details. “We can be there in a matter of minutes. Besides, I want everyone there when Elizabeth makes her entrance. I was also hoping that Roddy might yet answer my note.”

As if in response to that, the butler appeared in the drawing room. “Roderick Carstairs wishes to be announced, your grace,” he informed Alex.

“Thank heavens!” she burst out.

“I showed him in the drawing room.” Alex mentally crossed her fingers.

“I have come, my lovely,” Roddy said with his usual; sardonic grin as he swept her a deep bow, “in answer to your urgent summons – and, I might add,” he continued, “before I presented myself at the Willingtons’, exactly as your message instructed.” At 5’ 10”, Roddy Carstairs was a slender man of athletic build with thinning brown hair and light blue eyes. In fact, his only distinguishing characteristics were his fastidiously tailored clothes, a much envied ability to tie a neckcloth into magnificently intricate folds that never drooped, and an acid wit that accepted no boundaries when he chose a human target. “Did you hear about Kensington?”  

“Who?” Alex said absently, trying to think of the best means to persuade him to do what she needed done.

“The new Marquess of Kensington, once known as Mr. Ian Thornton,
persona non grata
. Amazing, is it not, what wealth and title will do?” he continued, studying Alex’s tense face as he continued, “Two years ago we wouldn’t have let him past the front door. Six months ago word got out that he’s worth a fortune, and we started inviting him to our parties. Tonight he’s the heir to a dukedom, and we’ll be coveting invitations to
his
parties. We are” – Roddy grinned – “when you consider matters from this point of view, a rather sickening and fickle lot.”

In spite of herself, Alexandra laughed. “Oh, Roddy,” she said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. “You
always
make me laugh, even when I’m in the most dreadful coil, which I am now. You could make things so very much better – if you would.”

Roddy helped himself to a pinch of snuff, lifted his arrogant brows, and waited, his look both suspicious and intrigued. “I am, of course, your most obedient servant,” he drawled with a little mocking bow.

Despite that claim, Alexandra knew better. While other men might be feared for their tempers or their skill with rapier and pistol, Roddy Carstairs was feared for his cutting barbs and razor tongue. And, while one could not carry a rapier or a pistol into a ball, Roddy could do his damage there unimpeded. Even sophisticated matrons lived in fear of being on the wrong side of him. Alex knew exactly how deadly he could be – and how helpful, for he had made her life a living hell when she came to London the first time. Later he had done a complete turnabout, and it had been Roddy who had forced the
ton
to accept her. He had done it not out of friendship or guilt; he had done it because he’d decided it would be amusing to test his power by building a reputation for a change, instead of shredding it.

“There is a young woman whose name I’ll reveal in a moment,” Alex began cautiously, “to whom you could be of great service. You could, in fact, rescue her as you did me long ago, Roddy, if only you would.”

“Once was enough,” he mocked. “I could hardly hold my head up for shame when I thought of my unprecedented gallantry.”

“She’s incredibly beautiful,” Alex said. A mild spark of interest showed in Roddy’s eyes, but nothing stronger. While other men might be affected by feminine beauty, Roddy generally took pleasure in pointing out one’s faults for the glee of it. He enjoyed flustering women and never hesitated to do it. But when he decided to be kind he was the most loyal of friends. “She was the victim of some very malicious gossip two years ago and left London in disgrace. She is also a very particular friend of mine from long ago.”

She searched Roddy’s bland features and couldn’t tell whether she was getting his support or not. “All of us – -the dowager duchess, Tony, and Jordan – intend to stand with her at the Willingtons’ tonight. But if you could just pay her some small attention – or better yet, escort her yourself – it would be ever so helpful, and I would be grateful forever.”

“Alex, if you were married to anyone but Jordan Townsende, I might consider asking you
how
you’d be willing to express your gratitude. However, since I haven’t any real wish to see my life brought to a premature end, I shall refrain from doing so and say instead that your smile is gratitude enough.”

“Don’t joke, Roddy, I’m quite desperately in need of your help, and I would be eternally grateful for it.”

“You are making me quake with trepidation, my sweet. Whoever she is, she must be in a deal of trouble if you need me.”

“She’s lovely and spirited, and you will admire her tremendously.”

“In that case, I shall deem it an embarrassing honor to lend my support to her. Who –” His gaze flicked to a sudden movement in the doorway and riveted there, his eternally bland expression giving way to reverent admiration. “My God,” he whispered.

Standing in the doorway like a vision from heaven was an unknown young woman clad in a shimmering silver-blue gown with a low, square neckline that offered a tantalizing view of smooth, voluptuous flesh, and a diagonally wrapped bodice that emphasized a tiny waist. Her glossy golden hair, was swept back off her forehead and held in place with a sapphire clip, then left to fall artlessly about her shoulders and midway down her back, where it ended in luxurious waves and curls that gleamed brightly in the dancing candlelight. Beneath gracefully winged brows and long curly lashes her glowing green eyes were neither jade nor emerald, but a startling color somewhere in between.

In that moment of stunned silence Roddy observed her with the impartiality of a true connoisseur, looking for flaws that others would miss and finding only perfection in the delicately sculpted cheekbones, slender white throat, and soft mouth.