Read Ballrooms and Blackmail Online
Authors: Regina Scott
Tags: #comedy, #historical romance, #regency romance, #clean romance, #sweet romance, #romantic mystery, #historical mystery, #british detective, #traditional regency, #romance 1800s
Ballrooms and Blackmail
by
Regina Scott
Book 3 in the Lady Emily Capers
Smashwords Edition
© 2014 Regina Lundgren
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you for respecting the author’s work and livelihood.
To Kris, Meryl, Marissa, and Andrea. What
would a girl do without friends?
And to the Lord, who never leaves me friendless.
Table of Contents
Extra
: Preview of
Eloquence and
Espionage
by Regina Scott
One
Miss Priscilla Tate was the toast of London.
Men raised their quizzing glasses to follow her as she passed on
her way to some fabulous event. Ladies whispered enviously behind
their fans as she waltzed with the most eligible bachelor in the
room. Princes hung on her every word.
That is, until she discovered a vile note in
the pocket of her rose-colored satin pelisse and realized she was
ruined.
She was certain she knew exactly how the
note had come to reside in her pocket. Horrid things like that
tended to happen when she was forced to spend any time with her
childhood adversary, Acantha Dalrymple.
“It’s quite clear to me,” Acantha had said
only that afternoon with her pointed nose in the air, “that His
Grace the Duke of Rottenford prefers my company.”
Oh, the odious creature! Priscilla could not
fathom why her mother insisted on furthering their acquaintance
with the Dalrymples. The family was wealthy, but they were rather
new to Society, and their attitudes showed a definite lack of
civility. Yet today’s visit was the third time in a week Priscilla
had had to endure sitting in the withdrawing room of the
Dalrymples’ fashionable town house while her mother and Acantha’s
sat across the room on an emerald velvet settee and giggled like
girls.
The Green Salon, Mrs. Dalrymple called it
with her considerably pudgier nose also in the air. To Priscilla’s
mind, it showed a singular lack of imagination to name a room after
the color of its furnishings. Of course, it also showed a singular
lack of imagination to decorate in one color to begin with.
And somehow Mrs. Dalrymple had managed to
make a single color clash. Olive-striped satin draped the walls and
was framed in lime green molding. Twining snakes of serpentine
marble shot with gold crawled up the massive fireplace with its
bronze insert. The polished wood floor was swathed in a costly
Oriental carpet showing sea dragons cavorting over a foaming
blue-green ocean. And the matching chairs on which Priscilla and
Acantha sat were ebony inlaid with creamy jade.
Too bad the only thing green about Priscilla
was her thick-lashed eyes and the jealousy she couldn’t quite fend
off at the sight of yet another new dress on Acantha’s thin figure.
Honestly, the girl had no idea how that luscious saffron muslin
made her sallow skin more noticeable and sapped any shine from her
lank brown hair. The open lace collar and trim on the short puffed
sleeves only made her features look weaker.
The gown would have looked much better on
Priscilla’s considerable curves. But then, so would much of
Acantha’s lavish wardrobe.
“Have you no answer for me?” Acantha
demanded. “I say the Duke of Rottenford prefers me to all
others.”
Not that she had seen. And certainly it was
not what she had planned. But it was clear Acantha was intent on
goading her, so she waved a languid hand. “You may be right. I fear
the pressures of the Season have kept me entirely too busy to
notice.”
Acantha did not appear to believe her, for
her dark eyes narrowed. “And why would you be so busy? It isn’t as
if you can afford all the requirements of a Season.”
Was she determined to be cruel? Take deep
breaths. Rise above the pettiness. Her cheeks might hurt from
smiling, but she would never show it. “It’s amazing what one can do
with initiative.”
Acantha’s scowl deepened. “Have you nothing
more to say for yourself? Truly, you can be the most provoking
creature, Priscilla Tate. I begin to see why so few call upon
you.”
Oh! Priscilla would have liked nothing
better than to stick out her tongue or tweak one of the curls
Acantha insisted on arranging on either side of her long face. But
such was not the act of a lady. A lady slayed her adversaries with
her impeccable character, perfect manners.
And undeniable cunning.
She vented a sigh with a soft puff of air
that failed to sway the golden curls from her face and smoothed
down the skirts of her pink sprigged-muslin gown. “Yes, Mother and
I had
so
hoped for a better turn out. With our family
connections and fixture in Society, you would think I would garner
more than six offers of marriage in the last week.”
“Six!” Acantha sputtered as her gloved hands
tightened into fists. “I do believe you’re lying.”
“No indeed. Ask my mother if you doubt me.”
Priscilla leaned back ever so slightly in the elegant black chair.
She couldn’t let her guard down for a moment around Acantha.
“Well,” Acantha allowed, leaning back in her
own chair as if in defeat, “I suppose that is a considerable
number. I had no idea there were so many charitable men in
London.”
Priscilla stiffened. Why did Acantha
continue to refer to their impoverished state? If the creature only
knew one note, pray stop harping! This time she couldn’t help her
response. “Apparently not enough.” She eyed Acantha pointedly.
Acantha’s skin turned an unbecoming shade of
red. “I expect an offer of marriage any day. His Grace asked most
specifically what I would be wearing to his masquerade on May Day.
Why ask if he did not intend to seek me out?”
Perhaps to run as far and fast as possible
in the opposite direction? But much as Priscilla would have liked
to do the same thing, she remained in her seat, mind churning. A
masquerade? On May Day? Why hadn’t she received an invitation? She
thought she’d been making excellent progress with His Grace.
Ever since her magical debut ball a week
ago, he’d called on her twice, once to chat and once to take her
driving. Such marked attention would have sent her over the moon in
joy if he had spoken more than two words on either occasion and if
he hadn’t come with protection.
She could think of his entourage no other
way. The Duke of Rottenford never went anywhere, it seemed, without
his cousin the Honorable Miss Glynnis Fairtree and his personal
secretary Mr. Nathan Kent. Miss Fairtree Priscilla could have
managed, as she was quiet and pale and wouldn’t have said boo to a
goose. The young lady was clearly the poor relation, and it showed
the depths of His Grace’s kindness that he included her in all
events. Mr. Kent, however, was a problem.
Mr. Kent was slender, with brown hair. He
stood only a few inches taller than Priscilla did. His plain coats,
though of good material, lacked the impeccable tailoring and
conspicuous dash of the brighter coats His Grace favored for his
tall, lean frame. Still, Mr. Kent somehow managed to stand with
greater confidence and to converse with greater ease than any man
Priscilla had ever met.
And he had quite the dreamiest eyes, dark
and deep, eyes a girl could lose herself in. He gazed at her as if
he could see her soul.
And found it rather lacking.
She had no doubt that if she’d failed to
receive an invitation to His Grace’s masquerade ball, it was all
Mr. Kent’s fault. He seemed to sense she’d set her cap for
Rottenford despite the fact that she’d been careful not to show her
intentions. And Mr. Kent didn’t much like the idea that she might
marry His Grace.
“So,” Acantha said, shifting in her seat,
the buttons on her gown squeaking against the jade, “what do you
intend to wear to the masquerade?”
Priscilla couldn’t very well admit she
hadn’t been invited. Yet. Imagine how Acantha would gloat then! She
tossed her curls. “Oh, I haven’t decided.”
“Well, you better hurry,” Acantha scolded.
“It’s only ten days away, you know. You’ll want to look your best
when His Grace announces his bride.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I sincerely doubt
His Grace would make so important an announcement at a public
event.”
Acantha’s smile was knowing. “And I have it
on good authority that he intends to do just that. Can you conceive
of anything more romantic?” She sighed so gustily her dainty lace
collar flipped up to meet her pointed chin.
It was rather romantic. A dark summer night,
candles glowing, people dressed in mystery, never knowing what
handsome gentleman held your hand. And it would be better still
when His Grace stood up before two hundred of his closest friends
and family and said, “It gives me great pleasure to introduce my
bride, Miss Priscilla Tate.” She was so lost in the vision that she
didn’t hear the rest of Acantha’s conversation.
Which was only a blessing.
In fact, it wasn’t until she had returned
home and absently put her hand in the pocket of her pelisse that
she learned her plans had been utterly destroyed.
And then she ran for help.
*
Nathan Kent set his top hat on his head and
descended the steps of the town house with an unwelcome feeling of
defeat. He glanced back with a frown. Lady Emily, the youngest
daughter of the Duke of Emerson, seemed such a levelheaded young
woman. He had been quite impressed by the way she’d regained her
composure after the contretemps at her debut ball a week ago. Who
would have thought her former fiancé, Lord Robert, would turn out
to be a jewel thief? The
ton
was still reeling from the
discovery. Between her personality and her place in Society, Lady
Emily would have made an exceptional liaison for His Grace the Duke
of Rottenford. A shame her interests obviously lay elsewhere.
He allowed himself a sigh. He was running
out of suitable matches, which meant Miss Priscilla Tate was going
to be a problem. Oh, there was no doubt she had the presence to
make an excellent duchess. And no man alive could complain of her
looks.
He supposed if he searched in Belgium or
Flanders he might find a woman whose hair was as golden or
possessed of such luster and vitality that it begged to be touched.
It was possible some Irish lass might have eyes a more vibrant
shade of green and capable of exuding the warmth that beckoned a
man like a fire on a cold winter night. The women who had modeled
for the classic Greek sculptors could have had figures that rivaled
the one Miss Tate showed to advantage in her stylish gowns.
But somehow he doubted any other woman in
England combined those traits with such cunning and will as he had
seen in her. She had thrown her considerable armament against the
wall of His Grace’s bachelorhood, determined to capture the duke’s
affections. Nathan could not allow her to succeed.
He turned to the front again, his duty
stiffening his spine, and found the very woman he’d been
contemplating standing in his way. Nathan blinked.
Miss Tate blinked.
For a moment, he almost thought he was
mistaken in her identity. Stripped away were the polished airs, the
coy smiles. The color in her cheeks came from high emotion or
exertion, not rouge. The downturn of those rosy lips spoke of
dismay.
He put his hand to her elbow before he
thought better of it. “Miss Tate. Is everything all right?”
