Ballrooms and Blackmail (6 page)

*

Nathan watched as Priscilla Tate and Acantha
Dalrymple ventured out into the corridor. He’d have traded a
month’s salary to know what the two had been discussing. The few
times he’d seen them together, they’d been at each other’s throats,
in a viciously polite manner, of course. Now they were smiling as
if sharing a delicious secret. What could possibly have brought
them into harmony?

He inclined his head as they drew abreast.
“Miss Dalrymple, Miss Tate.”

Acantha raised her brows at him. “Really,
sir. Do I know you?”

He’d always suspected she looked right
through him. But then, he was used to being treated like a piece of
furniture when he was with his cousin.

“You must have met Mr. Kent, Acantha,”
Priscilla put in with a warm smile. “He’s the personal secretary to
the Duke of Rottenford.”

Acantha blinked, then peered past him. “Oh,
is His Grace here?”

“Alas, no,” Nathan replied. “Though he sent
me to convey his regrets.”

“Please tell him that Miss Dalrymple and I
are disheartened by his absence,” Priscilla said before Acantha
could respond. “But we look forward to seeing him soon. Come along,
Acantha. I’m sure your mother and Lady Minerva are wondering what’s
keeping us.”

They started past, but Nathan caught
Priscilla’s arm and drew her up short. “A word with you first, Miss
Tate, if I may.”

To his surprise, Acantha hesitated. “Do you
wish me to stay with you, Priscilla?”

Priscilla was eying him as if she couldn’t
quite decide his game. He schooled his face to innocence. She
turned to her friend.

“No, thank you. You might tell Lady Emily to
come find me if I don’t return shortly.”

Acantha nodded. “I’ll do that.” With a last
scowl at Nathan, she hurried back toward the music room.

“Now, Miss Tate,” Nathan started, tightening
his grip on her arm to make sure she didn’t escape. Something stung
his hand. He yanked it back and rubbed the spot. “Did you just
prick me?”

“Now, why would I do that, Mr. Kent?” she
asked, busying herself with her reticule.

Nathan shook his head. “I have no idea. I
have only your best interests at heart, I assure you.”

“Indeed.” She managed to imbue the single
word with volumes of doubt. “And what, precisely, did you wish to
share with me?”

She had given him an opportunity, and he
knew he should take it. “Has anyone given you cause for concern
recently?”

Something leapt to life in those glorious
green eyes. Then she lowered her gaze. “Goodness, Mr. Kent! I have
received nothing but kindness since our debut. I suppose it’s
because my family has such deep roots among Society. Still, my
ready acceptance into the highest circles has been most
gratifying.”

She said it all with such sweet humility
that he should not doubt her, yet he did. He couldn’t forget the
look on her face at the Emerson town house. Something was troubling
her.

He lay his hand over his heart. “If there is
anything I can do to help, you have only to ask.”

Her gaze lifted, and her smile blossomed.
“How kind of you, Mr. Kent, but I assure you all is well or will be
tomorrow once I have a moment with my friends.”

Some part of him wanted to argue, but just
then Lord Palmerstoke came puffing up. A round older fellow, from
his face to his impressive gut, he had nonetheless distinguished
himself in Parliamentary circles.

“There you are, Kent!” he exclaimed. He
nodded to Priscilla. “Miss Tate. Lovely piece you played.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you, my
lord.”

He turned his gaze on Nathan. “I must know,
is His Grace still of a mind to support my position on the
enclosure bill?”

“You will have to read his paper on the
subject, my lord,” Nathan replied.

The fellow rocked to the balls of his feet
and back again, his stomach bouncing against Nathan’s arm. “Indeed,
indeed. I have read it. Excellent work. His Grace always makes his
point succinctly. I merely wish he’d present his case before
Lords.”

“His Grace is a man of few words,” Nathan
temporized. The fewer, the better. That way, no one would suspect
that Nathan was penning the position papers.

“Yes, well, tell him I expect to see him at
the vote on Thursday.” With a nod to Priscilla, he strode off.

“So that’s His Grace’s secret,” she
said.

Nathan held himself still. Her green eyes
were too bright, her smile knowing. “Secret?” he managed.

Her smile deepened. “I’ve wondered why he
says so little on our outings. He’s shy, isn’t he?”

Nathan returned her smile. He took a deep
breath and was surprised to find the air of the corridor tasting
sweeter. “Yes, just so. I’m sure I can count on you to keep that to
yourself.”

“Of course! I find the trait endearing. I do
hope you let him know that he has my greatest admiration and
respect.”

“Certainly. Now, about this trouble of
yours---”

“Oh, goodness! Is that the harp?” She edged
around him, gaze down the corridor toward the music room. “I could
not live with myself if I didn’t support the other performers as
they so graciously supported me. Pray excuse me, Mr. Kent, and give
my regards to His Grace.”

She was past him for the music room, skirts
swinging, before he could call out to stop her.

Sitting through the remainder of the
musicale and the endless discussions afterward was torture.
Priscilla was all too aware of Acantha fidgeting in the front row,
as if she’d shout their shared problem aloud any minute. Worse was
Nathan Kent. She could feel him tensed beside her, see him glancing
about as if expecting a villain to leap out and brandish a sword at
her. While Nathan’s intellect and lean physique said he could fight
as well as the next fellow, she wasn’t sure whether he’d be on her
side.

Finally the event concluded, and Priscilla
was walking next to Emily as they followed Lady Minerva out to the
Emerson carriage. She quickly told her friend everything she’d
learned from Acantha.

“So we must visit her tomorrow and see if
her note bears a resemblance to mine,” she finished in a whisper as
they approached the open door and the waiting footman.

“Agreed,” Emily said, allowing him to hand
her in. “But I cannot go in the morning, Priscilla. I must attend a
meeting of the Royal Society.”

Priscilla bit back a sigh as she climbed
into the coach. For as long as she’d known Emily, her friend had
dreamed of being admitted to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts,
the elite group of artists among the aristocracy. The painting of
her mother Emily had exhibited at their ball had earned her an
invitation. No matter that Priscilla’s future was in jeopardy. She
could not begrudge Emily her time to shine.

So, Priscilla spent the morning with her
mother, pretending all was well. She was quite accomplished at
pretending. Few at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, from which
she and her friends had graduated, had suspected she wasn’t as
wealthy as the majority of the students, her tuition paid by her
aunt rather than her parents.

Even now, she was certain the young ladies
of the
ton
would be shocked out of their fashionable
slippers to learn that a good number of her gowns were her own
creations, made over and pieced together from cast-off clothing
purchased from the rag shops near the Thames.

“Shouldn’t we be out calling, dearest?” her
mother asked for the second time as Priscilla sat in the
withdrawing room working over a fine wool shawl from India. It
seemed the previous owner had not been diligent in protecting it
from moths. A few stitches and some creative patching, and it
should suffice.

She wished she could say the same for their
withdrawing room. It had been furnished with leftovers from other
houses in which Aunt Sylvia had once resided. Like Priscilla’s
wardrobe, all the pieces were stunning in their construction, from
the curved-back sofa with its rose brocade to the carved chair with
arms decorated with ostrich plumes. A shame they did not complement
each other as they should.

“A short time away from my admirers will
only whet their appetite,” Priscilla replied, tacking some
embroidered wool over a hole.

“Perhaps,” her mother said, fluttering over
to light on a chair that boasted an open-mouthed lion at the end of
each wooden arm. “But I have found gentlemen tend to forget a lady
they do not see consistently. You cannot afford to lose your place
in their affections.”

Harsh words banged against her lips, but she
swallowed them. “I have never been forgettable, Mother.”

Her mother waved a hand as if to wipe away
her words. “No, no. Of course not. It’s only that we have been in
London nearly a month, dearest. Young ladies are becoming engaged
every day, yet you remain on the shelf.”

Oh, but she was going to say something
regrettable. “I have had six offers, madam. It isn’t as if I’m not
trying.”

“Of course you are trying.” Her mother
blinked vapid blue eyes that were rapidly filling with tears.
“Perhaps you could try just a little faster.”

Priscilla was very thankful to hear a rap at
the front door. Her mother hurried to answer it. No doubt she hoped
a wealthy prince with a kingdom in a warm climate and suitable
antecedents had come calling. More likely, it was another dun,
demanding money for bills they could not pay.

Instead, Emily returned with Priscilla’s
mother. “My meeting ended sooner than expected. Are you ready to
call on Acantha?”

“There, you see?” Priscilla’s mother said.
“Lady Emily knows what’s important.” Her mother peeled off the
tasseled shawl she’d been wearing and held it out to Priscilla.
“Take mine, and leave that one here. I can see that you are
progressing in your embroidery, but your maid can finish the
work.”

Priscilla accepted the shawl, but she could
not meet Emily’s gaze. Her friend knew her mother was posturing.
They had let the maid go years ago.

Out in Emily’s carriage, Priscilla settled
the shawl about her arms so that it drew attention to her figure,
then adjusted the white chip bonnet so that some of her curls
slipped free to gleam in the sunlight. One never knew who one might
see, riding in an open carriage.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she told
Emily as the vehicle set off from the pavement. “I don’t think I
could have born another minute.”

“Neither could I,” Emily muttered.

Priscilla frowned at her. Emily had never
been one to show strong emotions, but she had expected her friend
to betray a bit more animation following her first meeting of the
impressive society. Instead, Emily’s mouth was set in a thin line,
and her dark eyes were stormy.

“I’m not sure why you’re so concerned,”
Priscilla tried. “You aren’t the one being scolded hourly for
failing to bring the right gentleman up to scratch.”

Emily sighed, fingers rubbing against each
other in the lap of her plum-colored gown. “You’re right. Forgive
me, Pris. Let’s focus on our task, and put the rest of this behind
us.”

Priscilla could only agree. They talked of
upcoming events as Emily’s driver navigated the streets of Mayfair.
In a short time, they reached the Dalrymple house and were ushered
into Acantha’s presence by a stern-faced butler.

Priscilla could not help her smile at the
sight of the girl. Acantha’s hair had been brushed back from her
face, and she wore a blue muslin gown with long sleeves trimmed in
bands of ecru lace. Emily frowned at her as if she’d never seen
Acantha before.

“Well done,” Priscilla murmured as she took
a chair close by. “A great improvement.”

Acantha tipped up her chin. “I would not go
so far as to say great, but I will own it puts me in my best
looks.” She glanced to where her mother was seeing some other lady
callers to the door, then leaned forward. “So, you’ve come to
help?”

“Indeed.” Emily held out her hand. “May I
see the note?”

Acantha drew a slip of parchment from her
sleeve. Emily and Priscilla bent over it.

“A torn edge,” Emily murmured with a glance
to Priscilla. “Rough, misspelled handwriting.”

She was right. The note bore an uncanny
resemblance to the one Priscilla had received.

“And you found this where?” Emily asked
Acantha, straightening. “When?”

“In my reticule, two days ago.”

The very day Priscilla had found the note in
her pocket. The same person had to have sent them.

Just then, the younger Dalrymple sisters
scampered into the room. Unlike their mousy-haired sister, their
hair was tawny and bounced with curls, and their blue eyes sparkled
with mischief. At seven years of age, the twins were too young for
the Barnsley School, but Priscilla had a feeling their parents were
counting the days. They slid to a stop in front of Priscilla and
Emily and spread their pinafores as they curtsied.

“Miss Liddle has a headache,” one
proclaimed.

“Again,” her twin added.

“So we came to see you!” the first finished
triumphantly.

“Mother!” Acantha bellowed.

Her mother hurried up, bright as the sun in
her yellow muslin gown. “That’s quite enough, girls,” she scolded,
seizing up a hand of each. “You know your sister must entertain
callers.”

The first pouted, looking far more like her
older sister Acantha. “She’s always too busy for us.”

“Her and her duke,” the other agreed in a
sniff. “And that Priscilla Tate person.” She glared at
Priscilla.

Priscilla raised her brows, but Acantha
flushed red. “Children belong in the nursery.”

That set them both to howling in protest,
but their mother marched them out of the room and shut the door
behind her.

“They are impossible,” Acantha lamented,
collapsing back against her chair. “They pester me constantly,
demanding my attentions. They have no concept of the pressures of
the Season.”