Far Too Tempted (15 page)

The woman waiting for him looked incongruous against the frivolous backdrop of pastel satins and silks, her black attire a grim statement of the purpose of his visit. Lady Orschell looked to be well in her middle age, graying brown hair pulled back in a severe chignon from a pale, grave face, her steady eyes neither friendly nor hostile as she moved forward to offer him her hand. Alex bent over it obediently and was surprised to feel the betraying tremble in her fingers. The lady was not as self-possessed she seemed. He murmured, “My deepest sympathies, madam.”

“Colonel, I am not sure of the purpose of your visit.” Her voice was low and throaty, with a certain dullness that he wondered instantly if existed only since her husband’s death.

“Neither am I,” he admitted in rueful honesty, straightening. “But I will endeavor to explain it as best as I can. I promise to take only a few minutes of your time, my lady. This is about your husband.”

She seemed to accept that for she nodded and gestured toward a settee embroidered in rosy tulips and pink daisies. “So said your note. Shall we sit?”

Waiting until she had sunk limply into an opposite chair, Alex sat down gingerly on the fragile-looking sofa and folded his hands across one knee. Not knowing what else to say, he simply spoke the truth. “I need your help.”

“My help? How so?” One thin hand fiddled with her skirts, lifting the material in an abstracted manner. However, her eyes were dark and direct. He could see the swollen folds of her eyelids, indicating she’d wept recently.

“Do you desire to have your husband’s killer brought to justice?”

Her nostrils flared slightly. “What a question. Of course, sir.”

“I intend to do just that. But I need your assistance.”

One arched brow lifted upward just slightly. Lady Orschell smiled without the slightest trace of mirth. “I don’t think you have to look very far for my husband’s killer, sir.”

“Don’t I?” Alex’s brows winged upward in surprise at that intriguing morsel, gained so easily. “If you can elaborate, please do so.”

Lady Orschell laughed, a grating sound. Her hands made claw-like fists in her gown. “Oh yes, have no fear, I can elaborate. My husband was having an affair with Lady Ashton. Do you think it any coincidence he was murdered at her home?”

Coincidence did make him uneasy, but then again, he was too well aware of the loose morals of his class to leap to any conclusions. “Is there a motive you can name?”

“She bewitched him and he died in her presence, isn’t that enough?” Lady Orschell’s voice rose bitterly and she seemed to hear it, for she visibly quieted and swallowed. “Many husbands stray, sir, this I know. But not mine. Not until he met her. I was there that night when she seduced him, and I saw everything.”

Alex’s interest sharpened. “Like what?”

The woman across from him averted her gaze. Getting restlessly to her feet, she paced across the room and stopped at the window, fingering a swath of pale pink drapery with a deceptively idle hand.

“It was only about a month ago. We had socialized before with Elizabeth Ashton, of course…the same circles and all that. I won’t lie to you, she’s younger than I, and beautiful, and George allowed his head to be turned when she very charmingly insisted on a dance. I knew when he started going to her, of course I did; a woman does. Notes were being exchanged secretly, he was often gone late and claiming the time spent at his club, the usual sordid thing, I suppose. Which one of her other lovers actually killed him is a mystery to me, but his murderer is Lady Ashton.”

Alex frowned. If Orschell’s death was a crime of passion, then what of Litchfield? The Committee and its purpose needed to have something to do with the murders, it had to be so. Two of the members had been targeted. He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t your husband’s death have been politically motivated, my lady? After all, he was a member of the House of Lords. It could be chance he was at Lady Ashton’s—”

“He died at the gazebo, didn’t he?” Lady Orschell pressed her face into the drapery, her thin shoulders quivering.

“So I am told.”

Her response was desolate and quiet. “That’s where they met. In the gazebo. I caught them there myself the very night George was murdered.”

Hell, he thought violently, uncomfortably watching the woman before him begin to sob, a gazebo was a damned bad spot for a tryst. He’d made that mistake himself years ago and had also gotten caught. “Forgive me for asking about such a personal matter, madam, but tell me, did you confront the two of them at that time?”

Still clinging to the froth of the lace curtain, she shook her head. “I couldn’t. I got within a few feet and could see them embracing and hear my husband’s voice… His back was to me, so he never knew I was there. I was crushed, sir, and I ran off, ordered our carriage brought around and went home, leaving him there.” She turned and wiped the tears off her cheeks with shaking fingers. “In retrospect, I would have done better to have interrupted them, wouldn’t I? Perhaps then George would still be alive.”

“You are certain the woman with him was Lady Ashton? You saw her face?”

“No, I did not see her face, as I said before, they were embracing and his back was to me, shielding her from my view, but I am still certain Elizabeth Ashton is to blame.”

Because of one flirtatious moment and a dance? In Alex’s experience, wives would do well to be more suspicious of the women their husbands scrupulously avoided in public. As gently as possible, he asked, “Do you actually think Lady Ashton can shed some light on what happened to your husband?”

A glittering wet glance was sent his way. Lady Orschell sniffed and straightened her shoulders. “Ask her yourself, Colonel. I assume she will be attending the party at your brother’s house in Mayfair this eve.”

The ballroom was dazzling. As grand as the rest of the stately mansion, the huge room glittered like an expensive jewel, filled with light, music and exotic flowers. The buffet table was laden with dish after dish of savories and sweets, all arranged as if the hand of an artist directed the repast. It was every fantasy come true, perfect right down to the last detail. Knowing how much trouble Ariel had gone to on her behalf was so touching Jessica had impulsively hugged the duchess, both of them ending up in tearful, affectionate laughter.

It should be the perfect evening. All the pieces were in place.

But something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Jessica smiled self-consciously and tried to tamp down the tiny waves of nausea as she greeted yet another visitor. It was more than the backhanded whispers of the growing crowd of guests—of that she’d become convinced some time before. It was the way that all of Nathaniel’s family avoided looking at her as they arrived, even Rebecca seemingly stiff and unsure, which was very odd.

Ariel and Marcus noticed it too. Their smiles had become more and more fixed as they greeted each guest. In the past fifteen minutes, the tension was almost something visible in the air.

And when Alex had walked into the room, tall and predictably devastating in his perfectly tailored, dark evening clothes, the resulting silence in the ballroom had been replaced a few seconds later by a rising wave of murmurs.

Jessica’s brain clicked over with a warning message, suddenly absorbing the avid stares as something much more than curiosity about Nathaniel Greene’s prospective bride.

The only blessing was that Nathaniel himself had been delayed by some sort of pressing business. In her best effort to preserve the proper expression of a joyous future bride, Jessica stood by the duke and duchess and mumbled appropriate responses to the polite congratulations offered, or at least she thought she did.

Inside she tried to stem a rising tide of panic and humiliation.

Dear God, she thought she knew what might be going on.

Damn Alex Ramsey to hell.

The woman in question was easily found. Ariel described her perfectly, Alex thought as he edged forward and waited for a break in the music. Elizabeth Ashton was indeed tall and willowy, and yes, her features were “arresting”. Arresting, that is, if one liked dark-skinned, dark-haired women with the cheekbones of a Spanish queen and the pouting mouth of a born seductress. Even as he watched her partner escort her from the dance floor, Alex mused that perhaps Lady Orschell had good grounds for her suspicions, after all. Some women simply moved in a certain way and a man could sense their deliberate lure.

Not that, he thought bitterly, it was going to do him any good to try to talk to her tonight, not about Lord Orschell,
El Diablo
or anything else. With everyone in the room watching him, he could hardly strike up a conversation with the very lovely Elizabeth.

“The bastard isn’t going to attend.” Marcus, appearing at his elbow, said the words between his teeth, all the while keeping his features composed and benign. Next to him at the corner of the ballroom, Alex had to admire his brother’s ability to at least look calm. Personally, he was having trouble keeping his composure. It didn’t help that he was the object of hundreds of interested stares, seemingly all the fashionable crowd gathered wanting to gauge his reaction to the absence of Nathaniel Greene.

He murmured, “I’d like to put my hands around Greene’s throat right now. How is Ariel doing?”

Marcus smiled and nodded at a passing couple. Under his breath, he said, “Ever the gracious hostess, but she’ll be hysterical later. This is a disaster.”

“You’re telling me. At least you aren’t the villainous letch who ruined the innocent bride-to-be.” Alex felt his mouth twist cynically despite his best effort to look nonchalant. “Damn those hurtful gossipmongers who don’t give a bloody fig for the damage they do to people’s lives.”

“Jessica seems to be holding up very well under the circumstances.” There was patent admiration in Marcus’s voice. “Look at her, dancing with young Williams and smiling as if her fiancé hadn’t just publicly jilted her. That takes courage.”

Alex’s brooding gaze scanned the whirling dancers, easily spotting the gleam of peach satin set off by Jessica’s vivid coloring. Marcus was right, she looked cool and serene, but despite her exertions and the temperature of the stuffy ballroom, there was no color in her face and anyone who had seen her lovely smile would know the stiff curve of her lips was not genuine.

“Jessica has never lacked for spirit, I’ll agree with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need another drink. Several more, in fact, to endure the rest of this evening.”

Marcus raised his dark blond brows slightly. “You could leave. I have been trying to decide if that would help—or hurt—this fiasco.”

Alex shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Without you here to fuel the whispers—”

“Believe me, I’d like nothing better, but if Jessica has to endure to the bitter end, it hardly seems fair for me to duck out. She has been abandoned enough.”

Lifting his champagne glass to his mouth, Marcus smiled slightly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. For a villainous letch, you show a surprising amount of gallantry, brother.”

“Thanks.” It was said dryly.

“Now, go bolster your fortitude. I’m going to find my wife and lend my support as best I can.” Marcus nodded and slipped into the whirl of dancers.

Left alone with his empty glass, Alex squared his shoulders and braved the crowd. The drinks table was near the buffet and he edged toward it, arrested when a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Colonel Ramsey, what a pleasure.”

Ignoring the tense, gripping fingers was not an option. Alex swiveled.

The man let go of his arm and bowed slightly, the best he could do in such close quarters.

A polite smile broke over Alex’s face. “The pleasure is mine. At Talavera we parted ways, didn’t we? Weren’t you reassigned to a new regiment? Good to see you, Major Pickford.”

“You too, sir, truly.” They gripped hands. “My wife is related to the Greenes, hence my presence. Lovely celebration, sir.”

God, could things get more awkward? Alex felt discomfort tighten his throat and decided not to dance around the subject. “Yes, well, I’ll admit I have enjoyed myself more on other occasions.”

“Shouldn’t let a few sharp tongues take the day I always say, don’t you, Colonel?” The question was put very delicately. Pickford had no animosity in his steady gaze. “You’ve always been an honorable man and that’s what I told my wife, sir. When we served together I never heard of you touching one of the officer’s wives, or any other black whisper about you.”

Grateful for the show of support from an unexpected source, Alex nodded. “Thank you. Drink, Major? I was headed that way.”

“Sounds capital.” Gray-bearded and stout, Pickford grinned. “Something other than champagne, I hope. These entertainments seem to be all the same. Give me something stiffer any day.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Elbowing his way through with some difficulty and procuring two glasses, Alex handed one to his companion and nodded toward the balcony doors. “A breath of fresh air would be welcome.”

“After you, Colonel.”

The gardens were warm and redolent, the air outside only slightly cooler, but the absence of staring eyes and the cloying closeness of so many human bodies was a relief. Alex took a long, deliberate sip from his glass and swallowed, leaning one hip casually against the stone balustrade of the terrace. “So, how long is your leave, Pickford?”