Revealed (17 page)

But she recovered from her surprise and assumed the air of sophisticated breeding that marked her as the Queen of the Ton. “You are late,” she scolded.

“No, you were late. I was exploring the upstairs,” he countered. Indeed, he had been carefully, quietly getting the lay of the house and its occupants when he saw her enter from the balcony above the ballroom, and she was immediately swamped by people. First Lady Jane Cummings, followed by her friend Miss De Regis, then Broughton, who looked at Phillippa like an African game hunter stalking a lioness. They were on the dance floor by the time he had made his way downstairs, and he couldn’t help but watch, just for a moment, and damned if the lioness didn’t turn the tables on the game hunter, for by the time they left the floor, Broughton was completely in Phillippa’s power.

He had to admire her skills, even if he didn’t particularly like who she chose to use them on.

“Mr. Worth,” Phillippa interrupted his thoughts, “I simply cannot stand it another moment. What on earth did you do to your hair?”

He knew she was shocked. Now he did let his hands go and self-consciously ran them over his temples.

“I take it you do not approve then?” he asked, unaccountably curious as to her answer.

She continued to stare, and then let out a short sigh. She looked over his shoulders, then hers, obviously keen for some privacy.

“Come on,” Marcus said, anticipating her thoughts, “there’s a bit of space this way.”

She followed as he led them out of the ballroom, through the card room, down the hall, and up the stairs. There he turned a corner and counted off doors, three to the left, and escorted Phillippa into the upstairs linen closet, a long space lined with shelves and drawers, smelling strongly of starch. With the door closed it was pitch black and confining. He groped around the walls by the door until he found the tapered wall sconce.

“I made the rather questionable decision to tell Mariah about your comment regarding my sideburns,” he began as he struck a match and lit the sconce, lending the room enough warm, yellow light to finally see (and work, if one were so employed) properly. Closing the glass door, he continued. “Mariah then commanded that my brother Graham lend me his valet tonight, so that I might be polished up enough to look worthy of your company.”

“Sensible of her,” Phillippa said as she stepped toward him, “but your hair.”

What once had been a rather shaggy, nondescript head of hair, worn parted to the same side that it had fallen as a child, had been transformed by Graham’s valet into a bold, strikingly short Grecian style. Brushed forward, it swept across his brow rakishly, grazed his temples.

Mariah told him it brought out his eyes, his strong, square jaw. He wasn’t certain of any of that, but Phillippa’s continued gaze told him the change was certainly dramatic.

“I’m told this is the latest style. And I promise you,” he said with some chagrin, “my sideburns are perfectly even now.”

“It is the latest style, sort of,” Phillippa replied. “At least you had the good sense to leave off your spectacles tonight. Let me see . . .” She quickly unbuttoned and removed a glove, placed it to the side. Then she went up on her toes and reached out her hand. Marcus, wary of her intention, jerked his head back, slightly out of her reach.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said exasperatedly, “it’s just me.”

Then, before he could protest, she threaded her freed hand through the hair on the top of his head. Then she shook her hand as she pulled it through, mussing his hair to perfection.

Gently she brushed the short locks back into place, her fingers dancing over his temples, the nape of his neck, her thumb falling on the line of his sideburn. Her hand stilled for the barest of seconds, her gaze moving from his hair to him. He thought he could see something, some spark of something new in those eyes as blue as the sea under cloudless skies. But then her eyes hurried back to his hair, and she pulled her hand back.

Phillippa’s eyes sparkled as she pasted on a bright smile. “I shall declare it all the kick.”

Marcus chanced a look down and saw Phillippa’s gloved hand resting lightly on his chest. He hadn’t even known it was there, but he felt it all the same. She hadn’t known it was there either, judging by how she reacted once she’d followed his gaze, pulling her hand back as if it were on fire.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, her face gone hot. She picked up her glove from the shelf of linens and concentrated on getting it back on and buttoned.

“Does that mean you like it? Er, my hair?” he asked.

“Mr. Worth, once I’m finished, you’ll have a hundred young bucks copying your hairstyle.”

“Mrs. Benning, that still doesn’t answer my question.” He smiled as she looked up, bewildered, from buttoning her glove. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very stylish. And it does suit your face,” she replied with a shrug. “Truth be told, you look marvelous. Its just not how I’m used to you.”

“Nor I,” he admitted. “We’ll grow accustomed to it, I imagine.”

“Well,” Phillippa said, squaring her shoulders, signaling a change of subject. “We have a great deal to do. The Banquet’s official start is within the hour. Everyone will gather in the banquet hall for that, so if something were to happen, it would likely be then. I wanted to tell you,” she continued, her face flushed with the rushed importance of her speech, “Lady Whitford is notorious for her loyal staff, so its likely the perpetrator has not entered the house belowstairs. Of course, I have yet to see anyone I don’t recognize among the guests, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Mrs. Benning,” Marcus interrupted, once he managed to catch up with her conversation. “Thank you. I discovered the fortresslike zeal her household lives under when I tried to infiltrate as an extra member of the serving staff two days ago. Her mad French chef spotted me at twenty paces. Accused me of trying to steal his recipes.”

Phillippa gave a high, adorable laugh. “Yes, no wonder you felt agreeing to our bargain the only recourse. That was Marcel. He is the reason this whole banquet is possible. And temperamental zealot that he is, you will taste his genius this evening. He bakes four and twenty white doves in a pie, and they all come flying out in the most spectacular fashion.”

“However,” Marcus continued, unwilling to let himself be derailed from the subject at hand. “
We
do not have a great deal to do. I want you to stay as far from me and this business as possible.”

For a moment Phillippa looked . . . dare he say hurt? But she shook that off as easily as water off a duck’s back.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You have to at least dance once with me. And hopefully at least once with a few other young ladies.”

“Mrs. Benning, I have no time for dancing, I have to—”

“You have to what? That’s the problem; you don’t really know. And how do you hunt what you can’t identify? You simply stay alert and armed—”

At that he quirked a brow.

“You did bring a pistol or some such thing, correct?” she asked, catching his questioning look.

“Do gentlemen usually arm themselves for a banquet?”

“No, but . . . but you’re not a gentleman!” she protested.

“Regardless of previous assumptions, I am. I assure you,” Marcus smirked at her.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” She stuck her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like an adorably peeved child. Then she sighed, squaring her shoulders. “Well, then you are lucky that I at least have some foresight,” and she produced a lady’s one-shot pistol from somewhere within the folds of her skirts.

“Are you mad?” Marcus exclaimed, grabbing the pistol from her. He checked the barrel; it was loaded. He took a deep breath, ignored the impulse to dig his fingers into his temples. “Mrs. Benning, what is it that you think to do with this?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I thought it might be useful—for you—in case you spot trouble,” she stammered. “You can give chase and capture the villain; it will be exciting and properly heroic. Isn’t that what spies do?”

Marcus swallowed a laugh. “Actually, in my experience, spying is mostly about watching. Not proper heroics and excitement. And it’s certainly not a good idea to pull a pistol out of my coat in a ballroom full of civilians.” He smiled ruefully. “Not only is it a dead giveaway, an innocent could get hurt.”

Phillippa sighed, conceding his point, thankfully. She held out her hand to take back the pistol. “Fine. I won’t use it.”

But Marcus simply shook his head in the darkness and placed the pistol in the waistband of his knee breeches, under his coat.

“You’ll ruin the line of your coat,” she sniffed, which made him grin in spite of himself.

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take,” he replied, the cold metal of the pistol palpable through his shirt. “Now, for your information, I did think to arm myself this evening. There is a dagger in my coat. But I hope not to use it, because you’re correct. I do not know what will happen tonight, and I’m not willing to take any chances. This is my mission, Mrs. Benning.”

“You’re not going to use the pistol?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not fond of firearms.”

“But why?” she asked.

“Mrs. Benning, have you ever shot anyone?”

“No . . . but—”

“I have, and its not something I’m proud of. I would spare you the experience.”

There was nothing more to be said on the subject. While Marcus watched, Phillippa blew her hair out of her eyes in frustration, defeat, and acceptance.

“Well, while your mission is to track your ghost, whoever killed your friend and you feel is a threat”—she thrust out her chin, moving her mind to the next thing to be done, back in control—“my mission is to get you invited to the next event on the list, so you can continue to do so.”

Well, she had him there. And by that triumphant little smirk, she knew it.

“Which is why we are now going to exit this linen closet, cozy though it may be, and you are going to escort me to the dance floor. If there’s time, I’ll find another young lady to dance with you, while I talk you up to Lady Whitford, who would probably like my head on a platter for having her squeeze you in. I have no notion how she managed to juggle the seating arrangements to accommodate you, but I’m big enough to admit when someone’s skills exceed my own.

“Then,” she continued without pausing for breath, ticking off each requirement on her fingers, “we go into the banquet and commence the feast. You will converse with the people to your right and left, and hopefully, I’ll be able to corner Lord or Lady Hampshire or their daughter Sybil—she’s a lovely little creature, married to Lord Plessy, you know—and get you invited to the Hampshires’ Racing Party. It’s a weekend party, so their guest list is far more limited. Of course, if they cannot accommodate you yet, I’ll have to find someone else to cancel and allow you room. But we’ll worry about that if it comes to pass. And for heaven’s sake, call me Phillippa; its more comfortable for me and will make you seem amongst my circle of intimates.”

He simply blinked at her for a long moment. Then, struck by impulse, he saluted her smartly. “Aye aye, sir.” He fell at ease, with a sardonic smile, folding his arms over his chest. “And when do I do what I have to do?”

“Whenever,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, shall we?”

“Wait a moment,” he said, catching up to her before she turned the knob of the door. Turning her to him, he lifted an eyebrow and then scrutinized her hairstyle.

“Is . . . is my hair somehow amiss?” she asked, worriedly. She lifted her hands to it, but he gently pushed them down. Then, with painful delicacy, he brushed his fingers over the curls at her temple, pulling one down, and sproinging it, so it bounced back up.

“Well,” he sighed. “It’ll have to do.”

He enjoyed seeing the little moment of confusion. He knew that he shouldn’t have done it. He knew, too, especially considering the circumstances, he should try to keep his distance from her. But it was a heady thing, being able to tease Phillippa Benning. Being able to unsettle her. It was small payback, he realized now, for the ways she unsettled him.

He whistled a nonchalant tune as he reached behind her and opened the door. Gently edging her to the side, Marcus stuck his head out and, seeing that the coast was clear, stepped out into the hall.

“Why, you annoying man!” came the cry behind him, as Phillippa followed immediately after. “My hair is perfect! How—”

But the quip died on her lips, for in front of Marcus, just turning the corner into view, was Mrs. Tottendale—Phillippa calls her Totty, he reminded himself—a glass of champagne in hand and a shocked expression on her face.

All three stopped dead, and the only sound was Phillippa skirting out of the way of the linen closet door as it closed.

Totty recovered herself first, and with a shake of her head, she examined her half-filled champagne glass.

“I must have drunk more than I thought.”

R
EALLY, when looked at objectively, the only thing Marcus could do at this juncture was keep out a watchful eye. He had already scouted the mansion to the best of his ability. None of the guests stuck out in his mind as anything other than what they seemed (although his adversary was masterful at disguises and had slipped through British fingers more than once because of it), and every attempt he made to enter the servants’ domain of the household had been met by a blockade of staff and flying cutlery, protecting the top secret secrets of the culinary god housed within. He supposed his adversary would have just as much trouble hiding there as he would. That left the bare option of simply keeping wary and looking for danger. And hoping it showed up.

So, really, what else could Marcus Worth do, other than lead the bewitching, bewildering Phillippa Benning to the ballroom?