Revealed (19 page)

And Phillippa, who had danced with a thousand partners, not to mention waltzing twice with Broughton, had never reacted thus previously. Curious, indeed.

Stop it, Philly! she told herself, giving herself the smallest little shake, which of course Marcus sensed, and which caused him to grip her hand with more feeling.

And that did not help.

No, indeed. It did not help to the point that Phillippa missed the next step and bumped into Miss Louisa Dunningham, who was dancing next to her.

She was certain she heard a gasp from across the room. Then a titter. Then a sweeping wave of voices. Phillippa Benning miss a step in the line? Surely not! Impossible!

“Are you all right?” Marcus asked, breaking into her head with genuine concern on his face.

She looked up and about her and was nothing short of shocked to find that no one else, save Louisa, Marcus, and herself, had noticed her blunder.

“I’m fine.” She smiled, brightly, perhaps too brightly. “It’s—it’s just awfully stuffy in here.”

Marcus shook his head, but instead of issuing a placating comment and continuing with the turn, he moved out of the steps and took her hand, pulling her out of the line. And considering her hand was just so terribly pleased to be in his, Phillippa had no choice but to follow it.

Once they were out of the dancers’ way, Marcus stopped and turned to her, peered down into her face. “You’re flushed,” he said sternly, which only made her flush brighter.

“Come along,” he spoke with greater gentleness, placing her hand in his arm, “let’s find you a breeze.”

She could have protested or reminded him of his mission, but she didn’t.

He was guiding her toward the terrace doors, where cool night air awaited. While the idea of breathing space sounded lovely, the thought crossed Phillippa’s mind that to truly recover herself, she might need breathing space
from
her escort. Having him close by was doing odd things to her hand. What other limbs would be affected should his presence be maintained?

Phillippa had to admit, she was curious on that point.

But no! Going out on the terrace was merely a step away from going out to the gardens, where dark shadows could hold a man and a woman, but only if they stood very, very close.

Her demeanor may have looked calm, but her mind panicked at the idea while her blood thrummed with it, until she remembered one material point.

Surely, she was safe with Marcus Worth. His one kiss aside (for which he had been soundly punished), he was too proper, too stodgy by half, to take advantage of her hand’s strange affection for his. Besides, going out on the terrace would afford them some privacy, and she desperately wanted to question Marcus about the legend of the pistols in Whitford’s gallery. About who he was hunting. And she knew he suffered her only for what she could offer him; entrée into society.

Certain that Marcus was merely concerned for her welfare, she quickly scanned the room before lifting her eyes to his.

The room was filled with twirling people, some of whom were paying attention to her, she knew, but none of whom seemed to think it odd that she step out of the line or out on the terrace. It was terribly hot in the crush; as the kitchen’s ovens must be at full blazes, it invariably warmed the house a few dozen degrees. Add that to all the people in attendance, and more often than not, young ladies were employing their fans with vigor. Indeed, she caught no sight of Broughton, Totty, Lady Jane, or Nora, and everyone else seemed happy enough to be placid in their regard of Phillippa Benning.

Marcus Worth, however, was not.

It was a simple glance up to his face, meant to be a cool, grateful acceptance of his platonic offer to escort her outside. Then she saw it, just a moment. A flash of appreciation in his eyes. A spark of heat as his gaze flicked to her mouth. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, shaken off as he schooled himself back into that teasing, brotherish demeanor he took with her.

A quicksilver grin shot toward her. “Now, Mrs. Benning, you have to promise to protect me from strangers out on the terrace.”

“I have to protect you?” she asked, recovering her voice and her sarcasm.

“Of course; you’re the one with the right hook.”

And with that he had her laughing again, and she would have happily let her hand in his follow him outside if not for the loud chiming of the bells.

Midnight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Whitfords’ major domo announced in a booming voice that bespoke years of training, “the feast is served!”

Shuttled into the banquet hall on the swelling tide of hungry connoisseurs, Marcus cursed himself silently. He was supposed to be here working, tracking the enemy, and instead, he had been distracted by the thoughts of taking Phillippa Benning onto the terrace on a cloudless night. Of her suddenly feeling the chill in that excuse for a gown and finding it necessary to stand that much closer to him, to use his warmth.

And letting him feel hers.

Damn it all! He needed to keep his head in the game. It was already midnight; if something was going to happen, it was going to happen soon.

And if it didn’t . . . maybe he really had gone insane.

The crowd swept them up, no space or time for a formal procession to the dining room, the guests—some of whom had been starving themselves in anticipation of this event—were far too ravenous for anything as tedious as decorum. Marcus kept Phillippa’s arm in his, certain that if he didn’t, they’d be torn asunder as they entered the dining room.

It was almost medieval in its vastness, if not its decor: a great hall, laid out with rows of long, polished cherry tables, silver candlesticks lighting the room from in between the yards of unencumbered silver trays. There was not a morsel of food in sight. Needless to say, this anticipation just made the rabble’s collective stomach grumble louder.

At the far end, on a raised platform, was Lord Whitford, his astonishingly patriotic wife Lady Whitford (who had somehow managed to create a gown with so many pleats and folds, she looked like Winged Victory without the wings), and Marcel, the temperamental French chef that had created this entire banquet.

“He’s looking in better humor than when last seen,” Marcus commented to Phillippa.

She smiled and leaned up to Marcus’s ear, the only way they could hear one another in the crush. “Well, when you last saw him he was a dictator, ruling his kitchen with an iron fist. Now he’s an ambassador to be celebrated, with all the smiles and graciousness that goes with it.”

Indeed, the wiry chef, whose dignified and unsmiling face held little reflection of the work he did or the praise he was about to receive, stood in a pristine white jacket and toque, his nose high in the air and his hands idly behind his back. Once all of the guests had entered the room, and their scuffling muted to a dull hum, Lord Whitford addressed the guests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends all. Thank you for gracing us with your attendance and your patience. Now, Marcel, if you would please.”

Marcel gave Lord Whitford a sharp bow, veritably clicking his heels as he did so. Then with a flick of his wrists, the footmen at the double doors surrounding the room opened said passageways as dozens and dozens of trays of food, carried on the shoulders of footmen and kitchen boys, flooded in.

The audience gave a collective gasp, a smattering of applause, and then everyone started talking as one.

Something was wrong here. He could feel it. While the rest of the assembled guests exclaimed over pulled pork consommé and jellied trifle, the hair on the back of his neck began to stand up. There was something . . . off. Something uneven.

And Phillippa, at his side, sensed it.

“What is it?” she asked, worry practically bleeding out of her eyes.

“Maybe nothing. Just a feeling,” he replied in clipped tones as his eyes scanned the room, the dishes, and the maddening crowd around them, until her felt her tense beside him.

He didn’t need her scared.

“Would you do me a great favor, Mrs. Benning?” he asked, and she nodded mutely in response, “Prattle on about something.”

“Prattle on?” she inquired, a brow going up.

“Yes. I need to look around but don’t wish to seem to be doing so; it will make it seem as if we are having a conversation.” And it will serve to give her an occupation and hopefully calm her down. But he kept that part of it to himself.

“Um, yes, well, the decorations—well, we already commented on the decorations. And yes, I think you’re right, I doubt Wellington will be making a show this evening; he’s in greater demand than me these days. Although I’m rather surprised Prinny isn’t here; he’s never one to miss a good roasted apple flambé. Oh, and there are the bread puddings; they have seventeen different varieties, you see? My personal favorite is the American peach, but Totty prefers the brandywine. The braised length of veal looks marvelous, don’t you find, as does the lobster curry. Indeed, I remember last year, Lord Sterling ate almost the entire lobster by himself. One hopes that this year he thinks to wear a handkerchief tucked into his shirt. That was simply disastrous, made him the butt of every dining-related joke for a full week—”

“This year?” Marcus interrupted. “Lord Sterling is here?”

“Of course,” Phillippa replied, her voice now modulated and relaxed, “at least, he was earlier; he danced with Nora. I haven’t seen him since you arrived. But Penny—his daughter—is here.” Her eyes flitted through the room and found her quarry. “There she is.”

Marcus, who had been scanning the room to no avail, allowed his gaze to follow Phillippa’s direction and landed on a brown-haired girl of adequate beauty and apparent good humor, wearing a slightly ill-fitting gown, standing with a friend and their chaperone.

“Are you particular friends with Miss Sterling?” Marcus asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” Phillippa replied with a feline smile, “but I can be.”

Just then, all of the crowd’s attention, excepting Marcus’s, was caught and held by the arrival of the pie.

It was a practice in contradictions. Monstrous in size, six feet in diameter with a high mound of crust in the center, it was also delicate and light, the pastry puffing up into a flaky structure that looked as if it could be swept away on a light breeze. The pie was placed on the table set on the raised platform, next to Marcel and Lord Whitford.

Marcus kept his eyes on Miss Sterling. Or rather, behind her. For behind her was the only set of doors that had not opened fully. Indeed, they were only open a crack. They could lead to a closed room, a servants’ hallway, or any number of innocuous things. However, Marcus didn’t think so.

Then, he saw it.

In the tiny gap of the ajar door, a falling shadow, as if someone moved quickly away—someone who had been spying on the festivities. Then the door snapped shut.

“Stay here,” he instructed Phillippa. For once she seemed happy to obey him, if simply because the jostling thicket of humanity kept her in place as he maneuvered through them. His face set in determined, grim lines, his mind keenly aware of his dagger and Phillippa’s pistol pressed against his body, he managed to wind his way past Penny Sterling and reach the door. Wrenching it open, he found . . .

Nothing.

No staircase, no hallway, and no one lurking. It was the silver cupboard, and as most of the silver was being laid on the long cherry tables behind him, it was mostly empty.

He quickly, ruthlessly began pushing on the walls, the shelves, the floor, looking for a trap, a priest’s hole, anything that could let someone in and out unseen.

He didn’t find it.

Maybe he really was chasing shadows.

But just when he was about to give it up, he found something else, something unexpected. Hidden within the folds of gray velvet that encased the silver service when it was not in use, his fingers fell around the stem of a feather. Not a quill. It was too fine, too delicate. Too broken in the middle.

It was a feather from the sleek head of a raven.

“Lord Whitford,” Marcel addressed the crowd in a thick French accent. “My country and yours have spent a great deal of time at odds.”

“Indeed, they have, Marcel,” Lord Whitford replied in what was obviously a rehearsed joint speech. “But I am certain that now that peace is declared, we will live in harmony. Shall we show the guests what peace and harmony between our countries looks like?”

The guests applauded, likely more out of hunger than affection for international relations.

Lord Whitford beamed, and Marcel bowed sharply, and with a flick of his wrist, two manservants handed Marcel and Lord Whitford a beautifully wrought gold knife.

The gold knives plunged into either side of the pastry, ripping a large seam in its fabric in spectacular fashion to mounting applause, from which arose . . .

Nothing.

Lord Whitford and Marcel wore equal looks of confusion, as murmurs began to rise out of the expectant guests.