Revenge Wears Rubies (16 page)

Lord Moreland escorted his daughter proudly down the stairs, almost sober for the occasion as a small peace offering to his child. “Isn’t she a vision, Trumble?”

Herbert glanced up to dutifully observe her dress. “Quite right! Which reminds me, Lady Pringley was asking again for your couturier, so be sure to write it down for me so that I can recall it the next time she inquires.”

Haley tried to squeeze her father’s arm to signal him, but neither man seemed to excel in discretion.

“Why, it is my daughter’s own creation! Can you imagine?” He patted her fingers, openly proud of her feminine accomplishments. The ball gown was pale hyacinth purple satin piped with the fewest number of required flounces and pleats, over a silver-threaded ivory organdy underskirt. Each point was adorned with tiny embroidered silver flowers inset with small crystals to give the impression that she was dusted in a magical dew that shimmered with each step. Her shoulders were bared, and Haley had dotted her hair with matching silver flowers.

They reached the foyer and the waiting Mr. Trumble, who now seemed less cheerful than usual. “Oh, dear! Well, that is all well and good, but . . .”

“But what?” her father asked. “She looks like a queen!”

“A queen does not make her own dresses, Lord Moreland.” Mr. Trumble’s forehead furrowed as if he were contemplating an impossible problem. “What in the world will I tell Lady Pringley?”

“You could tell her that you didn’t know the name of my couturier, Mr. Trumble,” Haley offered as diplomatically as she could. “And since I have none, it would be the truth.”

“Yes, that may do it, but”—he took a deep breath, then smiled as the solution presented itself—“in the future, you will make use of London’s finest and then we’ll have no need of little white lies. No offense, dearest, but no wife of mine will stoop to such labor if she doesn’t have to. I’m not marrying one of my mill girls, after all!”

“I . . . I enjoy my creations, Mr. Trumble. It calms me to construct my dresses and—”

“I’m sure your father will agree that it is far more calming to have someone else see to it. I think you’ll discover that shopping is much more enjoyable! I had set up credit for you and expected that you would have already made this discovery, Miss Moreland.”

Haley looked at her father but realized that he’d conceded the battle.

“Many women make their own clothes!” she said, hating the note of desperation in her voice.

“Not ladies of good breeding, surely! You’ll not have the time after the wedding, in any case, and”—he straightened his shoulders and she recognized that he was finished with the debate—“it pleases me as your future husband to spoil you in this regard.”

“You deserve to be spoiled, darling.” Her father smiled sadly. “So much like your mother.”

Haley hid her misery with long years of practice, as Aunt Alice finally joined them to allow for their departure. She serenely glided past Mr. Trumble on her father’s arm toward the door and the waiting carriage, and did her best to keep her eyes forward.

“I cannot believe I’m here.” Michael Rutherford growled beneath his breath, for Galen’s hearing alone. He tugged at the lapels of his evening coat, clearly uncomfortable in such formal garb. “You should have asked Josiah to come with you to this damn thing!”

“I haven’t seen him for several days, and frankly, I’m starting to worry.” Galen looked away from his friend, scanning the room for any sign of his quarry. They’d arrived unfashionably early to the ball to make sure of Miss Moreland’s attendance. “Feel free to go and look for him, Michael. Since honestly, I don’t think I’m the one who insisted that you come with me.”

“Like hell, you didn’t! But if you’re giving me a choice now, I’d prefer feeling useful and making sure that Josiah is safe to standing around amidst . . .
this
!”

“
This
” was the Duke of Bellham’s grand ball, and one of the most elite and lively gatherings of the year. The duke’s young wife had made sure that her older husband’s deep pockets were exercised to the breaking point to achieve her desire to host the most extravagant party of the Season.

The duchess had outdone herself this year, and there were rumors that the crown princess herself would be in attendance. The entire house was bathed in gaslight and every surface in gold brocade, a glittering backdrop outshone by its bejeweled inhabitants as they cavorted and paraded in their finest clothes.

It wasn’t difficult to see it from Michael’s perspective, since he shared the cynical view of a world that paid more attention to appearance than character—but vengeance crowded his thoughts and he desired nothing more than Miss Moreland.

“Do what you wish,” Galen said, his breath caught in his throat as he spied her for the first time. “I will meet up with you later.”

He moved away from Rutherford, his senses coming alive with the awareness that she was once again nearby. She was on the arm of an older gentleman, and Galen didn’t see Trumble, which suited him even better. It was tedious to remain polite while the man bandied about him with the grace of a three-legged Pomeranian, yipping away nonsensically.

As he drew closer, he began to see a vague resemblance between the pair that supplied Lord Moreland’s identity without the ritual of an introduction. Galen noted the subtle signs of a man prematurely aged by poor habits but made no judgment. It was too common among the peerage, and in many ways, a sign of their status that they could cavort themselves into an early grave, or at the very least, enjoy a good case of the gout.

But before he could cross the room, Trumble appeared to lead Miss Moreland off to the dance floor. Galen slowed only for a moment, then decided to take advantage of a different kind of opportunity.

“Good evening, your lordship. If I may, I have had the pleasure of meeting your daughter and Mr. Trumble, and thought I would introduce myself.” Galen kept his approach even-keeled, assessing the man as he went. “I’m Galen Hawke.”

“Ah! Mr. Hawke! Alice sings your praises so much I almost thought you’d be quite a bit older.” Lord Moreland held out his hand cordially. “Not that your youth will protect you! My sister is a notorious flirt.”

“Mrs. Shaw has been very kind, and a man of any age would be flattered.”

Lord Moreland’s eyes rose appreciatively. “You
are
good!”

Galen did his best to humbly defer the compliment. “She is your sister, Lord Moreland. If I said any less, wouldn’t you be worried?”

“True! I suppose you’re cornered into making the smoothest speeches you can manage, or I’ll be forced to stamp on your toes in defense of my sister’s honor.”

“Just so.” Galen put his hands behind his back, glancing at the dancers. “Does Miss Moreland dance presently?”

“Yes, with her fiancé,” Lord Moreland said, pointing out the pair. “She is there in that pale purple-colored dress. The spitting image of her dear, dear mother,” he sighed. “Mr. Trumble, as you know, has a vast fortune from his father’s factories, and so I am very pleased with Haley’s choice.”

“Did they court long?” Galen asked.

“Not too long,” Lord Moreland noted, a wistful note coming into his voice. “He lighted on her quickly after his arrival in the country, and it was a matter of weeks before we were making plans to come to London. Love has its own timetables, Mr. Hawke.”

“I suppose it does.” Galen watched her, absorbing this new tidbit of information as she moved about the floor in a graceful quadrille.
Weeks. Why is there a part of me that was hoping for something . . . else? What would make it better? That she’d known the mud troll for a long time and simply turned to him in despair after learning of John’s death? Probably not much to mute the blow, but still—Trumble is hardly a candidate for a credible whirlwind romance. Which brings it all back to money again. . . .

Unaware of the turn of Galen’s thoughts, Lord Moreland went on, “My girl deserves the very best, and Trumble will spoil her as she should be spoiled. Nothing else matters, does it?”

“Well . . .”

“When you’re a father, you’ll see it differently. You’ll want only the best for your child.” Lord Moreland kept his eyes on his daughter. “Though I’m not sure what I’ll do without her.”

“Time enough before the wedding to enjoy her company!” Galen tried to turn him away from the melancholy direction of his words. “Shall we head to the salon upstairs for refreshments and leave the young lovers to their dance?”

Lord Moreland’s eyes took on a feral edge, and Galen’s earlier suspicions were confirmed when he replied, “Well, I’d promised Haley I wouldn’t overdo it, but . . . it seems a bit too rude to snub the duke’s attempts at hospitality, does it not?”

“A man should keep his promises. If you’ve given your daughter your word, I’m sure—”

“Just one drink won’t breach my vows! I told her I wouldn’t overindulge, but I’m sure I didn’t swear to sip tea all night.” Lord Moreland turned to leave the ballroom with Galen, his expression that of a child aware that he was heading out of bounds, but simply delighted at the prospect.

Galen felt a small stab of concern that he’d inadvertently set the man in the one direction he probably shouldn’t go, but there was no way to diplomatically argue against it now. Instead, he would just have to see what else he could learn and perhaps do what he could to rein him in before he was too deep into his cups.

Unfortunately, since Galen couldn’t drink, Lord Moreland seemed only too happy to take on his new friend’s unclaimed ration of spirits as well, and before long, Galen was wishing he’d kept Michael closer at hand.

Haley limped as subtly as she could away from Herbert and the male circle of conversation he’d insisted on joining. Endless minutes of a discussion on the developments in textile production and the advantages of automation versus the ending of genteel civilization and all she could think of was the throbbing agony of her feet after enduring three dances in a row with Mr. Trumble.

The Duke of Bellham’s house was extravagantly decorated in gold until it was easy to imagine that one had stumbled into Midas’s great hall. Haley shook her head in amazement at the vast expense and waste of it all.
I’d have been able to redo the roof on the house and keep up the property for several years on what the duchess must have spent on this single night’s entertainments. Why, the cost of the orchestra alone would have redone the gardens!

She wandered for a few minutes, trying to take in the sights of the ball but also trying to avoid any invitations into the crush of conversation. By staying on the periphery of the crowd, she began to feel a little better, but her aching feet complained until she accepted that she would need to find a quiet place to sit down and recover. She was confident that Herbert wouldn’t stray far from the conversation he’d found, so he would be easy enough to locate later.

Her father was another matter, but Haley saw no sign of him and could only pray he hadn’t gotten into any mischief. Her chaperone had also wandered off, no doubt in a merry search for mischief of her own, but she was sure Aunt Alice could manage to enjoy herself without causing too much damage.

Haley didn’t feel comfortable exploring the house for a suitable hiding place and risking looking either like a nosy guest or a would-be thief, so she eyed the glass-paned French doors that led out to a stone verandah overlooking the gardens. She escaped into the cool night air with a huge sense of relief.

Fortunately, it was a moonless night and the weather had threatened rain earlier, so there wasn’t a single soul to intrude on her precious solitude. There was just enough light from the windows of the house for her to make out the lush layout of the garden below, and she spied a rustic gazebo styled to look like a miniature Grecian temple against a far wall that looked promising. She was sure that she’d be able to sit there undisturbed and still be able to enjoy a good view of the house to make sure she wasn’t caught unaware if Herbert sent a search party.