Shana Galen (2 page)

Baron ran, keeping his head down lest he be recognized once he neared Mayfair. He almost would have preferred for Elinor to attempt to kill him. Outright violence would have been preferable to the disappointed look she would bestow upon him in its stead. He hated to disappoint. Ironically, he never disappointed when working. But at home… his record was far from exemplary.

More streets and more alleys, and his breathing grew labored. The carriages multiplied like rabbits, street lamps grew more numerous with each passing street, and Baron knew he was in Mayfair. He ducked into a dark shop doorway and looked to the right. The Ramsgate town house was that way.

He looked left. Home was that way. Should he go home or attempt to make it to the ball? Surely Elinor had not gone to the Ramsgate ball without him. She was too reserved, too meek and nervous to attend a ball unescorted. But he couldn’t lead the two thugs to his home.

He ducked back into the shadows when he heard the men approaching. They made more noise than hounds in a fox hunt. At the last possible moment, when Baron was certain they would rush past him, he stuck out an arm and knocked one of the men down. The other raced by, and by the time he’d turned back, Baron had knocked the bald man’s head against the window of the shop, shattering the thick glass and rendering the thug bloody and unconscious.

Unfortunately, that left the man in black. The man with the pistol pointed at Baron’s head. “Give me the key, Baron.”

“You know I can’t,” he said, keeping his gaze on the pistol. Had the man in black had time to prime it? Was this a bluff?

“You can’t run forever.”

“Neither can you.” Baron was going to take a chance. Standing here, an easy target, was not a position he enjoyed. Carriages streamed past them on the busy street up ahead. The man would not risk the sound of gunfire with so many close by. Baron narrowed his eyes. Would he?

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

“Have it your way,” Baron said and darted toward the busy street. He zigzagged in the event the man in black had primed his pistol, but when Baron didn’t feel the hot slap of a ball in his back, he assumed he’d guessed correctly. He looked over his shoulder, saw the man ramming a ball down the pistol’s barrel, and cursed. He wouldn’t escape so easily next time. The man in black looked up with a grin and ran after him. Baron turned his attention back to the street, almost colliding with a passing coach. He dove around it and continued running, glancing up in time to narrowly avoid a coach-and-four coming from the opposite direction.

Hold. He slowed. Those were
his
Yorkshire Trotters. That was
his
coach! Was Elinor inside? The irony of being all but run down by his own coach did not escape him.

Baron reached the far side of the street and had no time to consider. He turned on his heel and started for the Ramsgate town house. The man in black followed, his ebony greatcoat whipping behind him like a raven’s wing. As Baron neared the ball, he ducked down an alley to avoid the lights and the throng of arriving carriages. He heaved himself over a garden wall and tumbled unceremoniously into the Ramsgates’ garden. The earl and his countess had strewn Chinese lanterns throughout, lighting the beautifully manicured lawns. Baron hissed and sank back into the more comfortable shadows. He hissed again when he heard the man in black clambering over the wall. He couldn’t stay where he was, and that meant he had one option open to him.

One very, very bad option. Dusting the leaves from his lapels, Baron started toward the glittering chandeliers and crescendoing music.

Elinor stepped into the bright lights of Lord and Lady Ramsgate’s ballroom, and her senses were assaulted. A violin’s song soared, while a cello tethered the lofty notes to the orchestra’s raised dais. The din of voices buzzed like busy wasps, and women in elaborate plumage and sumptuous silks, satins, and velvets circled handsome men in coats and cravats. The clink of china, the mix of perfumes, the heat from too many bodies—Elinor’s smile wobbled as the majordomo announced her. Just her. Alone. No Winn at her side.

It felt wrong, all wrong, but she was not going to turn back now. She’d spent enough nights at home, waiting for Winn. Not tonight.

A few guests glanced her way, but the world did not come to an end. No one even seemed particularly scandalized. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and moved forward. She had to keep her back straight to stop the bodice of the gown from dipping. As she’d walked through the vestibule at home, she’d remembered why she never wore this gown. The bodice always slipped, and what had been a modest neckline in her bedroom was now dipping scandalously low. She’d tugged it up in the privacy of the carriage, but there was no opportunity now.

“Hello!” Lady Ramsgate glided toward her, wearing a beautiful silk gown of deep green that complimented her dark blond hair and hazel eyes. Lady Ramsgate, one of Elinor’s dearest friends, smiled her toothy smile, and Elinor could hardly resist smiling back. “Don’t you look stunning?”

Elinor frowned. “It’s too daring, isn’t it?”

“What? No! It’s perfect.” Her friend linked an arm with her and began to walk the circumference of the room. “Where is that neglectful husband of yours?”

“Shouldn’t you be greeting your guests?”

“In a moment.” The countess waved a hand. “In a moment. Tell me, did you dare to come alone? And dressed like this? Oh, I
like
it. I do.”

Elinor felt the burn of censorious gazes raking over her flesh—more specifically, her too-bare bosom. “I should take my leave.” It seemed she was far braver and ready for excitement when she was at home than when the opportunity actually arose. Oh, she was fooling no one! She’d never be a spy. She could not even attend a ball on her own.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Lady Ramsgate said, catching her elbow. “You are going to stay and dance with all the rakes of the
ton
. I want Baron Keating to hear how popular his wife was while he spent another tedious evening poring over ledgers.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Poring over ledgers never is.” Mary lifted a flute of champagne from a passing footman’s tray. “Have a glass or four of this, darling, and we’ll see if you don’t decide to stay.” She handed the flute to Elinor, who dutifully took a sip.

“Now, whom should you dance with first? Ah, I know! You’ll want to dance with Mr. Trollope. Or are you calling him
Rafe
now?”

Elinor could all but feel her cheeks turn bright red as her flesh flamed hot. “Shh! Not so loudly.”

Mary laughed. “You are blushing like a schoolgirl. It must be love.”

“I am going home.” Elinor turned. Laughing, Mary yanked her back.

“Very well. I will cease tormenting you. In any case, the infamous Mr. Trollope has not yet made an appearance. Do not fret. The night is young.” She glanced around the room, making Elinor nervous. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Elinor pushed her shoulders down, hearing them pop from the tension. She reminded herself she had come because she wanted a diversion. She had come because she wanted to dance. She wanted to laugh. She missed the company of other adults. She missed the company of a man.

She wasn’t quite certain she wanted the company of Mr. Trollope, in particular, but it was lovely to have a man pay attention to her, compliment her, desire her. Yes, she knew Trollope’s main motivation was to bed her, but lately she had begun considering giving in to his attempts at seduction. Why not? She did not think Winn would care. He did not want her. And Elinor might be a mother, but she was still a woman. She still craved love and pleasure in her life.

“What about Sir Henry?” Mary asked, tapping a gloved finger on her pointed chin. “He is handsome.”

Elinor glanced across the room, wanting to be certain of the gentleman before she replied. “Mary, Sir Henry is a child! I cannot dance with him.” She downed the rest of her champagne and took another champagne glass from a footman who, as though sensing he was needed, had stationed himself nearby.

Mary scowled. “He is two and twenty, at least. Besides, darling, he might like all an older woman has to offer.”

“No. I’d feel as though I were dancing with a nephew. What about…” She scanned the far side of the ballroom, looking for someone innocuous, someone harmless, someone who did not look as angry and dangerous as the man stalking toward her. She gripped Mary’s arm. “He’s here!”

“Where?” Mary whipped her head back and forth. “I didn’t hear Trollope announced.”

“Not Ra—I mean, Mr. Trollope,” Elinor said, realizing Winn really was coming straight for her. “My husband.”

Mary took a step back, an indication she too had seen Baron Keating plowing toward them. “What happened to him?” Mary hissed.

Elinor shook her head. “I don’t know. He looks a bit… rumpled.” That was an understatement. Winn looked rough and disheveled and more than a little dangerous. His light brown hair, usually so meticulously styled, fell over his forehead in soft waves almost to his collar. His eyebrows were a slash above his blazing green eyes, and he had a smudge of dirt on one cheek. He wore no cravat, and his shirt was open at the throat. Her heart kicked, and quite suddenly she had trouble breathing.

“He looks good enough to eat.” Mary pushed Elinor forward. “I hope you’re hungry.” And with a whirl, she disappeared into the crush of guests. Elinor wanted to do the same, but just as she turned, Winn caught her arm and swung her back around. She hadn’t been mistaken. He looked angry.

“My lord. What a surprise to see you in attendance.”

His eyes, a clear emerald, raked over her. Once again, she felt her flesh burn, but for a different reason altogether. This was not embarrassment. This was desire.

Futile desire.

“Did you forget the rest of your gown?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “That is what you have to say to me?” The words were out before she knew what she was saying. In fourteen years of marriage, she had never spoken to Winn in an angry tone. She had never questioned him.

She had been a milksop.

“No apology for breaking your promise?” she continued, gaining confidence. “No explanation for your sudden appearance or why you have a leaf in your hair?”

Looking a bit stunned, Winn reached up, felt his hair, and crumpled the leaf in his hand.

“After all of your transgressions tonight, you have the unmitigated
gall
to comment on my gown?”

He stepped closer, looking—oh, dear—angry. She rarely caught a glimpse of this side of him. “Does it even qualify as a gown, madam? I should think it were some sort of undergarment.”

“How would you know? It’s been ages since you saw any of my undergarments.” She shook her head, fury replacing the last dregs of desire. Who did he think he was? “There is nothing inappropriate about my gown,” she retorted, ignoring his deepening scowl. “It isn’t any more scandalous than most of the ladies of our acquaintance wear. Only you, sir, are not used to seeing me as a woman. In this gown it is impossible for you to ignore the fact that I am female.”

He stared at her, his expression one of shock and rage. Elinor did not think it wise to wait for his reply. That last comment might have crossed a line. She stomped away, then slowed her steps. Why should
she
be the one to leave the ball? Why should Winslow Keating triumph yet again? The orchestra ended the quadrille they’d been playing, and Elinor heard the first strains of the waltz. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Winn was following her. He had murder in his eyes. Desperate now, she grabbed the arm of the first man she encountered. It was Sir Henry.

“I believe I promised you the next dance, did I not, Sir Henry?”

The poor boy blinked his large blue eyes in confusion. “I—ah, of course, madam.”

She grabbed his hand and led him toward the space cleared for dancing. When they were in the center, surrounded by other couples whirling around them, Sir Henry swept her up and began to spin her. “I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“Oh?” Elinor glanced over his shoulder for Winn. Surely he would not dare make a scene by marching to the center of the ballroom to fetch her. “I am Lady Keating, and that’s quite all right. You didn’t actually ask me to dance.” Where was Winn? She could no longer see him, and his sudden disappearance was making her nervous. Was he approaching from the opposite direction? “I simply needed to escape someone.”

“Oh, good.”

She glanced back at Sir Henry. “Good?”

“Yes, I did not think I would have forgotten if I’d asked a woman as beautiful as you to dance.”

And now Elinor was blushing again. Sweet boy. He didn’t mean it, of course, but it was a lovely compliment. She smiled, and for a moment, she forgot about Winn and the girls and the thousand household matters she needed to attend to, and just danced.

***

Winn would have liked five minutes alone with the puppy dancing with his wife. The man—boy—was ogling her as though she were a candied violet offered on the supper table. And what man wouldn’t ogle her? He hadn’t even recognized her for a full five minutes, and he had been searching for her. He’d never seen her wear red before. He’d never seen her color so high or her hair in such fetching disarray. This was not entirely true. He had seen her looking thus once or twice.

But not lately. Not in a long, long time.

The shot of lust he felt when he saw her all but knocked him over. And before he had the chance to feel guilty for lusting after a woman who was not his wife, he realized it was indeed his wife, and then anger quickly replaced lust. What was she thinking, coming to the Ramsgate ball with her bosom all but on display? Whom was she trying to seduce? Not him, obviously. Clearly, she hadn’t known he was coming, and she never wore seductive gowns when he accompanied her. Usually she wore… well, he could not remember what she wore, because he had not accompanied her for some time, but he was certain it was something far more subdued.

He would have gone after her, dismissed the puppy and danced with her himself, but he spotted the man in black entering through the French doors, which were open to the garden. Winn swore. He was going to have to deal with the thug, and he couldn’t do it in the middle of the ball. He would have preferred to return to the garden, but the man in black had spotted him and was making his way across the crowded room.

Lady Ramsgate was a close friend of his wife’s, and Winn had been in the Ramsgate town house on several previous occasions. He knew the layout and made for the servants’ stairs. The top floors of the house should be deserted. The servants were likely to be busy with all the ball entailed and would not occupy the upper floors at present. Winn moved slowly, wanting to ensure the man in black saw where he was headed and followed. When he felt certain he had been spotted, Winn raced to the third floor, exited into a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and glanced about for a spot to hide.

There was nothing. No potted plant, no chair, no Chinese folding screen. He tried the door nearest him and cursed when it was locked. He raced to the next one. Locked, of course. Where the devil was his luck tonight? He was awful at picking locks—hands too big—but he could use brute force. He took three large steps back, inhaled slowly, then ran for the door, leading with his shoulder. He rammed it, bounced back, and shook his head. His shoulder throbbed, reminding him no part of him was as young as it used to be. Winn examined the frame, saw he’d done some damage, and stepped back again. He eyed the servants’ door to the stairwell, knowing he was almost out of time.

With a groan of dread, he rammed the door again. This time he separated it enough to kick it in. He was inside the room and stumbling about in the darkness, leaving the door open a sliver. He stepped behind the door and waited for the man in black to find him.

Winn heard him before he saw him. He was moving quietly down the corridor, approaching the open door. Winn held his breath and prepared to strike. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges like a scream in the silent darkness. Someone peered into the room. “Is anyone there?”

Too late, Winn realized it was a servant and not the man in black. He tried to pull his punch, but it struck the man on the side of the head and brought him down. The servant muttered an
oof
and went slack.

“Bloody hell.” Now where was the man in black? Winn bent, checked the servant, and was relieved he was unconscious. The last thing he needed was a servant reporting that Baron Keating had attacked him on the night of the ball. He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him, hoping the man would awake before he was found.

If the man in black hadn’t followed him upstairs, he must still be downstairs. With the Ramsgates’ guests.

With Elinor.

Damn it! He raced back down the stairs, wishing he’d faced the man down in the gardens, instead of bringing an armed attacker into the same ball as his wife and his friends—well, her friends.

Idiot. Crow would never have allowed him to make such a foolish error in judgment. But then Crow was dead, and it was his own foolish error that had been responsible for that too.

Winn had the presence of mind to ease open the servants’ door and check that the corridor outside was empty before exiting. He then made his way back toward the ballroom. He passed several people he knew, but the grim expression on his face did not invite conversation. When he reached the ballroom again, he could not stop his gaze from seeking Elinor. She was still waltzing with the puppy, and now that Winn had the man in black to deal with, there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do to stop it. There wasn’t any bloody way he could even move close to her. And he wanted to be close to her. Desperately. When had she become a beauty? Had she always possessed that figure?