The Danger of Desire (37 page)

Rawsthorne smiled, taking obvious pleasure in toying with him. “We won’t quibble on a night like this. The intelligence leak from the Admiralty has at last been stemmed, and that was all you were required to do.”

Hugh shut his mouth over his anger, though he felt hard and edgy with the need to smash his fist into Rawsthorne’s fucking face.

“Yes, we’re all here to enjoy ourselves.” Rawsthorne made a show of looking about him, though Hugh knew the moment he spoke what the major was about to do. “There are some lovely girls about. That young lady is your cousin, I understand.”

Raw hatred and fear—oh, yes, he’d be a fool not to fear Rawsthorne, the same way he would be a fool to underestimate an opponent at sea—surged and heated his blood. The violence rising from deep within him felt more and more inevitable. But he had to be careful now. Rawsthorne was purposefully baiting him, and the bastard must have firepower—he never would have engaged with Hugh unless he felt he had the advantage—but he was, as yet, keeping whatever he knew to himself. But Rawsthorne could bloody well stay away from Meggs. “My cousin is not available to dance with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Rawsthorne smiled. “Explicitly, old man. It is all quite clear to me.”

Meggs watched the exchange between Hugh and the army major with interest from her vantage point at the top of the set she was currently dancing with the curate. Mr. Phelps proved to be an obliging and surprisingly energetic dancer, thankfully leaving off all mention of the gospels during the set. And he did not tax her with inattention when she became involved in watching Hugh’s exchange with the major.

Hugh did not like that man. Not one bit. If she were the major, she would have been scurrying far away. The captain was looking more and more like God’s revenge against murder, but the major—why the major was egging him on.

And now the major was sauntering away and taking out a gold and enamel snuff box to serve himself up a pinch. Filthy habit that, old Nan used to say, and Meggs could only concur. What a toad. It would give her great pleasure to serve him up to the captain like a trophy.

When the dance ended, she snagged another glass of champagne from a passing footman and headed in the major’s direction.

Hugh saw it all at a distance, as if the events unfolding before his eyes were happening at the end of his spyglass, miles away across the sea of bodies in the ballroom. Somehow, someway, despite his injunction, wrongly, stupidly, Meggs was being led out onto the dance floor by Rawsthorne.

Hugh was going to kill the bastard—his mother’s ball and the scandal be damned. He was going to pummel Rawsthorne until he was nothing but a bloody piece of pulp.

Every nerve in his body was on alert. His right hand was searching his belt for the sword he was not wearing, because he could not wear his uniform or weapon while he was not on active duty.
She
was his duty.

She tossed a smile to him across the floor as she turned in a figure, away from Rawsthorne—that cheeky, mischievous smile that brought dimples out in her cheeks. But she had turned back before Hugh could make a gesture—his hand cutting back and forth across his throat—to stop whatever lunacy she thought she was about.

On she danced, laughing and smiling at all the other dancers. And then everything slowed, and the edges of Hugh’s vision seemed to close in until there was nothing but Meggs. She began a figure and then went the wrong way. And crashed into the wall of Rawsthorne’s chest. Hugh wanted to shout, to jump between them, but it was already over, and other hands had intervened to help Meggs up and steady her, and put her on the right way. She was laughing gaily, smiling, and apologizing as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

As if she hadn’t just robbed Rawsthorne blind.

Hugh had to get to her. He had to stop her before anything else happened. He fought his way across the dance floor as though he were trying to make way against a running tide. He bumped into the dancers right and left. He didn’t care. He had to reach her.

Finally, finally, he caught Meggs by the wrist. “Excuse me. Cousin Margaret, my mother requires you.”

Meggs gave him a huge smile and allowed herself to be led away. As soon as they cleared the lines of dancers, Hugh felt another unfamiliar weight settle into his pocket. He fished it out without looking and let it drop to the crowded floor as he towed her on. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“Yes!” She was all sauce and dimples.

“God’s balls. You’re drunk.”

“Am I? I don’t feel drunk. I feel wonderful!”

Even as she leaned in closer to the warmth of Hugh’s chest, Meggs felt another hand close around her wrist like a manacle.

“A word,
Miss
Evans,” Major Rawsthorne hissed through clenched teeth.

“I beg your pardon, Major.” As if there weren’t already players enough, Mr. Blythwyn stepped innocently into the fray, back to claim his second dance. “But Miss Evans is my partner for the next dance.”

“No.” The major didn’t so much as look at him. His eyes remained fixed on her. “I have unfinished business with Miss Evans.”

“Your
business
”—Hugh gave the word a dubious inflection as he loomed over Rawsthorne—“will have to wait. Miss Evans is not at your disposal. Let her go.”

Meggs very much hoped that she would not be disposed of at all in the course of the evening, but she was glad of even the temporary reprieve.

Rawsthorne snarled, “Where is it?” And right there, in front of God and everyone, he yanked her toward him and started to frisk her, his hands roving up and down her body in search of the stolen snuff box.

Meggs repressed her instincts to mash the bastard’s cods in right then and there and instead did what any proper, gently bred young lady being escorted by Lady Balfour would do. She screamed loudly and with great vigor, and wilted into a faint.

“Unhand her this instant.” That was her captain, all snarling bear, even as he caught her.

“She stole my snuff box,” the major fumed.

Well, points to him for awareness. But points off for sheer stupidity. No matter that the captain was all angry command, the stupid, handsy bastard continued to try to frisk her quite thoroughly, even as Hugh tried to pull her away.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.” She opened her eyes wide and went all wounded doe. But the major, clever bastard, wasn’t buying one Drury Lane farthing of it.

“Of course she does.” Rawsthorne’s voice rose with his mounting frustration. “I doubt this little baggage with the light fingers is even your cousin at all.”

There was a general chorus of “oohs” from the crowd of guests as people drew back and simultaneously pressed forward, anxious to hear every word.

The captain was as smooth and cool as an iceboat. “Is that what you’re looking for, major?” He pointed to the snuff box, halfway across the floor. Oh, he was a clever one, her captain. She hadn’t even seen him ditch it. “You dropped it on the dance floor.”

Rawsthorne stalked away from them and snatched it up. But his anger and his potential humiliation had made him find a new target. “Is that how you did it, McAlden? Gained your knighthood by employing this little whore to steal your secrets and save the Admiralty from dishonor and humiliation?”

Hugh helped her to her feet and spoke into the screaming silence quietly, but there was no doubt that the entire assembly heard every word. “You do both Miss Evans and my family, not to mention His Majesty’s Royal Navy, a grave insult by such careless words.”

“Spare me your Scottish family honor,” Rawsthorne sneered. “You may have fooled the rest of the world with your fancy piece, but I know a two-penny St. Giles whore when I see one.”

“I have no doubt
you
do know a great many things about St. Giles whores,” her captain enunciated coolly. “And I’m sure you will do me the honor, Major, of seeing you into hell at your earliest convenience.”

“A duel?” scathed Rawsthorne. “I’m not going to fight a duel over a thieving whore. Find your consolation between her legs if you need to.”

There was an audible intake of breath as the ballgoers registered their shock at such language.

“Since you refuse to act the gentleman—” Hugh stepped closer and backhanded Rawsthorne across the face with a slap so hard, the man stumbled sideways from the force.

There were shouts and screams, and ladies actually fainted as Rawsthorne leapt at the captain but was restrained by the hands of others. The mark of the blow was livid against his sallow skin, and blood was oozing from the corner of his mouth.

But Meggs could barely register the crowd pressing forward. Or even the two men at the center of the turmoil. Everything faded until she could only see the old woman advancing inexorably across the widening expanse of floor toward
her
.

Hugh’s rage was such that he was entirely, effortlessly calm. Everything faded but the deep, abiding sense of certainty and the snarling face of the man he would shortly kill. He did not see the small but formidable old woman until she was upon them.

“That will be quite enough of that.” The Dowager Duchess of Fenmore stepped in the fray, followed directly by his mother and Viscount Balfour.

“There will be no duel.” The old lady commanded them with the casual haughtiness only a dowager duchess with decades of having her way could produce. And although her remarks would seem to have been directed at the men, she was bearing down upon Meggs like a warship under full sail, parting the waves of gawking bystanders with the menace of her cane.

“Throw that blaggart out with the dogs.” The duchess flung her hand at Rawsthorne as she came near. “I will not hear another word of his outrageous raving. This girl cannot possibly be any of the vile and despicable things he has said. This girl is
my granddaughter
.”

And then, for a change, all hell broke loose.

Everybody spoke at once, and the crowd surged forward. Hugh was trying to go forward as well, trying to reach Meggs, to stop this strange travesty before it was too late. But there were too many people.

He heard Viscount Balfour take charge. “Maitland,” he addressed his eldest son, “please see to the musicians while I escort Major Rawsthorne from the premises. Eleanor, perhaps the duchess would prefer to retire to your sitting room, and we can end this spectacle.”

“Now, I’ll never stand a chance,” the young man at Hugh’s elbow complained. “It was bad enough when she was only your cousin, but now she’s the granddaughter of a duchess, she’s far beyond my touch.”

Hugh looked back to see Meggs throw him a desperate glance over her shoulder as she was all but frog-marched out of the ballroom like a prisoner with the dowager on one arm and the viscountess on the other. He followed quickly on their heels, taking the stairs two at a time to reach her before this stupid travesty went any further. But even once in his mother’s private apartments, he could see there would be no chance to steal her away. The old lady had Meggs in a death grip—her knuckles were stark white on Meggs’s pale upper arm.

And they were not alone. His stepfather had returned, taking command of the room even as others came in. Hugh was nearly swallowed up by the cacophony of voices, each one more strident that its neighbor, each voice insisting on having its opinion in the matter heard.

The current Duke of Fenmore, the cousin of the dowager duchess’s husband, the late duke, was speaking. “My dear Anne, are you quite sure?”

The dowager was strident. “I am sure. Margaret Evans. I could scarce believe it. You took your mother’s name. I knew it the moment I saw you. Oh, my dear girl.” The woman was grasping Meggs’s hand tightly. “I would have known you anywhere. You’re the very image of her.”

Meggs looked absolutely stricken, as though she were about to toss up her accounts. Hugh had only once seen her so devoid of color or animation.

His mother was trying to inject some measure of sanity. “Your Grace, I don’t think that Miss Evans could possibly be who—”

“Please, Eleanor. I know my own grandchild. I have all the proof I shall need.”

“But the law is another matter entirely,” the duke cautioned quietly. “I understand your—”

“You know the proofs as well as I, Charles. The child had two identical birthmarks on the inside of her arms, just above the elbow.” Duchess took Meggs’s hands and held her arms up, turning them inward. A collective gasp rose from the group. “And another mark.”

Hugh’s blood went cold as the old lady sailed on, heedless of the destruction in her wake.

“On the inside of her left leg, in the shape of a house wren. At least that’s what they thought when she was born, and why her mother called her Birdy.”

A chill settled into Hugh’s bones. The dusky tan birthmark was still quite recognizable. He had lingered there, on the inside of her white thigh, to kiss it, just last night.

Tears were streaming down Meggs’s face, marbling her cheeks with red and white splotches. The duchess was still holding Meggs’s hands, but her own had begun to tremble.

“It only remains for you to tell us, dear child.”

Meggs nodded and spoke through her gasping sobs. “It’s true. My name is Trinity Margurite Evans. I was born on October the thirteenth, in the year of our Lord 1779 to Margaret Augusta and Lord Arthur John Evans in the village of Tissington, where my father was Rector of St. Mary’s Church on the estate of the Fitzherberts.”

Hugh was beyond stunned—he felt gutted. As though she had fired a cannon point blank into his chest. The dowager closed her eyes and reeled a little. The duke was there instantly, steadying her before she could fall.

“And the boy?” the old woman managed when she had collected herself. “Your brother.”

“Timmy is ...” Meggs met Hugh’s eyes for the first time but didn’t speak. She looked hunted, a wild animal finally run to ground.

Hugh found his voice. “He is currently on duty as a midshipman in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, under Captain Jameson Marlowe of the sloop
Defiant,
on Channel defense.”

The dowager turned her horrified face to him. “What is my son’s heir, the Duke of Fenmore, doing on Channel duty, as a midshipman of all things?”