The Diamond Key (19 page)

Torrie looked over—it seemed she always knew where Viscount Ingall was, as if his presence drew her glance like a magnet—to see Lady Lynbrook draped across him as close as a neckcloth, if he were wearing one. Torrie turned and accepted the arm of the first gentleman who offered. He was a knight, who declared that even his light armor was devilishly warm, so could they take a turn in the garden?

With his voice muffled through his visor, Torrie did not know who the knight was, nor why the gudgeon did not remove his helmet if he was hot. She nodded to his suggestion, however, rather than watch Lord Ingall make a cake of himself over the dumpling-like dowager Lady Lynbrook. She and her Sir Stifling went back to the terrace, so she missed the incident in the ballroom.

Wynn and Bette were having a comfortable coze in the gilt chairs. She had not danced so much in years, Bette told him, nor had so many compliments. Unfortunately, she confessed, Bette now found herself out of breath, her feet aching, her head spinning.

“Oh, Wynn,” she complained, “I am too old for this.”

“You are not going to start crying again, are you?” Lud, they were both being treated as equals here, not outcasts. One of Bette’s scenes could do just what Wynn wanted to avoid: call up the old scandal. Besides, no man wanted to wed a watering pot. He’d never get Bette fired off if the eligibles thought she was weepy, or still entangled with him.

Luckily, a commotion at the top of the stairs diverted her attention. A hush fell over the entire room, and all eyes turned to the late arrivals. Wellington himself stood there, the Iron Duke. This was better for the success of Mrs. Reese’s party than an appearance by the prince or the tsar. It was almost as good as an appearance of one of the archangels. The tiny old lady scurried up the stairs, chiding her butler to announce their honored guest, even though no other names had been called that evening.

“Nonsense,” the hero of the Peninsula countermanded in a voice that could be heard across battlefields, much less a London ballroom. “Everyone knows who I am anyway. But announce my young friend’s name. He’s the real guest of honor.”

Behind the general, the watchers now saw, was a ribbon- and medallion-strewn officer in a wheeled Bath chair. His face was as scarlet as his coat, as two burly soldiers started to lift the chair to carry it down the stairs. He must have demurred, for his commander slapped him on the back. “Bosh. You said you had friends here, and that’s the only way you can find them, Major Campe.”

“Troy?” Bette screamed before collapsing into Wynn’s arms. He felt like fainting himself. It truly was his friend Troy, returned from the dead, or from whatever hell the war had taken him. He was not going to wait for those blasted soldiers to bump Troy down the steps. He bounded up them instead, with Bette hanging limp in his embrace. He dumped her into Troy’s lap, saying, “I think this belongs to you,” then fell to his knees to wrap his arms around his oldest best friend.

“I see your friends found you after all,” Wellington said, wiping a tear from his own eye before signaling the soldiers to stand away. “Ingall, is it? Good show, man. Your support during the last contretemps was invaluable. And the information your network supplied helped us win the day that much sooner. Fair England owes a great debt to both you and Major Campe.”

Cheers rang out as Wynn steered his friend’s chair away from the steps to a side parlor, not the one being used as an infirmary, thank goodness, but where they could have a private reunion.

Bette woke up after one of Mrs. Reese’s maids handed Wynn a vinaigrette to wave under her nose. She started wailing again—but did not unwind her arms from around Troy. She looked like she would never let go, in fact. The poor fellow might have survived the war only to be drowned by his old playmate’s tears of joy.

“We thought you died four years ago,” Wynn simply said as Troy patted Bette’s back.

“I know, and I am sorry. The War Office thought it was better that way, that I could serve in a different capacity, incognito, especially since my parents had passed on and I had no one waiting for me.”

“You have been a spy for four years, and no one knew it?”

“An intelligence gatherer,” Troy corrected him. “And the old man was right. Your information helped swing the tide. But then I was injured last year.” He gestured toward his legs. “I can get around on crutches, but not as easily.”

“Then why the hell did you not come home?”

“No mobility to speak of, no career, no income, no property, for my brother got the manor. I had nothing to come home for.”

“You had me, you great gaby!” Bette cried.

“And you have a modest fortune. The money you lent me, you know,” Wynn said.

“That was no loan. You won it in a card game.”

“We both knew you lost on purpose, so it was a loan. I vowed to repay it, with interest. I was lucky with the investments. Your half will keep the both of you in comfort ‘til your dying day, which had better be at least fifty years from now, I swear.”

“I’d heard you had the Midas touch. Do you truly mean to give me half? I merely gave you a paltry few hundred pounds.”

“You gave me everything you had, man. I am only offering half. Contingent, of course, on your taking Bette off my hands. You do mean to marry the silly wench, don’t you? As her, ah, temporary guardian, you might say, I feel I have to ask, you know.”

The kiss his old friends shared was answer enough. Wynn left them alone and closed the door behind him.

He was poorer by half, but richer by twice in the things that mattered.

Wynn was whistling as he walked down the hall. Not only did he have his friend home at last, to stay, but he finally had a credible witness to that duel. No one would doubt the word of Wellington’s favorite when Troy vouched that Wynn had not fired early, that Lynbrook had walked off the field that fateful morning. As soon as Troy was settled, Wynn would have his man of business, his barrister, and the magistrate look into the matter. For now, Wynn was so happy, he actually felt like dancing!

On the way to the ballroom he was stopped by an aide to Wellington, who offered him a position with the War Office, without recompense, naturally. Now that he was merely wealthy instead of hideously rich, Wynn would have to think about accepting. From having nothing to do but count his money and watch it grow, he had a hundred ways to spend his time, all of them vastly interesting and important. He even had a friend with whom to share the decision. Troy and Bette would find a place in the country, no doubt, but he could go visit. They’d have children, and he would be a doting godfather.

Something was still missing from that rainbow-hued future he was painting, though. A whole corner, in fact, was blank, barren, empty. He already had a place in the country, dash it, and he’d be a good father, too. And a good husband. He walked with new purpose down the ballroom steps.

He did not get very far, for everyone, it seemed, wanted to be his friend now. Wellington’s commendation, and Bette wrapped in the major’s arms, not Wynn’s, had sealed his acceptance. Even Marissa smiled at him—and her face did not shatter from the effort. Wynn cynically wondered if all these toadies would still be as cordial if they knew he had promised away half his fortune. He supposed his coffers were still full enough for the mamas pushing their daughters at him, and for the daughters pushing their chests out toward him.

Was he supposed to pick a wife by the size of her mammaries, like a milk cow? Her pedigree, like a horse? Her dancing, like a trained bear?

He just could not do it, sift through their numbers and pull out a jewel. For all Wynn knew about women, he’d end up with fool’s gold. Besides, the blondes were insipid. The brunettes were boring. The raven-tressed chits reminded him of witches.

He’d have a cigar instead.

Too many couples were strolling on the wide terrace, likely looking for a dark corner where the chaperons could not see them. Wynn stepped down onto a garden path. That was more like it: a fine cigar, music in the background, and no hopeful maidens in sight. Now he could truly savor his night’s successes. The failures, and the females, would still be there tomorrow.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of gold disappearing down a different path. The trees were strung with paper lanterns, but the gardens were still dark. Perhaps he was wrong, just seeing a reflection from the ballroom. No woman would be corkbrained enough to go so far away from the crowds and the chaperons, not unless she was trying to destroy her reputation.

Or trying out a gentleman’s kisses.

Or meeting her lover.

It was none of his business; Lady Torrie had made that very plain. If she had chosen to go husband-hunting in the dark, that was her father’s concern, or her aunt’s, not the suitor she had summarily rejected. No, he’d stay right here and smoke his cigar, which tasted like sawdust, and listen to the music, which must have stopped for the supper break. Besides, he told himself, there might be any number of women at the ball dressed in filmy gold fabric. The female might have been fat and forty, dressed as Galatea, trysting with a groom, for all he knew. He’d be a prime fool to follow them, a regular busybody and a marplot.

Whose feet were already headed down that path. Damn, but that woman could ruin a man’s pleasure in life seven ways to Sunday.

* * * *

Torrie’s knight wanted to stroll the gardens, but she was not born yesterday. She was not going off alone with a strange gentleman, not even Sir Galahad. This gallant, on closer inspection, was far from the parfit gentil knight. In fact, his costume was so errant that it looked as if it had been collected from an old castle attic, in the dark. The visored helmet was meant to go with a full suit of armor, not a chain-mail tunic. The heavy wooden lance had been shortened until it could not have unseated a jouster unless he was on the same horse, yet still managed to trip Sir Jumble. The leather cross-gaiters looked more like horse harness, and the ornate, jewel-studded sword at his side was most likely made out of pasteboard. Other than asking her to walk with him, though, the knight had proved chivalrous enough, leaving her to her own thoughts while he worried at his heavy leather gloves.

Could she really be jealous of Lord Ingall’s paramours? Torrie wondered. Was she merely trying to fool herself by declaring her moral disgust at his licentious behavior, when all she wished was to indulge in the same actions with him? The memory of his dark head so close to Lady Lynbrook’s blond one, his eyes so concerned and attentive, was like a lance to her heart.

In fact, the knight’s lance
was
pressed against her heart. “I do not find that amusing, sir,” she said, meaning to walk past him back to the ballroom.

He poked at her again. “But you have pierced my defenses, fair goddess. I must have you.”

“I am not on Mrs. Reese’s menu, sirrah. You must be foxed.”

“Nay, lady, I have never been more sober. I need you.”

“Bosh.” She pushed against the lance, batting it away, but the weight, and the knight’s unwieldy gloves, caused it to drop. The heavy pole rolled off the terrace and down the steps into the gardens.

Torrie thought it a good thing that the silly visor muffled his words, for no
chevalier
used such language in front of a lady. Mrs. Reese’s punch must have been more potent than she thought for this fellow to be so castaway this early in the evening. She started across the terrace.

“Wait, my lady, my goddess, please wait!”

She would not have, but his mitt was closed on one of her wings. She feared pulling the wing off, and half her gown with it, if she moved away.

“Please,” he was saying, “won’t you help me retrieve my weapon?”

“No, I am sorry, but my next partner will be waiting.”

“It must be close by. Please.”

“I cannot ...”

“Oh, please. You see, I am ashamed to admit it, but I cannot bend over in this cursed costume. And these eye slits are hard to look out of.”

“Then why do you not take the helmet off?”

“What, and ruin the unmasking after supper? Dear Mrs. Reese would never forgive me.”

Dear Mrs. Reese would never forgive him for annoying one of her guests, but Torrie nodded. She could help fetch the knight his lance and be done with the ninny. So she went down the steps, the knight clattering behind her, and searched under the bushes for Sir Sot’s stick.

“Here it is,” she called, bending to retrieve the weapon. When she stood, however, the knight had his gloves off and his unsheathed sword pressing against her neck. The lance fell back to the ground with a thud.

The sword was steel.

She was alone with an attics-to-let knight in antique armor.

And her pistol was in her reticule, on the seat next to Aunt Ann.

Now who was the noddy?

Torrie opened her mouth to scream, but just then a cheer broke out in the ballroom. Most likely someone had made a betrothal announcement, or relayed glad tidings from the war. Perhaps the prince had arrived. All the other couples from the terrace were rushing for the doors, to go see. No one would hear her over the outburst.

“Just walk,” the knight said, sounding completely sober.

The blood in her veins sounded louder, especially where the tip of the sword was pressed. She walked, away from the lights and the crowds, away from any hope of rescue. A few more steps and no one could hear her scream anyway, not over the ballroom noise. For the first time, Torrie was truly afraid. Not even that bobbing-block Boyce had threatened her with physical harm.

She could not just let him herd her along, like a pig to slaughter. The analogy made her shudder. She did not want to think about the villain’s ultimate purpose in forcing her away from the party. Whatever it was, she was not going to like it. Therefore, she had to get away. Her mind was racing, even as she slowed her footsteps.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. But the lance was far behind, and Mrs. Reese’s gardeners were much too efficient to leave dead branches around, or a shovel. She reached up to brush an errant curl from her cheek and caught a hairpin just as it was about to fall. Fine, now she had a means of defending herself—against an armored attacker with a sword! Torrie would have laughed, if she were not so near to tears.