The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (7 page)

Moreover, he’d never been able to read females, and Miss Billings’ demurely averted gaze had confounded his attempts to gauge her reactions. Not that she’d expressed any true opinions; she simply agreed with everything he said. If he’d claimed the sky was falling, he was certain she’d have dived for cover.

One supper was enough to cure him of any notions of marriage. Miss Billings might make some man an admirable wife but not him, by Jove. He’d find another way to fund the estate.

“I confess I’m surprised to see you here.” Blackwood’s voice joggled him out of his brooding. His friend was looking at him with perceptive blue-grey eyes. “As I recall, house parties aren’t your entertainment of choice.”

“You recall correctly,” Richard muttered. “It couldn’t be helped. I’m here to keep an eye on Wickham.”

“Ah.” Blackwood quirked a brow. “Still hoping he’ll land an heiress?”

“Hoping won’t save him, only planning will. I’m going to make it happen.”

“And your brother agrees with your plan?”

“My brother will do as I tell him.”

“A strategy that has yielded sterling results in the past.” Blackwood’s mouth took on a wry curve. “Remember the time you forbade young Wickham from entering that wager at White’s?”

“He damned near broke his neck racing in the rain. And he
still
lost five hundred pounds.” Which, of course, Richard had had to pay. “Foolish pup.”

“Foolishness is repeating a failing strategy and expecting success.”

Richard shot the other an annoyed glance. “Are you calling
me
a fool?”

“I’m merely suggesting that you consider the reality,” Blackwood said, not without empathy. “You cannot protect your brother forever. Eventually, he’ll have to answer for his mistakes.”

“The price is too high,” Richard said tightly. “He owes a cutthroat.”

“Then he’ll have to decide to save himself. I saw it time and again with the soldiers under my command. You can only bring a horse to water…”

Blackwood trailed off. Richard followed the direction of the other’s gaze, his muscles tautening when he spotted the group entering the salon. Guests parted to make way for the Strathavens, who made a regal pair. They were followed by a couple Richard did not know. A lanky, dark-haired gentleman with silver at his temples and an earnest air accompanied a stunning blonde who seemed his natural opposite. She radiated worldly confidence in a daring gown of silver-shot silk.

Then Violet Kent made her entrance, and for Richard the rest of the room faded. Heat gathered beneath his collar as he took in the way her dress, the color of ripe peaches, clung to her nubile form. Her curves were alluring in their subtlety, enticing him to imagine what lay beneath the scooped bodice, the full sweep of her skirts. She radiated feminine vitality, her tawny eyes glowing as she laughed at something the two girls with her were saying.

“Ah. There’s my wife now.” Blackwood waved, and Lady Blackwood, who’d come in behind Miss Kent, headed over.

To Richard’s dismay, she brought the Kents with her.

“There you are, darling.” Lady Pandora Blackwood, a raven-haired beauty, arrived at her husband’s side in a swish of wine-colored satin. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”

Not long ago, the Blackwoods had had a falling out, and Richard had witnessed first-hand the depth of his friend’s angry despair. Now the breach seemed to be entirely healed, the pair more like lovebirds than ever. As Blackwood murmured something in his lady’s ear, causing her cheeks to turn the same color as her frock, Richard wondered, not for the first time, why love came naturally for some yet remained an utter mystery to him.

“Lord Carlisle,” Lady Blackwood said, “do you know everyone?”

Meeting the stares of the group, most of them decidedly hostile, Richard felt his muscles bunch. Before he could respond, however, the lanky gentleman stepped forward.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ambrose Kent.” The man’s amber eyes assessed him. “This is my wife, Mrs. Kent.”

Of course. Kent was the eldest brother and patriarch of the family. A professional man, he owned a successful private enquiry firm and had the reputation for being fair-minded and just. Per Richard’s recollection, Mrs. Kent had been a wealthy and rather notorious widow prior to her second marriage.

Richard bowed. “Good evening, sir. Madam.”

“How do you do, my lord.” Mrs. Kent’s emerald gaze was cool. “May I present my daughter Primrose and sister-in-law Polly? Come make your curtsies, girls.”

The two obeyed. The blonde, a vivacious replica of her mama, said prettily, “How are you enjoying the party, my lord?”

“Very well, thank you—” He stiffened when he heard a snort. His eyes cut to the source. “I beg your pardon. Did you say something, Miss Kent?”

“No, my lord.” Her whiskey eyes widened—the worst attempt at innocence he’d ever seen. “’Twas merely a sneeze.”

“I hope you are not catching a cold.”

“Oh no, I’m quite robust. I must have a sensitivity to something in the room,” she said airily.

His jaw clenched.

“There you are, Carlisle.” Wick sauntered up, followed by his band of merry ne’er-do-wells. With an ease that Richard could only envy, he introduced himself and his friends to the group.

Richard had made it his business to know his brother’s associates and thus recognized Lord John Parnell and Mr. Tom Goggston. Both were second sons, neck-or-nothings who treated drinking, whoring, and gaming as competitive sports.

“Splendid party, eh?” Wick said.

“Quite.” Miss Primrose dimpled. “Except there hasn’t been any dancing.”

“Rosie,” Mrs. Kent said quietly.

“But it’s true, Mama,” her daughter said with a pout. “What’s a party without at
least
a quadrille or two?”

“I love a good dance myself, and I’ll wager you dance like an angel, Miss Kent.” Stout and full in the breadbasket, Goggston said eagerly, “If your card ain’t full, I’d—”

“There’ll be no dancing this eve,” Ambrose Kent said. “It’s getting late, girls. Time to go upstairs.”

“But
Papa.
It’s not even midnight.” His daughter’s bottom lip quivered, her green eyes shimmering. “That’s not fair.”

“Upstairs,” Kent repeated firmly.

He and his wife herded the girls toward the door. Miss Polly looked as if she was trying to console Miss Primrose, but the latter flounced away. Richard predicted trouble ahead for Kent.

Goggston turned to Violet. “You’ll be a sport and dance with me, won’t you?”

“Why, I’d love to be second choice. Thanks for asking.” She rolled her eyes.

Wick chuckled. “She’s got you there, Goggs.”

“Yes, Goggs, leave the flirtation to Wickham. He’s the Casanova of our group,” Parnell said in drawling tones. The younger son of an earl, he had fair coloring, a narrow, aristocratic face, and an endless supply of ennui. It was reputed that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try once. “You’d best stick to what you do best: collecting jug-bitten tavern wenches at the end of the night.”

Goggs flushed to the roots of his thinning brown hair.

“Besides, dancing is deuced dull,” Parnell went on. “This curst affair needs more than a few country sets to liven it up.”

“Agreed,” Wick said instantly. “A game, perhaps?”

“Precisely.” Parnell’s expression turned thoughtful.

At that moment, Miss Billings approached the group in a flurry of ribbons. She avoided Richard’s gaze. Egad, the feeling was mutual.

Addressing the others, she blurted, “I am in
desperate
need of your help.”

“With what?” Miss Kent said.

“The guests aren’t mingling. It’s gone awfully quiet in here. The performers don’t arrive until tomorrow, so I’ll have to think of something to keep the party lively in the interim. Father says perhaps setting up card tables—”

“Cards are fine for the older set, Miss Billings, but I have a better suggestion for the younger guests,” Parnell said with studied insouciance.

Looking hopeful, Miss Billings said, “You do, my lord?”

“A parlor game. Hide-and-Go-Seek is all the rage in the upper echelons, especially amongst the unattached guests.”

“What a brilliant idea,” Miss Billings exclaimed. “Do you think everyone will play?”

“We’ll round ’em up for you. Just give us the word,” Goggs said helpfully.

Richard stood at the periphery with the Blackwoods, watching as Wick and his posse worked their charm, enticing all the single ladies and gentlemen into joining the game. Within minutes, a dozen or so players stood in a circle as Parnell dictated the rules. Miss Billings would be the seeker; everyone else had to go hide somewhere on the ground floor, and the last one to be found would be the winner. The guests milled excitedly, Violet Kent amongst them, her eyes vivid against her flushed cheeks. Looking far less enthused, Miss Turbett joined the group as well.

Wick came over and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Ready, old fellow?”

Richard stared at his younger sibling. “I’m not playing.”

“Course you are. All unattached guests—that’s the rule.”

“That’s absurd.”

Although Wick’s expression remained pleasant, his tone hardened. “No more absurd than your plans for me. What happened to
we’re in this together
?”

Hell and damnation.
Richard searched for an excuse. “I’m too old for games.”

“You’re hardly ancient, Carlisle.” Mischief danced in Lady Blackwood’s violet eyes. “Why, Lord Wormleigh is playing, and he’s got a couple of decades on you.”

Richard glanced at Wormleigh. The aging Lothario looked well into his cups and was winking broadly at all the single ladies.

“Don’t interfere, Penny,” Blackwood muttered to his wife.

Miss Kent ambled up. “Ready to play, Wick?”

“I’m not playing unless my brother does so as well,” Wick said stubbornly.

Miss Kent’s fine brows lifted. “Won’t you deign to join us, my lord?”

“No, thank you,” Richard bit out.

“I understand,” she said sweetly. “Losing is more difficult for some people than others.”

By Jove, why did the chit provoke him beyond bearing? In his entire life, no one had questioned his sportsmanship before. He might not be charming or popular, but he
always
conducted himself honorably in the realm of competition.

“I wouldn’t know. I play to win,” he growled.

“Excellent.” Wick grinned. “In that case, may the game go to the best man—or lady.”

Chapter Six

Violet raced merrily toward her destination. She’d wound her way through several rooms, deliberately taking detours to throw others off her scent. She knew exactly where to hide and didn’t want anyone else hedging in on her territory. She
loved
games; Carlisle wasn’t the only one who played to win. With glee, she imagined Lord High and Mighty’s face when she was declared the winner.

She passed through the library, hurrying past the carved stone hearth and the seats clustered around it. At the sound of female giggles and male murmurs emerging from the maze of bookshelves, her eyebrows rose. Clearly, the room was already occupied.

Not that she cared. Bookshelves were such an
obvious
place to hide.

Leaving the room, she made her way stealthily toward the floor of galleries in the east wing. She heard occasional voices, but they grew dimmer as she located the small, chapel-like room that she’d explored with Polly earlier that day. Shaped like a cross, the room’s mint green walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings, and the ceiling was covered in a field of plasterwork flowers. She and Polly had scrutinized those exquisite white blooms and, in awe, concluded that each of them was unique, slightly different from the rest.

Vi had also discovered something else.

With unerring steps, she went to the head of the room, where five steps led up to a platform; here, one could look out a picturesque window framed by billowing silk curtains. She ran her fingers under the ledge of the third step, nimbly searching out the hidden mechanism. She pressed and heard the familiar click. Grinning, she watched the steps move as one, swinging open like a door to reveal the gloomy depths of the Priest Hole. She crouched, readying to jump inside—and squealed when a large, masculine hand reached out of the darkness.

She gawked at the stern face staring out at her.

“Thunderbolts.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What are
you
doing here?”

~~~

“Hiding,” Richard said curtly. “That is the purpose of the game, is it not?”

When Miss Kent continued to stare down at him as if he’d grown three heads, he sighed and heaved himself out of the Priest Hole. Even though she was on the taller side for a female, he still towered over her by half a foot. He preferred this position to looking up at her from the hole. As far as he was concerned, he’d take every advantage he could get when dealing with the brazen minx.

“How did you know about my hiding place?” she demanded.

“Pardon. I didn’t realize this niche belonged to you,” he said sardonically.

Pink bloomed in her cheeks. “I meant how did you know about the Priest Hole?”

“Billings gave me a tour. He mentioned that this gallery used to be a Catholic chapel. I put two and two together.”

Miss Kent’s brows drew together. “You figured out where the Priest Hole was
by yourself
?”

Richard resented the incredulity in her tone. As if she didn’t expect him to be able to put his own boots on, let alone figure out a simple secret mechanism. “Why is this a surprise, Miss Kent, when I assume you did the same?”

“Well, I’m a hoyden, aren’t I?” Her smart words made heat crawl up his jaw. “Let’s face it, we adventurous and modern females are known to show a bit of ingenuity. But a gentleman such as you,”—she shrugged—“well, you’re…”

He waited, arms crossed over his chest.

“… conventional. A traditionalist.” Her eyes taunted him. “I wouldn’t expect
you
to be capable of locating a clandestine place.”

In other words, she thought him a dullard. An unexciting—and stupid—stuffed shirt. That she held that opinion of him should come as no surprise. He’d never been the kind of man that women swooned over: a brooding, enigmatic Lord Byron… or a charming Wickham.