A Kiss With Scandal (Scandals & Secrets 4) Page 2

  The heat from too many bodies in one room hit her as she stepped onto the crowded floor. It was a crush tonight, as no one would dare miss a ball at the Leatherbys’. The orchestra played a brisk quadrille, but its chords were muted by the roar of conversation.

  She stepped around a portly gentleman. “Excuse me.” She nodded politely, working her way to where she had last left her mother. She had to be around here somewhere.

  She nodded to Lady Howard as she passed, hoping the plump matron wouldn’t pull her in for further conversation. She wasn’t so lucky.

  “My dear Lady Charlotte, do come over here and offer us your opinion!” the woman shouted, and the crowd around her shuffled at the breach in etiquette.

  Charlotte groaned, but stifled the sound. Lady Howard wasn’t mean-spirited, but conversation with her was less than pleasant because she attempted to rule the ton’s gossip ring.

  Steeling her shoulders, Charlotte joined the group. “Good evening.” Charlotte squeezed between two pale-faced debutantes she had recently been acquainted with, but could not recall their names. Drat.

  “We’re so glad you joined us.” Lady Howard glanced around the circle that comprised the rest of her audience. Lady Pembroke had married an earl several years earlier, and Charlotte only felt pity for the man. The woman was a viper. The other, Lady Rose, had been out in society longer than Charlotte and was considered on the shelf. Although Charlotte could not fathom why a twenty-three-year-old was considered past her prime. Women she knew still had children well into their thirties. It was absolute rubbish.

  Lady Norland, the recently widowed countess, shifted nervously next to Lady Pembroke, shrinking her shoulders and successfully deflecting the group’s attention. It must be horrible to be so shy. Lord Buckley had accidentally bumped into the woman at the Grovers’ ball last week, and the widow almost fainted from the unintentional contact and resulting attention.

  “I’m happy to join the group.” Charlotte eyed the misfits one more time.

  Lady Howard lowered her voice. “Lady Pembroke and I were discussing who the catch of the season was, and there seems to be some debate. I think the Marquess of Huntly at the top. What is your opinion?”

  All eyes shifted to Charlotte, and she forced back a groan. This is what was so important? Figuring out who was the catch of the season? Just another bickering match between the two women? For heaven’s sake, she’d just been in the presence of two murders. Who gave a fig whether one man was a better catch for a husband or not? “The Marquess of Huntly is without a doubt a great catch,” she said noncommittally before scanning the crowd. Where were her parents?

  Lady Howard harrumphed. “Yes. But that wasn’t the question, dear. Is he the catch?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Lady Pembroke flicked her fan in annoyance. “What of the Duke of Devonshire? He outranks the Marquess.”

  “But he doesn’t have nearly as much income,” Lady Howard said.

  Lady Pembroke smiled, her lips curving sharply. “But he’s handsome. A handsome duke counts for something.”

  Such malice. Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. Could Lady Pembroke be the murderess? She listened to the woman continue to argue on the Duke of Devonshire’s personal attributes, but couldn’t decide if her voiced matched the woman from the room or not.

  Charlotte’s head buzzed as Lady Norland timidly joined in the conversation, agreeing with Lady Pembroke’s opinion on the Duke of Devonshire. Lady Howard’s face flushed. Time to step in. “What of Viscount Lawrence?” Charlotte asked.

  Lady Howard brought her fan to her pursed lips. “Viscount Lawrence? Why, yes. He is a superlative gentleman, isn’t he?”

  Lady Pembroke’s mouth opened before closing into the thin line. Lady Norland and the other ladies nodded in agreement. A little thrill shot through Charlotte at having bested the group. “Title, wealth, and looks. One cannot do better than that.”

  “I agree,” Lady Norland murmured with a small smile, her brown eyes twinkling behind spectacles.

  Charlotte returned it. Viscount Lawrence might be the catch of the season, but capturing his attention was nearly impossible. He’d never shown interest in any particular girl. Oh, he was courteous, a gentleman through and through. But either he wasn’t looking for a wife or hadn’t seen anyone worth noticing. She’d gotten used to that fact long ago.

  Fire sizzled in Lady Pembroke’s gaze, never one to lose graciously. “And is that whom you have set your cap for, Lady Charlotte?”

  Laughter tinkled from Charlotte’s lips, wiping the smirk from Lady Pembroke’s face. “I’m afraid I haven’t set my cap for anyone.”

  “Oh, but you should!” one of the pale-faced ladies said.

  What was her name? “I should? Whatever for?”

  “You’re more likely to accomplish something when you have a goal.”

  Lady Howard nodded encouragingly. “Well said, Lady Patricia.”

  Lady Patricia Stout. Someday Charlotte would improve her memory for names.

  Lady Pembroke flicked her fan. “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t waste picking one in particular. At your age, a girl doesn’t have much time to waste.”

  The ladies beside her gasped, glancing from Charlotte to Lady Pembroke. Charlotte’s face shuddered. Her jolt of anger would never be seen, would never be gossiped about. Lady Pembroke was a vicious gossip with no true friends. She deserved pity, but that amount of care was beyond Charlotte. The best she could do was not give the woman another thing to toss her way.

  The hairs stiffened on the back of Charlotte’s neck. She was being watched. She could feel it. But by whom? Sweat moistened her skin, but she didn’t glance behind her.

  Lady Norland’s eyes shifted over Charlotte’s shoulder, and her throat swallowed convulsively. “I think someone is looking for you.”

  “Pardon?” she asked, but she didn’t really need an answer. She only needed a moment to calm her heart. There was no way the unknown villains could be after her. Not yet.

  The ladies shifted away, allowing more room for the person who came for her.

  Lady Pembroke sniffed, glaring.

  Holding her breath, Charlotte turned, her heart thumping. Her eyes widened. Not Viscount Lawrence. Not right now.

  Sugar lumps!

  * * *

  Derek scanned the rows of dancers, searching for a lady missing a glove. He sipped a glass of champagne, hovering along the edge of the room. If the lady had returned, she must have replaced her glove.

  He set his empty glass on a tray. One of three possibilities would have occurred. Either the lady returned home, which would be difficult to track down unless one of the servants noticed the missing garment, or she happened to bring a spare. Which he doubted. His sister, Lady Victoria, had prepared for war when she entered society, but he doubted even she had brought extra gloves with her. There was one other option. He just hoped it would bear fruit.

  With the lone glove tucked safely in his pocket, he exited the room and headed toward the one place men shouldn’t wander during a ball.

  The ladies’ retiring room.

  He glanced over his shoulder, studying the empty corridor. Causing a scandal was the last thing he needed tonight.

  He crept toward the door, rolling his eyes when he heard two women arguing about which of them would marry the Marquess of Huntly.

  Good luck with that, ladies. Derek had it on good authority that Huntly had vowed never to marry again after the disaster of his first marriage. Derek couldn’t blame the man. If he’d found his butler in his wife’s bed, there’d be hell to pay. It was a shame, however, that the lady had died in a carriage accident with that same butler, while fleeing her husband.

  Just when Derek couldn’t take another word from the two, they rejoined the gathering and their pursuit of unsuspecting men. Gah!

  He knew women thought of him that way. As simply a man to hook and marry like some sort of prize. It insulted him, even if that was the way society worked.

  He closed
his eyes, channeling all his concentration toward his ears. Soft footfalls whispered in the room, but there was no other conversation. One person.

  Peeking through the doorway, he confirmed the presence of one lady’s maid.

  “Excuse me,” he said, loosening his posture and tossing a sheepish smile to the woman who jumped a foot into the air. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”

  Regaining her senses, she curtsied. “My lord, is there something I can do for you?” Her eyes shifted around the brightly lit room, and he knew what she was thinking. He wasn’t supposed to be there. His presence in this feminine place was forbidden.

  “Yes.” He smiled to her again, clumsily searching through his pockets. He pulled out the glove. “I came across this lost glove, and I hoped you could assist me return in returning it to its rightful owner.” The maid’s shoulders relaxed, and he took another step into the room. “I’m sure missing this garment caused an upset to the lady in question, and I hate to think of a lady in distress over such a matter.”

  “That is kind of you, my lord.”

  “Could you tell me if a lady came in here missing a glove?”

  “Unfortunately, I just arrived and relieved the last maid of her duty. She would have replaced any such missing garment.”

  Annoyance speared through him, but he kept a smile on his face. The unwanted delay to his investigation wasn’t this woman’s fault. “I had not known Lady Leatherby was so generous as to supply her guests with such amenities.”

  Her head bobbed. “She is very generous. She keeps a stock of gloves, pins, perfume, and…”—she blushed—“many other items a lady might need.”

  Very generous, indeed. “May I speak with the last maid? Perhaps she could give me a clue as to the owner of this garment?”

  The cap on the maid’s head jiggled as she shook her head. “She’s gone home for the night, but you could come back tomorrow. I’m sure she would be able to answer your questions.”

  Damn. This investigation has turned into a nightmare. With every minute that passed, he was in more jeopardy of losing his witness. He nodded firmly.

  “Oh, wait, my lord. I almost forgot.”

  Derek’s eyes locked onto hers, losing the nonchalant air he had wrapped around himself. It was the scent of blood he’d searched for.

  The woman blushed. “I’m sorry I did not think of this sooner. We keep a list of donated items and whom they were given to. Lady Leatherby keeps clear records for what goes out.”

  “Very prudent. May I see this list?”

  “If you will wait just a moment, I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the woman disappeared into the next room, satisfaction hummed through him. He’d been right to come here.

  The maid’s skirts rustled as she marched through the doorway. “Here’s the ledger.” She handed him the book. “It looks as though we’ve given out three pairs of gloves this evening.”

  Three? “I had no idea so many ladies lost gloves.” Something that would make his task more difficult.

  “Oh, no, my lord. We offer replacement gloves for any number of reasons. Lost pairs, stains, or tears. If there’s a noticeable blemish, we replace them.”

  His eyes ticked down the list. Lady Maeble Brockhurst, Lady Charlotte Langston, and Miss Jane Locke. “And do you happen to know if any of these ladies lost a glove?”

  “No, my lord. Unfortunately, I don’t. Tomorrow, I could ask the maid who was here earlier, if you’d like.”

  “No. Don’t trouble yourself.” He didn’t want word spreading that he was tracking down a lady. “This is more than helpful. Thank you.”

  “Very good.”

  With the list secure in his mind, he quickened his pace toward the ballroom. He’d locate the witness if he had to hunt down and interrogate each lady. Before the night was over, he’d know who owned the glove.

  And when Derek set his mind to something, he achieved it.

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte put the group of women from her mind, gulped, and turned toward the person vying for her attention. She bobbed a curtsy, shielding her fluttery stomach. “Viscount Lawrence, what a pleasure.” An unexpected pleasure.

  “Lady Charlotte, good evening.” He bowed to her, and then to the other ladies in turn.

  Her eyes wandered over his form. He was still as handsome as ever. Drat. She would not let attraction distract her. He was polite, warm. But there was something different about him from the rest of the ton. He didn’t belong.

  Ice skated along her neck.

  He didn’t belong.

  Could he possibly be the man who’d murdered Lord Barnsal? She strained, comparing his voice with the one that haunted her, but couldn’t decide.

  He was kind and patient as the others spoke with him, but was it all an act?

  “Lady Charlotte?” he asked a second time.

  Sugar lumps. She’d missed what he’d said. “I beg your pardon?”

  His smile was slow, and her stomach fluttered in response. “I asked if I might claim the next dance. If you’re free, of course.”

  Her pulse raced. He wanted to dance with her? It wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary—her sister was married to one of his best friends—but dances between them were few and far between over the years. “I am honored and available for the next dance.”

  “Excellent.” His eyes gleamed.

  At her.

  What was this all about? He’d never had any interest in her before. Nothing above polite inquires and obligated dances. Oh, sure, they got on well. He was a nice man after all, but he’d never expressed any desire to pursue her.

  Ever since her sister had married the Duke of Wathersby, Charlotte found herself in Viscount Lawrence’s company more often. He was handsome, intelligent, and wealthy. She would be lying to say the infatuation during her come out, years ago, had faded.

  Was it possible he was interested in her?

  He smiled, but there was no sparkle in his eyes. What did he want?

  She circled back to her initial thoughts. It could be coincidence that he approached her, but for him to come now, after what happened earlier that night, raised suspicion even if it was hard to believe he was capable of such things. He was an honorable man, at least from everything she knew of him. Her brother-in-law would not be involved with Viscount Lawrence if he were a criminal, surely. Bradford might have been fooled. No one could be trusted.

  He offered his arm, and she shivered once she took it. She didn’t know if the visceral reaction was from fear or something else, but she didn’t dwell on it. Any feelings associated with Viscount Lawrence were dangerous to explore.

  “Are you cold?” he whispered, his brows knit with concern as he led her onto the polished floor.

  Her eyes met his, and warmth curled low in her stomach. Enthralled by the icy blue depths, she was helpless to pull away. An inky strand of his hair pushed forward, and her fingers itched to smooth it back. She cleared her throat. “A bit, but I shall warm up during the dance. Do not trouble yourself.”

  She expected a quadrille and was surprised by the first strings of a waltz. “How interesting.”

  “What is?” he asked, taking her hand in his before placing the other on her waist.

  She gulped. “A waltz. Surely it’s not yet time for another.”

  “Oh. Well.” He held her firmly, expertly guiding her through the first steps of the dance. “I asked them to play another.”

  She tripped, but he matched her steps so fluidly that no one noticed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I wanted to speak with you. Other dances make that difficult. This is more private.”

  Her eyes widened. “You wish to speak with me privately?”

  His eyes smiled into hers. “We’re not exactly alone.”

  What did he want from her? As innocent as it seemed, his words and actions raised her guard.

  “I thought it was time we should get to know one another
.”

  “You did?” She coughed, hoping it would hide the skepticism.

  “Yes. I fear I have not had the time to talk to you as I should. With the duke and your sister’s marriage, I feel we should become friends.”

  “You do?” Sugar lumps! “Why now?”

  A notch formed between his brows for a second before he smoothed it away with another smile. “He is one of my best friends, and you’re his wife’s sister.”

  “True,” she hedged, but didn’t exactly agree. If what he said was true, he would have done this long before. When Aubrey and Bradford had married. Not tonight.

  “You have very fine gloves.”

  She inhaled sharply. “What?”

  “I said your gloves are very nice. I know it isn’t proper of me to comment on them, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled away from him as much as his grasp would allow. His reminder of her gloves, why she’d received them, made her sick.

  Is that what this was about? Had he somehow found out about her lost glove? About what she’d overheard?

  “Forgive my impertinence, but could you tell me who made them? I need to purchase a pair for my sister now that she is so far from town, and I know she would love these.”

  The explanation rang false. Lady Victoria was more than capable of ordering her own things. Then again, with her recent marriage and move to rural Scotland, perhaps finding quality garments was a hardship.

  Oh, why did she have to second-guess this? Why couldn’t she just enjoy the feel the of his hand in hers, the way their bodies twirled as one as if they were meant to be together. Her skin hummed with an awareness that only he’d been able to arouse in her three years on the marriage mart, and yet she was ignoring all of it in an effort to paint him as someone sinister.

  She offered him a genuine smile and pushed her fears to the side. “That is kind of you. Forgive me though, I do not know where these were purchased.” Disappointment marred his face, and she felt ashamed at having doubted him. “The truth is, I spilled lemonade on my gloves earlier and was given these by a maid. If it is that important, I’m sure you could ask them where you might purchase a pair.” She finished her explanation and glanced up to find hard eyes on her.