Читать книгу Beguiled - Shannon Drake - Страница 9

THE KITCHEN REMAINED ALIVE with movement. Theodore called out directions, and at least two dozen workers and servers were scurrying about.

All movement stopped when Camille first walked in, Ally in tow. Heads bowed in acknowledgment to the lady of the castle.

“Please,” Camille murmured, a tinge of color in her cheeks. “Don’t let me disturb your hard work.” She steered Ally quickly toward a large butcher-block table, where Inspector Turner was waiting.

He’d been well fed. Theodore would have seen to that.

He stood as the women approached. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance on such an evening,” he apologized.

He had the look of a sad old basset hound, Ally thought. He had dark eyes that had seen too much, and a heavily lined face. But his bearing was tall and dignified, and he spoke softly. She believed he took his work to heart.

“How do you do,” she murmured.

“Inspector, my ward, Alexandra Grayson.”

“Miss Grayson…I have spoken to Lord Stirling, but you are the one who can really help me. I need a description of this man, the highwayman.”

“I wish that I could help you more, Inspector,” Ally said. “But as to a description…it’s quite difficult.”

“All right, let me ask you questions, then. Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

“And his build?” the inspector queried.

She hesitated.

“Certainly not a skinny chap? Though it’s true that a gun can make a small man seem more powerful than he really is,” he said.

“No, not skinny,” she said. They were both staring at her. She had to give them more than this. “He was built something like Lord Stirling, I suppose….”

“Rides well?” the inspector asked.

“Very.”

“Perhaps someone who has served with the queen’s forces,” the inspector said, more to himself than to Ally or Camille. “Now, what about his face? His coloring?”

She frowned. “Inspector, I wish that I could be more helpful. All of them wore masks, hats and cloaks.”

“But according to Lord Stirling’s man, Shelby, the highwayman himself took off with you.”

She shook her head. “He wanted only to know my name, and I was perhaps being a bit stubborn. He took nothing from me.”

“And…he did not hurt you in any way?”

If she weren’t feeling so uncomfortable herself, she would have felt sorry for the inspector. He was trying to ask the question so delicately.

“I was not harmed in any way at all,” she assured him quickly, wondering if she was flushing.

“And nothing was stolen?”

“Nothing.” Ally hesitated. “Perhaps it occurred to him that he had stopped a carriage belonging to Lord Stirling, and that Lord Stirling is a man who would come after him himself, and with a vengeance.”

“Perhaps,” the inspector mused.

He stared at her hard again, and Ally felt even more acutely uncomfortable. This was a man whose job was to question people. It was as if he read her every movement and nuance as he listened to her words.

“So…you can’t tell me his eye color?”

“I wish I could. They were dark, I believe, though the mask caused shadows, you know.”

“And you must have been very frightened,” Camille murmured, loading another layer of guilt upon Ally’s shoulders.

“Surely you’ve had other descriptions,” Ally murmured.

“Always the same,” Inspector Turner said with a sigh. “Even in broad daylight. People remember the mask, and a cape or a cloak…riding boots. Who in England does not possess a pair of riding boots? But don’t fear, Miss Grayson. We will apprehend this culprit.”

“I believe we have guests arriving,” Camille said as she noted waiters, clad in tuxedos, heading out of the kitchen with trays bearing crystal flutes of champagne.

“Then by all means attend to your company. I believe that Miss Grayson has told me all that she can—all her mind will allow—for the time being,” Inspector Turner said.

And what exactly did that mean? Ally wondered.

“It’s amazing,” Inspector Turner said, shaking his head sadly. “At least, Miss Grayson, you do not sound addled, as do some of the ladies who have been stopped by the highwayman. One would almost think they found the loss of a diamond trinket or the like to be well worth the price of an encounter with the man.”

“What?” Camille exclaimed, astonished.

Inspector Turner shrugged. “They tell me he is polite and charming as he robs them.”

“Ally is no silly child to have her head turned by such a brigand, no matter how courteous,” Camille said.

“Of course,” the inspector agreed. “Well, I thank you for your assistance. And I beg you, please, enjoy your soiree.”

“Inspector, you are most welcome to join us,” Camille said.

“Duty calls, Lady Stirling, but I thank you. I have already partaken of your hospitality. Your cook has seen to it that I’ve had the best meal I’ve enjoyed in…ah, well, maybe forever. I will bid you good evening.”

“I thank you for coming, Inspector,” Camille said.

“Yes, thank you,” Ally murmured.

Camille had her arm. Ally smiled uneasily at the inspector as Camille led her from the kitchen. In the hallway to the foyer, Camille shook her head, saying, “All this, on such a night.”

“Camille, please, why is tonight such an occasion?” Ally implored.

Camille opened her mouth to answer, but Brian had disengaged himself from a portly gentleman to come toward them. “Camille, my dear, I need you for a moment. Ally, come along and meet Lord Wittburg.”

Ally didn’t make it across the great hall. There was a mischievous tap on her shoulder, and she spun around.

It was Hunter MacDonald, another of her self-proclaimed guardians. She loved Hunter dearly. He was, in his way, a total rogue—or had been until he had fallen head over heels in love with his wife, Kat. They were a reckless couple, daring and a bit outrageous, ever ready to head out on an adventure.

“My dear, look at you!” Hunter exclaimed, eyes brilliant and teasing. “All grown up. Why, you will leave a horde of swains languishing wherever you walk.”

“That’s quite kind, Sir Hunter,” she said. “But I’ve been all grown up for some time, you all have simply not noticed.”

“I’m wounded.”

She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re here. I had thought you might be off on another adventure in Egypt.”

“Ally, Ally, has all my teaching been in vain? Way too hot in Egypt at the moment. Perhaps you can join us this year. It may be your one chance.”

“My one chance?” she inquired.

But he didn’t answer her. Kat had swept past him to give Ally a fierce hug. “Incredible,” she said with delight. “I must paint you in this gown.”

“Indeed, what a lovely picture,” Hunter agreed.

“Perhaps my father should have the honor,” Kat said.

“Your father is a great artist, but never doubt that his talent lies in you, as well, my love,” Hunter told her.

Ally felt a flash of longing, watching them. She felt a sudden deep craving to know the kind of love they shared. To know someone who would look at her as Hunter looked at Kat.

“Ally,” Kat said, drawing back, “whether you are captured in oil by me or my father, it must be done.”

“Thank you.” And then, before either of them could bring up some other subject, she asked, “Just what is going on tonight?”

Once again, her hopes for an answer were dashed.

“There she is!” cried a voice.

They were joined in a moment by Lady Lavinia Rogers. The widow of the earl who had owned half the lands in the northeast corner of the country, Lavinia was allowed to be bold and curious and quite outspoken. “Did you hear?” she demanded, after pecking cheeks all around with little kisses. “Our Ally was attacked by the highwayman.”

Ally could have groaned aloud.

“Good God!” Hunter said angrily, looking ready to stalk out of the house that very moment and comb heaven and earth to find the culprit.

“I wasn’t attacked,” Ally protested.

“Not attacked?” Kat said.

“He waylaid the carriage, and that is all. I am fine.”

“Ah, that I believe,” Lady Lavinia said. She was short, a bit stout and possessed bright blue eyes and hair that seemed to be a true silver. She was clad in a mauve ball gown and adorned with jewels. Some might have said that her couture was too much, but Ally thought that being a bit over-jeweled was perfect for the woman.

Lavinia, she knew, couldn’t care less what was said about her. She knew who she was. She loved people and life, and she let it be known.

“I was quite taken by the rogue, too,” Lavinia announced with a wink.

“You were waylaid by this man, as well?” Hunter demanded, frowning fiercely.

“I was. But here’s the thing. The police are after him, but I don’t believe they should be seeking him at all. They need to find the horrendous fellow who is going about murdering people. There has been a third murder. You do know that, don’t you?”

Hunter and Kat nodded grimly. Ally frowned. “A third murder?”

“Giles Brandon. His throat was slit. The police have nothing. Nothing. Or so I’ve heard,” Lavinia said.

“Lavinia, please. Give them a chance,” Hunter said.

Lavinia sniffed. “Give them a chance? By the time they have hunted down this murderer, the country will have collapsed. You do know who Giles Brandon was, don’t you, my dear?” she asked Ally.

“Yes, of course. I’ve read his columns. They are quite incendiary,” Ally said.

Lavinia nodded gravely. “I find it quite amazing that we—those who support dear Queen Victoria and her family—must always be so noble, despite the way we are baited. He was found with his last article clutched in his bloody fingers. That article will run in tomorrow’s paper—along with the news of his murder. The anti-monarchists are in a howl as it is, can you imagine the damage that will come by tomorrow?”

“Ally!”

This time, her name was being called by Lady Maggie, who was threading her way through the crowd, graciously nodding to those she passed, with Lord Jamie behind her.

Maggie, mindless of all around her, gave Ally a hug, and Jamie did the same. There was confusion again as they greeted Hunter and Kat, and Lady Lavinia, and then Maggie was assessing Ally’s gown with pleasure. “The color is just perfect.”

“Perfect for tonight,” Jamie said, tilting her chin, and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“What is happening tonight?” Ally asked again.

“Did you hear about the third murder? We were just discussing it,” Lady Lavinia said.

“Did you know that Ally was waylaid by the highwayman?” Hunter asked Jamie, his voice angry.

“I have just heard,” Jamie said.

“About the murder or the highwayman?” Lavinia demanded.

“I was called about the murder, and we just heard about Ally being stopped by the wretched thief,” Jamie said.

“He’s not wretched, dear,” Lavinia said. “He’s quite charming, really. Now, as to the murders…”

“Atrocious. Of course, there will be a greater outcry against the monarchy now—as if the queen could be behind such heinous brutality,” Jamie said indignantly. “But, Lavinia, you may rest assured. The fellow will be apprehended.”

Lavinia sniffed. “As if the bobbies ever caught that Jack the Ripper fellow.”

“Lavinia,” Jamie said quietly, looking oddly uncomfortable, “the Ripper murders are long past, and no one ever really believed that the monarchy was involved then.”

“Jamie, don’t be so naïve. That theory will go down in the history books, along with others. But we all know—” Lavina began.

“The murders stopped. I think it’s obvious the police knew more than they could say,” Maggie told Lavinia.

“Silence only enrages people all the more.”

Camille swept suddenly up to their group, linking arms with Lavinia. “Shall we move into the great hall? Dinner is being served, and then, after the dancing begins, the announcement will be made. I must move all these people into the dining hall…. Hunter, Jamie, would one of you be so good as to escort Lady Lavinia?”

“What announcement?” Ally inquired.

“Oh,” Camille said, “there is Lord Farrow, Earl of Warren. Ally, you must come with me for a minute. Strange, he is alone, it seems. Come, dear.”

“Camille,” Ally begged. “What announcement?” She spoke seriously, her voice full of determination.

Camille stared at Ally, her lovely cheeks reddening. “One we should have told you about long ago, I’m afraid. We meant to. It’s just that we all wanted to be together, and one thing came up after another….” She lifted her hands. “Life, you know,” she murmured softly. “I suppose one of us should simply have spoken. This came about years ago, before you were old enough to understand, and then you were old enough, but it always seemed as if the right time had not yet come.”

“Lady Camille, what is the announcement?”

But they were interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman. “Dearest Camille,” he murmured. Tall, white-haired, and with a fascinating, lined face, he seemed to be one of those men who needed no title to command respect. Ally recognized him as Lord Farrow, the man Camille had indicated only moments before. He sat in the House of Lords, and was continually fighting for shorter hours and better pay for laborers. He was, if she recollected all she had read properly, a peer of the realm, an avid supporter of the queen, and a very good friend to the common folk, as well.

She was pleased to meet him.

“Lord Farrow, may I present our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson?” Camille said.

He bowed courteously and took her hand, studying her curiously with dark, gentle eyes. She felt the warmth of his touch and also a strange sensation, as if he saw her as an exceptional artifact someone had brought back from an archeological dig, as if he found every aspect of her fascinating.

“How do you do?” she murmured.

“Quite well, and quite pleased to meet you,” he said. He smiled at her, then glanced at Camille. “Miss Grayson is indeed a rare beauty.” He looked pained for a moment. “I’m terribly sorry that Mark could not be here. He is on the queen’s business. Nothing else could have taken him away, I do solemnly swear. You’ll have to forgive him.” He addressed his final words to Ally.

I don’t even know him, Ally thought, but she answered politely, anyway. “Naturally the queen’s business takes precedence over any party, my lord.”

“Horrid, isn’t it?” he said to Camille. “Giles Brandon was a braggart and an oaf, but I fear his death will but inflame the masses.”

“So do we all,” Camille said.

“Well, I will not dwell on such things in the midst of such beauty,” Lord Farrow said.

“Would you escort Ally into the dining room?” Camille asked. “You are seated together, of course,” she said, and then she was gone with a whirl.

Of course?

“Giles Brandon was a braggart but a powerful writer,” Ally said gravely to Lord Farrow.

“You have read his work?” Lord Farrow demanded, frowning.

“I read everything, my lord. To dispute an argument, one must know what it is.”

He arched a brow. “Intriguing. I am fascinated to get to know you, my dear. Let’s move in, shall we? I see that Camille is anxious to have her guests seated.”

She accepted his arm. The party slowly moved into the great dining hall. They were seated at the north end, surrounded by Brian and Camille, Maggie and Jamie, and Hunter and Kat. As the meal was served and consumed, the conversation covered the next season’s expedition to Egypt, the state of museums in London, art and literature, and even the weather.

Ally smiled, replied and offered a comment or two. She longed to stand up and shout. She knew she had the strength of will to demand an answer to the question she had been asking all night.

What was going on? What announcement?

But as she looked around at those near her at the table, she knew she would not. Lady Maggie and Jamie had been the ones who had taken her in when she had been abandoned to the care of a local priest. Maggie’s butler, a dear man, now gone several years, had been a relation of her “aunties,” so she had been given into their care in the forest, where she could be raised with no stigma because of her orphan beginning. The property where the cottage lay belonged to Lord Stirling. Kat and Hunter, as very good friends of the Stirlings, had adopted her as a godchild, as well, out of sheer love. She owed them all so much. They were all anyone could ever want in a set of guardians—even if it was difficult at times to have quite so many de facto parents. They were all beautiful, powerful and compassionate. They felt a keen sense of responsibility because of the positions life had granted them.

She would never dishonor any of them, and therefore, she would not be rude at Camille’s dinner table.

Still, as she looked around, pretending to chat lightly, to smile, to enjoy the evening, the question still raged inside her.

What was going on?

A sense of dread filled her.

She had intended to make her own announcement that night, to confess she had taken her life into her own hands, and done so with a passion. Something told her she would not get the chance.

THE MORGUE SMELLED SHARPLY of antiseptic, which did not, however, mask the underlying stench of death and decomposition.

Mark stood next to the operating table that held the earthly remains of Giles Brandon. Despite the naked lightbulbs above the corpse, the room seemed shadowed. He was there with two men, Dr. Evan Tiel, the coroner, and Detective Ian Douglas.

Detective Douglas was one of the finest men Mark had ever had the pleasure to meet. Big and gruff, he could handle himself against any man. The fifth son of a minor Scottish landowner, he had spent time dabbling in the law at Eton, then returned to his native land to study medicine in Edinburgh. By the end of his studies he’d realized he was most interested in bringing killers to justice and seeing that the innocent were never mistakenly convicted. He was a handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, but showing the telltale stress of a man who fought a losing battle—defending the innocent and seeking to uproot evil. It might well be a grand and glorious age in which they were living, but poverty was rampant in London, and poverty was a sure breeder of crime.

Dr. Evan Tiel was an equally laudable man. Shorter, slim, wiry, he had the energy of a hummingbird. He was fascinated with the growing field of using science and medicine in the search for justice. He and Douglas had both attended classes in Edinburgh taught by Dr. Bell, the surgeon and teacher who had been Arthur Conan Doyle’s inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes. While some men might mock the idea of paying heed to a writer of fiction when seeking truth, both Tiel and Douglas saw the wisdom in the methods Holmes propounded. While Bell devoted his observations to ascertaining the causes of disease, such methods were equally applicable in other matters.

“He was found slumped across his desk, his fingers clutching his last article,” Ian Douglas said.

“Indeed,” Tiel added, “from the way the blood set, it appears that his head was drawn back as his throat was slit, then the body cast forward onto the desk as he bled to death.”

“But he fought?” Mark asked, indicating slashes on the arms.

“I surmise,” Dr. Tiel said, “that he saw his attacker and fought, but the killer got behind him in the end. He must have stood thus.” Tiel demonstrated, using Douglas as the victim. He mimed holding a knife in his hand, showing how it had been drawn against the throat.

“All right,” Mark theorized aloud. “Giles Brandon was at his desk, typing. He finished his piece. The killer came into the room, and there was a scuffle, but the killer managed to get behind him and slit his throat.”

Ian Douglas cleared his throat. “Here’s the problem. The door to the yard was bolted from the inside. The entry gate to the yard was locked. And Giles Brandon kept his office locked. I don’t believe the killer simply entered by the door and took Brandon by surprise. I believe he was waiting there for Brandon’s return.”

“Then it would seem that the killer stood in the back of the room, in the shadows, for a long time,” Mark said.

“Yes, that could be so,” Ian agreed.

“It’s…almost more like an assassination than a simple murder,” Mark mused.

Ian Douglas stared at him. “Yes, maybe.”

Mark stared down at the sad remains of Giles Brandon. Many had hated the man, but few would wish anyone, even their worst enemy, such an ending.

He studied the slashes on the arms, looked at the deep gash on the neck.

“There are no other injuries to the body? No damage done after death?”

“None,” Dr. Tiel assured him.

Mark stood back. “So if the killer was in the room all the time, he—or she—must have had a key,” Mark said.

Ian Douglas shook his head. “His wife adored him. He was by all reports a bellowing wretch who abused her verbally, even in public, upon occasion. But she adored him. She thought he was a genius.”

“Something he probably told her himself,” Mark said sardonically.

Douglas nodded. “No doubt. But there is simply no way she could have done this, nor that she would have allowed it to happen.”

“Who else had a key?” Mark asked.

“Only Brandon himself, and the housekeeper, Tilly. And when you meet Tilly, you’ll know she didn’t do this, either. She is a frail bag of bones, hardworking, but hardly capable of overpowering a man such as Brandon. In addition, she needed the income she received from him, and despite his temper, there was an element of prestige for Tilly in being the housekeeper of such a man.”

“If the wife is not guilty and the housekeeper is not guilty, then one or the other was used by the killer. I would say that one of them had her key stolen, then replaced. This was not a random act of violence, obviously, and the killer took his time planning it,” Mark said.

“It’s another attack on the anti-monarchists,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t this fool zealot realize he is only making matters worse for the queen?”

Mark was quiet for a minute. “I believe,” he said, “that the killer is an anti-monarchist.”

“What?” Douglas demanded. “Then why kill…?” His voice trailed off as he realized Mark’s point.

“Precisely,” Mark murmured. “The idea is to make the populace believe the monarchists are killing these men because they are speaking out. What better way to win a cause then to create an army of martyrs?”

“Then…?” Douglas said, eyes narrowing.

“I think we need to look at Giles Brandon’s friends and contemporaries. Because I’m certain of one thing,” Mark said.

“And what is that?”

“Giles Brandon knew his killer. I’d say he knew him very well.”

WITH DINNER OVER, IT SEEMED that the long table disappeared in an instant. New tables were set against the walls, with elegant little demitasses of coffee, small dessert plates and aperitifs. As the dancing began, Ally began to recognize more and more guests she either knew or knew about.

The first to whisk her out on the floor was Brian Stirling. She danced very well with him, since, as a child, she had learned her first dances by standing on his toes, laughing as he swept her around the room.

As they moved across the floor, she whispered, “That journalist is here—Thane Grier.”

“Yes.”

Brian didn’t sound pleased.

“You invited him?”

“Of course. Had I not…Well, it’s best to befriend the enemy.”

“He’s the enemy?”

“Anyone who rules the press can be a dangerous enemy,” Brian said. “So of course I asked him here tonight. Especially tonight.”

“Brian, I beg of you—”

Brian halted. She realized he’d been tapped on the shoulder. “Lord Stirling, if I may?”

It was Sir Andrew Harrington. She remembered seeing him only that morning, on the steps along with Sir Angus Cunningham and Lord Lionel Wittburg. They had crossed paths a few times through the years, once at a fund-raiser for the antiquities department, and once at one of Maggie’s parties to draw attention to the plight of the poor in the East End.

Brian bowed courteously, though he seemed stiff as he graciously ceded her to Sir Harrington.

The man smiled charmingly at her as he took her hand and slipped an arm around her, easily sliding back into the waltz. “You have certainly come of age most beautifully, Miss Grayson,” he said.

“Thank you. And you, sir? How are you doing? I saw you this morning.”

“You did?”

“In the village.”

“Ah, yes…. It seemed Angus could use all the help he could get.”

“Military men stand together,” she murmured.

He smiled, then looked grave. “I heard you were accosted by that monster, the highwayman.”

“I’m quite all right.”

“Would that I had been there,” he said, sounding angry. “Someone needs to skewer that fellow through.”

“Thank you. I am fairly capable, however.”

He shook his head and said softly, “You underestimate your beauty and your allure, my dear, and the wickedness in the minds of some men. I tell you now—and I say this passionately, and even knowing that you have strong guardians—if you are ever in need of assistance, I would be there willingly.”

He was very good-looking, with rich brown hair and topaz eyes. Strong, tall, not heavily muscled, but still…she could feel the steely power in his hold.

She smiled, inclining her head. “Thank you.”

“So…what is the mysterious announcement to be made tonight?” he asked.

She didn’t get a chance to tell him that she didn’t know herself, for, as if aware that he had just been discussed, Sir Angus Cunningham was the next to cut in.

For such a large man, he danced very well. His voice was gruff when he said, “My dear sweet lass, I am ashamed by what befell you. As sheriff of the village and the surrounding forests, I failed you. Forgive me.”

“Angus!” She had known him since she’d been quite young. “You had your hands full this morning. The highwayman is no real threat. An ugly mob is.”

“You saw that,” he murmured.

“And I was very proud of you—you and Lord Witt-burg and Sir Harrington. You quelled that crowd quite nicely.”

Angus glanced across the room, his expression brooding. “Yes, well…Thane Grier was there, as well. We’ll see what rubbish he puts in the paper tomorrow. Of course tomorrow may well be worse…another murder, perhaps.” He seemed to catch himself. “Forgive me. We’ll not speak of it tonight.”

“It is of dire importance,” she said softly. Then, her mind suddenly taking a new direction, she frowned.

She had noticed several women there that night in black. Since Queen Victoria had mourned her dear Albert for so long, wearing black had become a trend. Even now, women wore black long after losing someone beloved. There was nothing odd about seeing a woman in black.

And yet…

Staring past Sir Angus’s massive shoulder, she caught sight of someone who gave her pause. She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly reminded of the woman in the village who had been crying out against the queen.

“Sir Angus?” she said suddenly.

“What, dear?”

“Who was that woman this morning?”

“What woman?”

“In the crowd, shouting so angrily about the monarchy.”

“Who wasn’t shouting angrily?” he asked rhetorically. “I swear, someone riled up that crowd. There were placards everywhere. Our citizens are normally peaceful and law-abiding, other than that wretched highwayman. Though I believe he hails from London and merely uses my roads for his despicable deeds.”

“There was one woman in particular, don’t you remember? She was next to Sir Andrew’s cousin, who was trying to calm her, I believe.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but again the dance was halted. This time it was Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren, cutting in. Angus relinquished his position.

“You dance beautifully,” the earl informed her.

“Thank you.”

“I understand that you also have the voice of a lark and play the piano beautifully.”

She smiled. “I play the piano—whether beautifully or not is in the ears of those who are listening.”

“I am well pleased,” he murmured, his eyes bright, and he seemed amused.

She smiled, wondering whether or not it mattered if he was or wasn’t pleased.

The music came to an end and did not start up again. She turned around. Lord and Lady Stirling, Sir Hunter and Lady Kat, and Maggie and Lord James were gathered in front of the musicians. Brian, holding Camille’s hand, began to speak.

“Friends, we thank you so much for coming. As you know, we have all been privileged to play a part in raising a beautiful young woman. Tonight, we are privileged to announce the engagement of our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

She was certain that her mouth simply gaped open. She shut it swiftly.

“Come, dear,” Joseph Farrow said, taking her arm.

She stared at him, but she was so stunned that she didn’t protest when he walked with her toward Brian and the others.

Him? she thought. They’re marrying me off to Lord Farrow?

Luckily, she realized that Lord Farrow intended to speak. He held her hand, turning her to face the crowd. “I am delighted to come here tonight, to stand in for my son, Mark, who is not able to be here. This is an event long planned by Lord Stirling and myself. Tonight, we announce the engagement of my son, Mark, to Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

The round of applause that rose was thunderous.

But no louder than the pounding of Ally’s heart.

She felt as if she had been struck by a train.

Engaged? And not to a man who could easily be her father, but to a man who could not even be bothered to attend his own engagement party!

Of course, it did not matter who the man was. It was…archaic. She had her own plans, dreams, aspirations. She had already set those plans into motion….

She was numb. Barely aware that her godparents were hugging her, kissing her cheek.

Barely aware that Lord Farrow had taken a ring from his pocket, that somehow it fit her finger perfectly. Suddenly there was a diamond flashing brilliantly on her hand.

“And,” Camille announced loudly over the flurry in the room, “here is our first gift to the newly engaged couple. My goddaughter sings like an angel, and her fingers are pure magic on the keyboard, so…”

Shelby and several of the servants rolled in a glorious piano.

Ally’s mouth moved; she tried to thank Camille.

“There is no woman in all of England who looks so lovely in a gown,” Maggie announced next. “Lord Jamie and I have arranged a trousseau.”

Ally blinked as Molly, smiling broadly, came in bearing an array of stunning materials. Again, the room filled with applause, and Ally found herself hugging Jamie and Maggie, all the while feeling like the worst hypocrite in the world.

It was Kat’s turn to speak. She walked forward, eyes dancing. “Hunter and I—”

A horrendous scream cut across her words.

The whole room seemed to freeze.

Another scream, followed by an unintelligible spatter of hysterical words, echoed from the entry hall.

“Excuse me,” Brian murmured, starting in the direction of the uproar.

As a body, the guests followed.

Ally, still stunned, found herself swept along in the sea of people.

In the entry, Shelby was trying to hold and calm a woman. She appeared to be perhaps forty and was dressed totally in black. Her hair was silver-gray, and her eyes seemed to be a matching color, burning with insanity.

“He’s dead!” she screeched. And, with madness lending her strength, she broke free from Shelby.

Brian lifted a hand, telling Shelby it was all right, to let the woman be.

“Eleanor,” he said softly, reaching out to her.

She looked at him; then her eyes narrowed and she let out another terrible scream. Her black mourning attire sailing around her, she spun, looking at the gathered crowd. “He’s dead! And you, all of you, supporting the queen. Damn you! You will kill and kill again for your own aims. He is dead. My husband is dead. Giles Brandon, worth dozens of the likes of you. He is dead!”

“Eleanor,” Brian said again, but when Shelby would have moved, he silently shook his head, once more allowing the woman her moment of pain and fury.

Again she spun, as if looking for someone in particular.

Ally was startled when the woman’s wild eyes suddenly settled upon her and she stretched out a bony, black-clad arm. “You!” she shrieked. “You would-be child of the elite. Curse you! May you die a thousand deaths. So this is your birthday? And you are newly betrothed? Then again I say, curse you! May you die a wretched death before your wedding day ever falls.”