Ballrooms and Blackmail (9 page)

She flamed. “And I liked you better when I
thought you were a gentleman.” Turning, she stalked down the
corridor toward the Emerson box.

*

Tears scalded Priscilla’s eyes, and she
blinked them back. She had no reason to feel ashamed. She’d been
doing her job, playing her part, using the gifts she’d been given
to save her family. Always before, the gentlemen had stammered
their admiration. She’d never had one look at her as if she were
being untrue to him. Or herself.

She drew in a breath and composed her face.
It would never do for her parents to suspect she was moments away
from becoming overset. She knew girls who resorted to smelling
salts for this sort of occasion. She’d never used them. She’d
always considered herself stronger than that.

She must have succeeded in hiding her
feelings, for her mother and father merely greeted her with a smile
as she returned to her seat. Lady Minerva twisted Priscilla’s ring
on her finger as if unwilling to return it, whatever had
happened.

“Well?” Emily whispered as the lights dimmed
for the second act.

“Miss Bigglethorpe denied any association,”
Priscilla whispered back, mindful of her parents and the
sharp-eared Lady Minerva. She certainly didn’t want to part with
another piece of jewelry.

“I suppose she would even if she was
innocent,” Emily mused.

“I cannot determine whether she’s lying,”
Priscilla admitted. “But I’m even more convinced that Miss Crandall
is innocent. All she did was stand about wringing her hands. She
hasn’t the courage to try to blackmail me.”

“I never considered a blackmailer to be
particularly brave,” Emily said. “Otherwise they’d face their
victims with their demands.”

She had a point. As if Lady Minerva thought
so too, she chuckled. Priscilla waited for her to shush them, but
then she realized the old lady was hanging on their every word.

She hitched herself closer to Emily. “You
will have to question her. It’s plain this isn’t my skill.”

“Oh, I imagine you’d do perfectly well,”
Emily replied, “if you were questioning a man. You understand how
they think better than anyone I know.”

Ordinarily, she would have agreed, but not
after that conversation with Nathan Kent. She couldn’t determine
where she’d gone wrong. She’d done everything she’d been trained to
do, and failed.

It wasn’t as if she was new to the game.
She’d been twelve when her figure started to appear. At the time,
she’d felt ungainly, and certainly many of the other students at
the Barnsley School had been scathing in their responses,
commenting on how many sweets she must have eaten, why her gowns no
longer fit properly.

Aunt Sylvia had taken her aside during
Christmas holiday. “You’ve been granted a gift, Priscilla,” she’d
said. “And I, for one, intend to see that you do not waste it.”

From then on, every holiday she’d spent with
her aunt. Her parents didn’t mind; anything they could do to
further a relationship with the wealthy lady was to the good in
their minds. The Countess of Brentfield had taught her how to smile
as if she knew a delicious secret. Her ability to walk so that she
appeared to be gliding across the carpet and to toss her curls so
that the gold caught the light were also tricks her aunt had
revealed, as was the need to blink tears into her eyes and murmur
an apology when she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Everything she had learned had given her
power, over the other students, over her teachers, over her
parents.

And then over the men who came to court
her.

Only with Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne had she
ever felt free to be herself. Everyone else saw the perfect
Priscilla Tate, the dewy debutante her aunt had created to ensnare
the equally perfect husband. And now Nathan Kent had looked right
through her and seen the woman inside.

It was clear he didn’t like what he saw. But
what hurt more was that she didn’t much like the sight either.

Priscilla had regained some of her balance
by the time she met with Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne in the Emerson
withdrawing room the next morning. One look at the elegant room
with its pale blue walls, white wainscoting, and gilded chairs
served to remind her of why she was pursuing the duke. Though she’d
hoped the way to His Grace’s heart lay through Nathan Kent’s good
opinion, that door seemed to have closed. She would have to rethink
her strategy, all while catching the creature who threatened her
future.

“So, what have you learned about your
blackmailer?” Ariadne wanted to know, settling her pink
sprigged-muslin skirts about her and opening her reticule to pull
out her journal.

“And how can we help?” Daphne added, one
foot tapping under her green sprigged-muslin gown. “Chase down the
miscreant? Challenge him to a duel? Cut out his liver and serve it
on toast?”

“Bit bloodthirsty,” Emily commented. “You
begin to sound like me.”

Daphne beamed as if that were a great
compliment.

“We have ruled out Acantha Dalrymple,”
Priscilla told them. “She is being blackmailed by the same
person.”

“Daring,” Daphne put in, and that
definitely
sounded like a compliment.

“Miss Bigglethorpe is still a possibility,”
Emily said, shifting in her dark-green gown. “She has shown marked
interest in the duke, and she had opportunity to deliver the
notes.”

“The rival,” Ariadne agreed with a delighted
shiver. “Though we should also look for a less obvious adversary.
It’s always the ones you least expect in all the books and plays,
someone hidden in plain sight.” She glanced around at them all as
if suspecting her friends of harboring nefarious secrets.

Priscilla pulled her mended shawl closer.
She was dressed in deliberate dishabille today. Her muslin morning
gown dripped with lace that had been cut from a dozen older gowns.
Her golden curls were tied up in a simple lace bandeau. “Don’t look
to me for your villain,” she told Ariadne. “I certainly didn’t slip
the note into my own pocket.”

Ariadne’s gaze drifted off into the middle
distance. “Oh, but what if you did? What if some part of you was
warning yourself away from the duke because your heart is engaged
elsewhere?” Muttering to herself, she lowered her head and began
scribbling in her journal.

Priscilla attempted to ignore her. “The
point is, the culprit is still at large, and time is running out. I
cannot have His Grace doubting me. As it is, he has yet to invite
me to his masquerade.”

Ariadne’s head came up, and she exchanged
glances with Daphne.

Priscilla stared at them. “You too? Oh, this
is maddening!”

Daphne looked apologetic. “I’m sure it’s
only because of Mother. She is well respected in many circles.”

And Priscilla’s mother was not. For one
thing, she tended to escalate any emotion, especially since their
finances had taken a turn for the worse. She was pleasantly happy
one moment and sobbing the next. For another, her family was
connected to trade. Her own dowry, now spent, had purchased her a
place among the
haut ton
, and she was quite unwilling to
lose it.

Up until now, the Tate name combined with
their connection to the dowager Countess of Brentfield had given
Priscilla entre everywhere. But the fickle
ton
had all but
forgotten Lady Brentfield.

Given where her aunt currently resided,
Priscilla could only be thankful for that.

A cough from the doorway made them all turn.
Warburton, the Southwell family butler, stood in the doorway. When
Priscilla was mistress of her own establishment, she planned to
find someone just like him: tall, elegant, inscrutable, absolutely
loyal to the family he served.

Seeing that he had their attention, he
inclined his white-haired head. “Forgive the interruption, ladies.
I know you are otherwise engaged, but I’ve just been given the card
of His Grace the Duke of Rottenford, asking if you are amenable to
receiving him.”

Priscilla sprang to her feet. “Are you mad?
Send him up! Immediately!”

Warburton did not so much as pale as his
gaze swung to Lady Emily, and paused.

Emily waved a hand. “Send him up,
Warburton.”

“Very good, your ladyship,” her butler said
with a nod. His smile brushed Priscilla as he turned to do his
duty.

And she knew she must do hers. “Quickly.
Ariadne, sit there. Daphne, move that chair closer to the sofa.
Emily, push your chair back; His Grace will need room for his
longer legs.” She bent and rearranged the figurines on the side
table into a more pleasing pattern. Glancing up, she found all her
friends staring at her.

Ariadne recovered first. “Come along!” she
said with a clap of her hands. “We have our cues. The stage must be
set.”

Priscilla drew in a breath. How wonderful to
have friends who understood!

A short while later, when His Grace entered
the room, everything was to Priscilla’s liking. Ariadne and Daphne
made a charming picture side by side, and Emily sat serenely in a
higher-backed chair, as if holding court. Best of all, Priscilla
was alone on the sofa, with plenty of room beside her for His
Grace.

He was all politeness. He bowed over Emily’s
hand; inclined his head to Ariadne and Daphne, who simpered; then
glanced around looking for his seat. Priscilla smiled in welcome,
and he sauntered over and lowered himself beside her.

A shiver went through her. Here he was, at
last. All hers. With his dark hair pomaded in place, his cerulean
coat impeccably tailored, and his boots gleaming, he was an
impressive sight. The tight-lipped smile he bestowed on Priscilla
was actually encouraging.

She would have been in alt if Mr. Kent and
Miss Fairtree hadn’t followed him into the room just then. Their
presence necessitated finding another chair and jockeying for
position, and when it was all over, she was back on the sofa.

And Mr. Kent was beside her.

Priscilla kept her smile in place as she
gazed across the space to where His Grace sat with Emily on one
side and Miss Fairtree on the other. By the look on Nathan’s face,
he thought he had outmaneuvered her.

He had no idea with whom he was dealing.

“How nice to see you all again,” she said,
fluttering her lashes in the duke’s direction. “It seems as if it’s
been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

Miss Fairtree managed a smile, but the duke
shook his head. “Saw you at the opera last night,” he said,
stretching his long legs across the carpet and bumping into
Daphne’s kid leather slippers in the process. Daphne seemed too
busy gaping at Priscilla to notice. “You were talking with those
two other women across the way.”

“Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall,”
Nathan supplied, while Priscilla held back a shout of triumph that
His Grace hadn’t even remembered their names.

“I’m honored you noticed,” she said,
dropping her gaze. “I was only sad you and I did not have an
opportunity to converse.”

“The calls on His Grace’s time are many and
varied,” Mr. Kent said. “He insisted on coming to see you today,
and as we know you are generally to be found in good company, we
thought we’d try here first.”

So the duke had wished to see her, and
Nathan, no doubt, had steered him to Emily’s hoping he might miss
Priscilla.

“How very sensible of you,” she said, with a
dimpled smile to His Grace. “Of course you can most often find me
with my dear friends.” She nodded to Emily, Ariadne, and Daphne.
“It’s rare that we aren’t invited to the same events.”

Emily raised her brows, and Priscilla knew
she’d understood her hint. Her friend turned to the duke. “Indeed,
Your Grace, I far prefer to attend any event with Priscilla at my
side. That’s why I may have to rescind my acceptance to your
masquerade.”

The duke had been toying with a crested
silver button on his flowered waistcoat. Now he frowned at Emily.
“You’d refuse my invitation?”

Priscilla nudged Ariadne’s foot.

Her friend straightened. “Me too.” She
glanced at Priscilla. “Reluctantly.”

“Not me,” Daphne said happily. “I love a
good masquerade.”

“How nice to have such loyal friends,” Miss
Fairtree said wistfully.

“A great blessing, I’m sure,” Nathan
drawled. Priscilla could feel him watching her, but she kept her
gaze on the duke.

His Grace glanced around the group, then
leaned forward. “Hold on. Are you saying you never received an
invitation to my party, Miss Tate?”

Priscilla willed herself to blush as she
lowered her gaze again. “Sadly, I have not had the honor, Your
Grace.”

“That’s not right.” He slapped both hands
down on the knees of his dove-colored pantaloons. “I say, that’s
not right! I know Miss Tate was on the guest list. What went wrong,
Natty?”

Priscilla was certain she heard Nathan
smother a groan, but whether at the use of so familiar a name or
the realization that he’d been caught, she didn’t know.

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” he replied
with his usual polite calm. “But I will make sure Miss Tate
receives an invitation if I have to deliver it myself.”

He somehow sounded none too pleased with the
matter. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him gritting his
teeth. She purposely kept from glancing his way.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said with her
best smile. “And you can be sure I’ll send my acceptance the moment
I receive the invitation.”

“Is anyone else we know coming?” Ariadne put
in, pencil at the ready as if to record his response. “Miss
Bigglethorpe? Miss Crandall?”

“Who?” His Grace asked.

“Yes,” Nathan answered for him. “Both ladies
have accepted, as have most members of the
ton
.”

“It should be quite a crush,” Miss Fairtree
murmured.