How to Seduce a Duke (17 page)

“Oh, you are wearing blinders.” Anne sat down beside her. “You are clever, Mary. You are curious. We need your help to investigate the story we’ve been told. All we have is a document box filled with scribbles and letters, none seeming to relate to another.”

Mary laid her hand on the book sitting beside her on the table. “We also have Papa’s medical reference.”

“And two empty laudanum bottles,” came their sister’s voice.

Mary and Anne looked up to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway with two small, dark amber labeled bottles in her hand.

Anne stood and crossed to her sister. She took the two bottles and held them up to the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

“Where did you find these? I don’t recall seeing them in either box.” Anne handed one of the bottles to Mary.

“Nor do I.” Mary turned the bottle over in her hand, then looked at Elizabeth.

“This morning, I accidentally knocked Papa’s document box off the table. When it hit the floor, I heard a clinking sound,” Elizabeth began. “Documents and letters do not clink, so I emptied the contents onto the carpet. It was just as before, a ledger, some papers. Nothing that could have made the noise I heard. I knew something else was in that box. I just couldn’t see it. So I shook it, and heard it again, that faint tinkling sound.”

“I don’t understand. Where did you find the bottles?” Anne asked.

Elizabeth’s gaze brightened. “There was something I wasn’t seeing, so I ran my fingers all around the inside. Then I felt it—a tiny metal depression.”

She tugged at the ribbon she wore around her neck and revealed the key to the document box. She twisted the oval finger grip and removed it, revealing a hexagonal-shaped driver. “Do you remember what
Lotharian
told us, that Papa told him that the key opened a trapdoor?”

Mary came to her feet. “In our home in Cornwall.”

“Yes, that is what we all assumed. But we were wrong.” Elizabeth held the small driver out before them all.

Mary and Anne craned their necks to view the hidden portion of the key more closely.

“When I inserted this into the hole and turned it, the base suddenly sprang open. That’s when I realized that the box had a false bottom—a trapdoor. When I opened it, I found the bottles, wrapped up in a filthy cloth.”

“To mute the noise.” Anne gripped the back of Mary’s chair and steadied herself. “You do not think those bottles contained the laudanum used to... ”

Elizabeth nodded her head slowly. “Drug our mother—
Mrs.
Fitzherbert
.
”

Slowly Mary returned her gaze to the bottle in her hand. She lifted the stopper and sniffed. “
Nooo
, this is not possible.”

T
he
Harringtons
’ home, though located just diagonally from Lady
Upperton’s
residence and the Old Rakes of Marylebone Club, was small in comparison to the other grand homes packed cheek by jowl on Cavendish Square.

Still, when Mary was ushered into the gallery room for the musicale with her sisters, her mouth fell open in awe.

Every wall was filled with paintings—landscapes, still-life compositions, and portraits with allegorical, religious, or mythological themes. Clearly, the stunning paintings were the work of a single artist of unmatched talent.

What so intrigued Mary, however, was the fact that beautiful, aristocratic-looking women—she recognized some from biting caricatures she’d seen on display at
Hatchard’s
—were prominently featured in almost every single one.

As she and her sisters moved past at least ten rows of chattering guests, Mary’s ears suddenly filled with a collection of random notes. She had just turned her gaze to the musicians, tuning their instruments at the front of the gallery, when she noticed Lord
Lotharian
in the distance.

Lotharian
managed to rise from his chair situated in the first row of gallery seating. He beckoned forth the footman, who quickly guided the
Royle
sisters to several chairs near Lady
Upperton
and himself, Sir Lilywhite, and Lord
Gallantine
.

Lady
Upperton
hugged Anne and Elizabeth, then allowed them to take their seats toward the far end of the row beside the Old Rakes.

When she greeted Mary, however, she snatched up her hand and held it firm. “You may sit beside me, my dear,” she told Mary, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She gestured to a chair beside her near the center aisle.

“Why, thank you, Lady
Upperton
.” When Mary sat down, she realized that the chair beside her was still unoccupied.

Ordinarily, this would not have concerned her in the least, but when Lady
Upperton
, on two separate occasions just moments apart, shooed guests from sitting in the single empty chair, Mary knew that a plan was afoot. She studied the round old woman and the lanky lord beside her. They merely peered innocently back at her.

But Mary knew better. She only hoped the scheme did not include the wretched Duke of Blackstone.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind her, a wave of enthusiastic applause rolled forward toward the small dais where the musicians had assembled for their performance.

She twisted around in her seat just in time to see that the crowd was applauding Quinn, the famous war hero, who was just starting up the aisle. On his arm, to Mary’s dismay, was the lovely widow Lady Tidwell.

Mary felt a twinge in her middle.

Blast.
She should have also asked Mrs.
Polkshank
if Lord
Wetherly
was to attend. Why hadn’t she thought to do that? She mightn’t have attended the musicale at all, or at the very least could have better prepared herself to see Quinn... with
her.

As Quinn escorted Lady Tidwell closer, his eyes sought out Mary’s, and once found, he smiled brightly at her.

The click of his cane grew louder, and abruptly she realized that he was perhaps coming to speak with her. She bit her lower lip, then sucked the top one into her mouth for a moment, hoping to send a little color into them. She glanced down at her gown.

Yes, she was ready to face him now.

As gracefully as she could manage, Mary rose from her seat, beaming at Quinn. She lifted a welcoming hand to him. He reached out his hand as he moved toward her, when suddenly the musicians struck the first chord.

Quinn stilled his step, and both he and Lady Tidwell quickly began to scan the rows nearby for open chairs.

Perdition!
Mary wrenched her head around and glared at the conductor. He was ruining everything. She only required a moment more to speak with Quinn.

Just time to exchange a few words, to reassure him that she would wait as long as it took for them to be together.

When she turned back to look at Quinn, she saw that he was no longer moving toward her. Instead, he and Lady Tidwell were moving back down the aisle to two unoccupied seats in the middle of the gallery.

When they were about to seat themselves, Quinn paused and did something very odd. He smiled at Mary once more, then raised his eyebrows and angled his head and eyes toward the center aisle.

Mary followed the direction of his gaze.

Oh no
... there he was—
Rogan.

He was wearing that cocky lopsided grin of his and, worse yet, was moving straight for the empty chair beside her.

No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

Mrs.
Polkshank
had told her that the duke would not be in attendance this evening! It was the only reason she’d agreed to come.

Thinking quickly, Mary tossed her reticule and lace fan on the chair, hoping he might believe the seat was already taken.

But he didn’t.

He was not the least concerned that he was distracting the musicians when he nudged past the conductor and headed straight for the chair beside her.

“Thank you, my dear Miss
Royle
.” Quite casually, he lifted her reticule and fan and handed them to her. “How good of you to hold a chair for me.”

Mary thought to imply that the reticule and fan belonged to someone else and that he was taking some unknown lady’s seat, but that would be lying. She looked down at the articles now sitting in her lap. No, such a lie would not have been successful anyway. After all, the fan had been created from the exact same lace as her dress. Even a man was sure to notice that.

For more than two hours the musicians played and played.

Mary had decided right away that she wasn’t going to look at Rogan, though her eyes were straining to do just that.

She would not allow herself to look.

He would just smile back at her in a condescending way, thinking to himself how he’d fooled her so completely. That she actually had believed that he had been doing Quinn a grand favor by watching over her—when in fact she was almost certain that he had devised their separation to begin with.

The
beast.

To occupy herself, Mary watched the minute hand on the tall case clock in the corner start its full-circle journey around the dial.

Hardly amusing. And after just one minute her eyes were inching toward Rogan. Couldn’t allow that.

So Mary played a little game whereby she would close her eyes and count to sixty, then open them again just as the minute hand moved on.

She grew bored with that activity after just two minutes.

How would she last the evening with the duke sitting right beside her and Quinn just a few rows behind with the lovely widow? She would go mad if she had to endure it much longer.

As the moments passed, she began to wonder if Quinn was enjoying his evening with Lady Tidwell.

A quick look at the couple would not be so very improper, would it? Not if it was a small glance, and nothing more.

Mary set her fan atop her knee, and over the next seconds, removed her hand. The lace fan tumbled to the floor between her seat and Rogan’s.

She bent to retrieve it, but immediately the duke’s hand shot down between the seats and wrapped his fingers around the fan.

Luck was not with her. Of course the wretched man chose that very moment to act in a gentlemanly manner.

Brilliant, just brilliant.

Still, Mary bent at her waist and plunged her hand between the chairs as well. She fished her hand around the feet of chairs, pretending she was not aware Rogan had already picked up the fan. As her hand scrabbled around the floor, she turned her head as much as she dared and wedged her eyes as far to the left as she could manage, hoping to catch a glimpse of Quinn.

And catch it, she did. Only the appalling sight she glimpsed made her turn around completely in her chair to be sure of what she had seen.

Quinn was holding Lady Tidwell’s hand between both of his own. Oh God. He held her hand the very same way he had held hers in the
parlor
, not so many evenings ago.

The backs of Mary’s eyes pricked as she caught Quinn staring, most adoringly, into the widow’s eyes. He squeezed her hand in his.

A tear breached Mary’s lower lashes and splashed onto her cheek.

“Turn around, gel. People are taking notice.” Lady
Upperton
grasped Mary’s arm and turned her around in her chair.

“Your fan, Miss
Royle
.” Rogan glanced down at her, no doubt seeing her tears, as he closed her fan and placed it into her gloved hand, along with his handkerchief.

Deuce it.
Mary tried hard to blink back the tears welling in her eyes without needing Rogan’s linen.

She took a deep breath, then raised her chin, trying to keep the tears poised in her eyes.

It was then that she noticed she was peering up at a very large painting positioned behind the musicians.

Focus on the painting. Not on what Quinn might be doing.

It was a full-length oil portrait of a beautiful woman. Clearly, she was highborn. She had an aristocratic look about her.

Her expression was demure, yet in her eyes Mary could almost believe she saw sparks. The painted sky behind the woman was dark and dramatic, which made her white gown vivid and fresh. Her hair was piled high upon her head, with coils of ringlets spilling down the sides of her throat. Around her shoulders, in stark contrast with her almost virginal appearance, was a crimson-and-gold Kashmir shawl.

Mary looked at the shawl, so bold and vivid, and then once more she focused on the woman’s eyes. They seemed to flicker with a sly vitality.

With feminine power.

A knowing smile lifted Mary’s lips.

She felt almost as though she knew this woman. Could see her soul through her eyes.

“Mary?” Lady
Upperton
nudged her shoulder.

She turned to look across at the old woman, but the moment she did, the tears she’d fought slipped down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away with Rogan’s handkerchief, then folded the linen in a square and squeezed it in her palm.