She watched as Blackmoor leaned in to say something just out of earshot to Penelope, and felt a flash of irritation as she responded with a well-practiced demure smile and shy dip of her head. Ugh. Yes. Alex had definitely had enough of society for today.
She caught Stanhope’s eye and, gallant as ever, he stood and moved toward her. “Are you unwell, Lady Alexandra?”
She couldn’t stop herself from looking past his broad shoulders, from meeting Blackmoor’s unreadable gaze as he looked up from his cards, distracted for a moment. A warning flashed ever so briefly in his grey eyes—gone so quickly that Alex might have imagined it.
She ignored it anyway and replied, “Not at all, my lord. Just a slight headache. I think I shall return home, and by tonight, I should be right as rain. Would you mind very much escorting me to Worthington House? I wouldn’t like to ruin the afternoon for everyone else.”
ten
Fear was foul company. Especially at night.
He prowled his darkened apartments, playing his actions over and over in his mind, desperately attempting to find some misstep that, when rectified, would bring him closer to the answers for which he was searching. He had to find out what the new earl knew.
His lip curled in an unconscious sneer as he paced the floor. He now knew from multiple sources that the young pup remained unconvinced that his father’s death was an accident, and that Blackmoor continued to search for evidence of foul play. He was unconcerned about information that the boy might find in the public record about that cold January day. It was easy enough, after all, to bribe a local constable or two. Instead, he worried that young Blackmoor’s search would turn up information uncovered by the former earl…information that would reveal his part in the villainy. Information that would indict him not simply for murder—but for treason as well.
Turning to a looking glass, he stared at his reflection, noting the paleness of his skin, the sunken state of his eyes. It had been an eternity since he had slept through the night, unplagued by the demons that haunted him in the darkness. He had been able to take a small pleasure in Blackmoor’s death…but now, as this suffocating blackness surrounded him, he found little comfort. He was becoming consumed by fear from all sides—fear of the powerful men to whom he answered, who were losing their patience with each passing day, who would soon be unwilling to hear his excuses and would take their revenge by any means necessary…including blood.
He swore fiercely and, with force borne of frustration, lifted a candelabra from a nearby table and hurled it at his reflection, embracing the sound of shattering glass—enjoying the way he looked in the fractured mirror. He saw himself repeated in each shard and, for the first time in months, felt as though he were not alone.
Events beyond his control were taking place across the Continent. Napoleon was pressing north and war was again imminent. Time was running out. If he didn’t find answers for his powerful partners, he would lose everything for which he had worked. He was left with little choice—not that he was saddened by what he knew he must do next. He could not let another Earl of Blackmoor ruin his well-laid plans. No, he must prevent that at all costs, by any means necessary. If the young earl knew anything, he would soon share it…or pay the price.
He smiled wickedly into the broken mirror, then spoke aloud.
“Let’s not fool ourselves. The brat will pay the price no matter what he knows.”
“It’s hard to believe my hair can do this!” Alex was unable to keep the wonder from her voice as she craned her neck to see the back of her head in the candlelit mirror of her bedchamber. “Of course,” she continued drily, “it’s hard to believe that much about this picture is the product of nature.”
It was the evening of the first Worthington House dinner of the season—an affair renowned by those lucky enough to receive an invitation, and Alex’s first formal dinner of the season. For some reason, tonight’s festivities made the thought of eating the evening meal in the home she’d known all her life somewhat unnerving. Her reflection did little to change that.
Wrapped in another of Madame Fernaud’s masterpieces, this time a pale pink silk that fell in luxurious waves to matching silk slippers, Alex had just been released from Eliza’s highly skilled hands, her hair now twisted and tucked and pinned and curled in an intricate design that left her long neck exposed in one of the most fashionable styles of the season.
Alex couldn’t help but feel that all this elaborate pampering was rather unnecessary—especially considering she’d known most of those who planned to be in attendance for the great majority of her lifetime—but she’d already learned in this short season to pick her battles with her mother. And this was not one into which she was willing to enter.
A knock on her bedchamber door snapped her from her thoughts. She called out for her visitor to enter, and smiled brilliantly when she saw her father reflected in the mirror. Standing, she turned toward him, dropped into an exaggerated curtsy, and, smiling broadly, said, “Your Grace. I trust I pass inspection?”
He chuckled at her use of the ducal address and offered her a hand to lift her from her position. Tilting his head, he answered in a voice rich with humor. “Far be it from me to answer that particular question. I wouldn’t dare risk removing that opinion from the purview of the duchess. You know that.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he continued, “Suffice to say, my lady, that I believe you are the most beautiful of my offspring.”
Alex burst into laughter and leaned up to kiss her father’s cheek. “Well said…ever the diplomat. Although I rather think it shouldn’t be that difficult to be the most beautiful when compared to the hulking brutes you call sons.”