Nor would she have believed that she herself would have been dangled as bait to lure the duke into unwittingly participating in their scheme.
But she was.
She had no recourse in this matter, for she had not admitted the twining of her bared body with Rogan’s to anyone. Well, except the maid, Cherie, but since Cherie could not speak, Mary knew she could be trusted to keep her silence.
So Mary just did her best to avert her eyes from the duke as Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington led their party into the gallery that evening.
“Blackstone,” Sir Joseph began, “Lady Harrington and I are honored that you remembered our hospitality and were able to extend to us invitations for the Heroes’ Fete this night.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Sir Joseph.”
Sir Joseph bowed over his round belly. “Lady Harrington was beside herself with excitement when Lady Upperton called this afternoon. The newspapers reported that Wellington himself might return to London in time to attend.”
Rogan rocked slightly on his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am pleased you and your lady will be able to join us.” He slid an annoyed glance at Lady Upperton. “Shall we be going? My brother is being honored at the fete, and I do not wish to miss a single moment.”
To her horror, Mary saw that Elizabeth and Anne had walked away from the group and were standing below the portrait of Lady Jersey.
“Er…yes, I agree, we should be going very soon,” said Mary, “only I wonder, Lady Harrington, if you and your husband might allow us to view the paintings in the dining room. I fear Lady Upperton and I, due to the popularity of your musicale, were unable to make our way in to see them…though we heard that there is a landscape that is particularly stunning.”
Lady Harrington was beaming. “Why, certainly. Do come this way. I know just the painting you mean.”
Lotharian noticed the Royle sisters beneath the portrait of Lady Jersey.
“Oh, Miss Royle,” he said to Mary. “I wonder if you could fetch your sisters and join us in the dining room momentarily? I see they are quite taken with the paintings here, but do not be too long. The Heroes’ Fete awaits.”
Then he swung his arm around Rogan’s shoulder and brought him in line behind Lady Upperton and Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington. “I daresay, Blackstone, from what I hear, you will not wish to miss it.”
The minute the others had left the gallery, Mary rushed over to her sisters.
“Now, Mary, let us see and compare.”
Mary glanced about to be sure no servant had wandered into the room. Then, she whisked from her shoulders her Platoff cape of pale pink satin and handed it to Anne, revealing the folded, gold-threaded, crimson Kashmir shawl beneath it.
Elizabeth lifted it gently from Mary’s shoulders and held it up before the painting. “Oh my word.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes welled with unshed tears. “Do you see-do you see?”
Mary did see. Anne saw too.
The hand-woven pattern, which would have taken the weaver months to complete, was identical.
The crimson background was exactly the same.
The spare use of hair-thin gold-hued threads…why, there was no question.
The Kashmir in Elizabeth’s hands, though stained and aged, was in fact the same shawl as the one in the portrait of Lady Jersey.
The fine hairs at the back of Mary’s neck rose up, and though the air in the room was thick with heat, a chill raced up her body and over her scalp, as if she’d been touched by a specter. She wriggled, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling.
Anne’s face went white, and she suddenly pitched forward. Elizabeth dropped the shawl and lunged to catch her sister just before her head met the floor.
Mary crouched beside Anne, while Elizabeth tried to pat the color back into her sister’s cheeks. “Anne, Anne?”
Anne smiled and shook her head. “No need to fret, Mary. I am well. ’Twas just the excitement.”
“The excitement of what?” came Rogan’s familiar deep voice from the far side of the gallery.
Elizabeth’s eyes were wild as she met Mary’s startled gaze.
Mary did not turn around but remained crouched before Anne. Her fingers scrabbled for the shawl, finally catching the edge and dragging it toward her.
Mary could hear his approaching footsteps.
Quickly, she lifted the Mechlin lace hem of her underdress and shoved the shawl as high up between her skirts and chemise as she could manage.
As she rose, she clenched her fingers around the flowing China crape overdress and the layers beneath, and held the shawl in place as best she could as she stood.
She forced a pleasant smile and looked straight into Rogan’s eyes. “What excitement? How amusing you are.” She manufactured a laugh. “Why, Your Grace, tonight’s fete is only the most grand social event of the season.” A smirk pulled at her mouth then. “And we are just country gels, as you so often remind me.”
“The carriages are at the door. We are leaving.” He peered down at Anne, still on the floor resting against Elizabeth. “Is everything all right? Shall I call for assistance?”
Mary glanced over her shoulder at the portrait of Lady Jersey, then back at the duke once more. “Everything is splendid, Your Grace. Quite splendid, indeed.”
Lending her sisters a hand, Rogan helped them to their feet. “Very well, then. Shall we go?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Anne replied as she snatched up the pink satin cape and positioned it around Mary’s shoulders for her.
The sisters’ gazes leapt from one to the other before Anne and Elizabeth started for the passage, glancing nervously back at Mary every few seconds as she followed along behind them with Rogan.
She gripped the shawl through her skirts and walked very slowly, praying that the shawl-the evidence, perhaps, of their lineage-would not fall to the floor as she moved.
Rogan offered her his arm, and she knew she ought to take it, if only to avoid unwanted scrutiny, but there simply was no way to accept it without dropping Lady Jersey’s shawl.
So instead she spurned him, earning herself an almost inaudible growl of disappointment from the duke.
Couldn’t be helped. She was not about to let go of the shawl.
And so she looked straight ahead, chin upright, and walked through the gallery, then the passage, and to the front door, where Lady Upperton and Lord Lotharian were waiting with the Harringtons.
Three gleaming carriages made their way from the Harrington house on Cavendish Square to the opulent Argyle Rooms, where the Heroes’ Fete was to commence.
Mary stared out the window as the Duke of Blackstone’s carriage rumbled down the road.
She could not believe she was sitting upon the same seat where just the night before the man now opposite her had taken her maidenhead.
She could feel Rogan’s heated gaze upon her, no doubt feeling the irony of the situation, just as she was.
Tonight they each sat on opposite sides of the carriage, gloved hands folded in their laps.
How ironic. Less than twenty hours past, they’d been panting, and kissing…and, well, tonight was completely different, that was all.
My, it was warm in the carriage.
She glanced over at Elizabeth, who seemed not at all bothered by the heat.
Moisture had begun to bead at Mary’s own brow, and the lace trim of her underdress was beginning to stick to her skin.
The only part of her that wasn’t steeping in the closed carriage was her hand holding the shawl in place beneath her skirts. Her hand was ice cold from gripping the Kashmir so tightly, and deuce it if it wasn’t beginning to cramp.
“How did Lady Upperton convince you to extend an invitation for the fete to the Harringtons?” Elizabeth suddenly asked the duke. “Did you break a valuable at their musicale and feel you owed them something in return?”
