Only two days after the young Duke of Glenmorgan’s arrival in London, Grayson feted him at a ball in the Park Lane mansion that had been best described as a small-scale palace. After all, it was not every day that one could display a peer.
As a chosen favorite, Harriet had been invited inside this spacious house on numerous occasions. She wished she could forget her infamous first visit, however.
By some miracle she had managed to elude the senior footman’s coterie of guards and infiltrate Lady Jane’s private closet. The moment she’d stepped into the room, she completely forgot what she had come for. She felt like a princess getting ready for her first ball and not a thief whose half brothers had sent her to do their dirty work.
The closet had seemed bigger than the crumbling pile she shared with seven other people. The huge gilded mirrors that hung on the walls reflected her astonished face and shabby appearance. Piles of painted fans covered a blue silk chaise. She had never seen so many shoes strewn about in her life.
The marchioness must have spent the entire day selecting the perfect costume for the gala. Harriet went to pick up a gold hairpin from the floor. The next thing she knew, she’d slipped one foot into a diamond-encrusted shoe and the other into a dancing pump with a pearl-inlaid heel that made her ankle look devilishly attractive. Then she spied a collection of tapestry shoes in an adjoining room.
“Cor,” she’d exclaimed, walking unevenly toward the door, “so this is where the cobbler’s elves work all night.”
“Wrong,” said the snootiest voice that to this day she had ever heard. A tall footman dressed like an enchanted frog plucked a shoe from her fingers. “This is where you shall remain until the police remove your person to the station.”
She snorted. “I don’t ’ave a person. I work alone.”
He had leaned down, his mouth pinched like a clam. “You are going-”
The chatter of female voices interrupted whatever dire threat he’d been about to make. “Heavens above!” he muttered, his hands lifting as if he were about to tear off his wig. “The marchioness is here! And-” He made a menacing noise in his throat and snatched the gold hairpin from Harriet’s hair.
It was at that moment that his mistress, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, and her sister-in-law, Emma Boscastle, the widowed Viscountess Lyons, had walked through the adjoining door of the closet. Neither of them screamed, although Lady Lyons blinked when she noticed the cashmere shawl Harriet had stuffed halfway up her sleeve.
“Who is this young woman, Weed?” the marchioness asked, eyeing the mismated slippers on Harriet’s feet in amusement. “One of the new scullery maids? Remember that we forgive the curiosity of the first week.”
“She’s a thief, madam.”
“Oh,” the marchioness said, “I see.”
“I shall have her removed immediately from the premises,” Weed vowed, lowering his hand to reach for Harriet.
“Wait,” Lady Lyons had said, in a powerful voice that halted the footman’s hand. “She cannot be observed by anyone at the party. For one thing, her hair has not seen a brush in at least a week. For another”-she fanned the air-“she smells so strongly that my eyes water.”
The marchioness took a delicate sniff. “That’s the new perfume Grayson bought me for my birthday.”
Harriet gave her a frank look. “Lovely, ain’t it?”
More than two years had passed since that ignominious day. Since then, fortunately, Harriet had never been caught in anyone else’s closet. Although Lady Jane teased her from time to time about her crime, she did so with a fond twinkle in her eye. She also paid Harriet the high compliment of seeking her confidence as concerning family secrets.
Within a half hour of her arrival tonight, Lady Jane had taken Harriet aside to whisper, “What is your opinion of the duke and his relations?”
Harriet admired Lady Jane. She was not merely pretty, generous, and kind, she was also a devious schemer who had sabotaged her own wedding, only to fall in love with her scoundrel of a marquess. “Lady Powlis is a double-edged sword,” Harriet whispered after a moment’s reflection. “The duke’s a moody one, and I’d be afraid to guess what Lady Edlyn’s got locked up in her turret.”
“Darling,” Jane said, drawing Harriet deeper into the shaded alcove. “What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t been at the academy long enough to get into trouble, I swear. But every time I’ve gone to her room she’s been sitting at her window as if she’s waiting, for whom or what I’ve no idea.”
Jane’s green eyes darkened in worry. “Poor lambkin. Could she have met a young wolf so quickly?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’ve got a sense for that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps she is still grieving her father,” Jane said quietly. “Is she close to the duke and his aunt, or are they estranged, as the gossips say?”
Harriet peered out into the vestibule. “Lady Powlis couldn’t love her more. But as for what Miss Edlyn and the duke feel for each other, well, your opinion would be better than mine, madam.”
Jane patted her on the arm. “I never fail to think of you whenever I buy a new pair of tapestry shoes. Now, now. Don’t blush. We all have our skeletons in the dressing closet.” She stepped out into the vestibule, gasping in pleasure as she spotted the tall masculine figure who stood in front of an enormous queue of guests. “Is
Harriet stood on tiptoe to peek over Jane’s elaborate headdress. Somewhere between the thicket of ostrich feathers, she made out a bladed nose that belonged to a lean man in a black evening suit. Oh, dear. The duke appeared to have been caught in a receiving line and looked none too happy about it. Perhaps he had not been exaggerating when he’d complained that he had hordes of admirers.
“My goodness,” Jane whispered. “How handsome he is! And you never said a word. I always wondered what an infusion of Welsh blood would do to the line. I imagine the castle drawbridge had to be closed every night to keep him safe from the village girls.”
Harriet dredged up a pleasant smile. Never mind the village girls. The marchioness must have given every eligible debutante in London an engraved invite to meet the duke tonight.
Jane’s delicate face grew pensive. “I should have known. Why would I think the family could escape even one season without notoriety? My, my. We do have our hands full, don’t we, Harriet?”
“The Duke of Glenmorgan has-”
He had not even been properly announced by the majordomo before a swell of guests, ladies primarily, surged forth from the line to surround him. He’d lost sight of his aunt and Edlyn. He suspected that they were watching from the balcony above, where only family or the most favored guests were taken for a private introduction. He felt like a human sacrifice being fed to a flock of harpies in evening gowns.
He looked about for someone to rescue him. The only person he recognized in the crush was the flame-haired Miss Gardner, who sent him a wicked smile and promptly disappeared.
“Condolences on your brother’s untimely and cruel demise, your grace.”
“Congratulations on your calm grasp of duty.”
“Your grace, it is a privilege.”
“What a tragedy, your grace. All of London wept.”
“My daughter Anne-Marie has composed a poem in honor of your loss. If your grace could spare an afternoon this week to have it privately heard…”
Condolences. Congratulations. An arena of London’s weepy and conniving mamas sharpening their claws and quills with a ravenous appetite that gave him heart palpitations.
He knew he had promised his family that at some unspecified time in the future he would carry on the line. But he also knew he wasn’t about to marry any of the ambitious debutantes who were eyeing him like a supper course. In fact, it was all he could do not to shout something unforgivably rude to scare the lot of them away. And when one of them suddenly had the unmitigated gall to sneak up behind him to grab the tails of his coat, and another to slap her hand upon his shoulder like a sledgehammer, he ground his teeth and-
“Isn’t he pretty?” a hideous voice cooed as its owner tugged again on his evening coat.
“He’s the belle of the ball.”
“Ooh. Feel his shoulders. How strong he is.”
“I want the first dance.”
