The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(22)
Sophie handed her a handkerchief. ‘Blow your nose, smile, do not let the vultures see any signs of weakness.’ She laughed and her husband turned and looked at her with such love in his eyes that Guin wanted to cry even more.
Instead she sniffed and managed to get into her reticule. ‘Thank you, Here is my clean one in exchange. Goodness knows why kindness should be so weakening – I have managed not to shed a tear up to now and the most ghastly things have been happening.’
‘It is reaction to the sight of the relieving army coming over the hill,’ Sophie said with a chuckle. ‘You were fighting by yourself and then Jared arrived, and he is a complete regiment in himself, and now Cal and I have joined the barricades. We have a few moments before the music begins, you can tell me the bare outline of the problem.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘Cal, darling, fend people off while I talk to Guinevere.’
Guin told it all, as briefly as she could, from the first incident up to the firework down the chimney. Sophie gasped and nodded encouragingly and waved and smiled at passing acquaintances as though she had been involved in intrigue all her life and was not hearing a shocking and puzzling tale.
‘They are not trying to kill you, are they?’ she said when the tale was told. ‘I should think it might be easier to solve if they were. I wonder what on earth can be behind it.’
‘And I wonder whether your kindness will frighten them off or aggravate them,’ Guin said slowly.
‘It might be better if they are aggravated.’ Jared had been leaning against a pillar just behind them. Now he came and sat beside Sophie. ‘The last thing we want is them going to ground at this point when we have no clue about who it is, or why.’
Guin looked at him properly for the first time that evening, now she could do so while pretending to be talking to the Duchess. He looked sleek and dangerous, all in black against the colour and glitter of the ballroom, his hair clubbed back severely at the nape of his neck in a style that should have looked old-fashioned but which merely served to emphasise how different he was from the men around him.
‘Are you armed, Jared?’ Sophie demanded. ‘I find it positively unnerving, seeing you without a sword.’
‘Knives,’ he said laconically. ‘I do not expect an attack here, although I am watching for one, of course. My suspicion is that whoever is targeting Lady Northam is employing agents of a kind who would not fit in a ballroom.’ The dark eyes surveyed the room, narrowed. ‘Except as footmen, we must not overlook them. What I am hoping for is to pick up gossip, to see who is watching Lady Northam, watching in the hope of seeing some sign of strain. To find the principal behind this, in effect.’
‘You think that is what this is?’ Sophie asked. ‘Harassment?’
‘The attacks have not escalated in danger, no explicit threats or demands have been made. Here comes the orchestra. Lady Northam, who is your first dance partner?’
‘The Duke,’ she confessed, hardly believing it as the musicians stopped tuning and swept their bows over the strings in a flourish.
The Duke – Cal – stood up, bowed and offered his hand. ‘I assume I stay in the middle of the floor?’ he asked Jared.
‘No, go where you will. I am watching. Oh, and do not accept a supper dance invitation, Lady Northam. You will join the Duke’s party.’
‘Mr Hunt is very assertive,’ Guin observed, taking the proffered hand. A duke taking orders from a swordmaster?
‘That is one way of putting it.’ The Duke was almost grinning. ‘He knows what he is doing. There is no need to be frightened, Lady Northam.’
‘I do not think I am,’ she said as they took their places for the first set. ‘I suppose I ought to be, but I am more angry than alarmed now. Although I am worried about the effect this anxiety and suspense is having on my husband.’
They were separated by the measures and besides, this was no topic of conversation for the dance floor. Guin made herself forget the threat and her worries and allowed herself to enjoy dancing with a duke and attending a social function where no-one was regarding her coolly or judging her motives and her character simply on the basis of her marriage.
‘Good night, Mr Hunt.’ Guinevere turned halfway up the stairs. Jared had come in with them, had checked on the men guarding the basement and the roof, made certain the night porter was alert, had inspected every window and door. Now he stood on the threshold with Twite holding the door open ready for him to leave. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
She looked tired and the glow of excitement and happiness that had clung to her throughout the evening had ebbed away by the time he had climbed down from his hackney carriage and followed the couple into the house. Her chin was up though, her back straight, and perversely that made him want to turn back and take her in his arms and comfort her even more than a trembling lip or threatening tears would have done. Not mine to comfort, not mine to hold.
‘My pleasure, Lady Northam. Good night.’
But it was not a pleasure, Jared thought as he went down the steps and began to walk home. It was frustrating, like chasing a thread of smoke. He could glimpse it, smell it but could not catch hold of it and he had no idea what had caused the fire that generated it in the first place. He was not even certain, when he did find it, whether the fire would prove to be a raging inferno or a smouldering twig.