Regency Scandal. Кэрол Мортимер

of anything!’ She rose suddenly to her feet, two bright wings of colour now in the ivory of her cheeks, from temper, he believed. ‘Very well, if you insist, you shall come up the stairs with me.’ Those magnificent eyes flashed deeply purple. ‘Although quite what you expect to find there, I have no idea! A lover, perhaps?’ she added scornfully. ‘Some man I keep hidden away in my bedchamber in order that he might share my bed at night?’

      Rupert had far from forgotten the accusations of infidelity made against this woman during her marriage. Accusations which he had not cared to hear then at second hand, and had even less interest in doing so now that he had actually met and spoken to her. No, if and when he were to ever hear the truth surrounding those accusations, then he had every intention of it being Pandora herself who revealed it to him.

      There was a detachment about Pandora Maybury. A coolness which she had deliberately adopted in order to keep those hurtful comments at bay, perhaps? The same coolness, which Rupert knew he had been endeavouring to breach, by whatever means possible, since the moment he first met her.

      He gave a brief smile now. ‘I somehow doubt that.’

      ‘You do?’ She looked at him in challenge.

      Rupert smiled again, confidently. ‘Yes.’

      Pandora eyed him coldly. ‘Then you are singular in that belief.’

      He gave a mocking shake of his head. ‘I have told you, I make it a rule never to blindly follow where others in society lead.’

      Her smile was completely lacking in humour. ‘How nice to realise that your acquaintance with me is nothing more than a snubbing of your arrogant nose at society!’

      Rupert had every hope that it was going to be so much more than that … ‘If you’re hoping to annoy me further, Pandora, then don’t bother; I assure you that I, and my arrogant nose, are completely impervious to insults.’

      ‘How fortunate for you!’

      He crossed the room to open the door. ‘After you …?’ He stood back pointedly to allow her to precede him from the salon.

      Which she did with a brisk sweep of the skirts of her gown as she moved past him, her chin raised haughtily high, those violet-coloured eyes glittering angrily, her cheeks once again aflame with temper.

      Rupert followed more slowly, unsure himself as to what he expected to achieve by insisting on visiting Pandora’s bedchamber with her—certainly not the obvious! But his instincts had served him well during his years in the army, and as such he knew there was something … not quite right in the calmness of Pandora’s response to someone having entered her home uninvited this evening.

      ‘Oh!’ Pandora had believed she was prepared for what she would find when she entered her bedchamber. Henley’s description earlier, of mayhem and destruction, had been given to her so vividly that Pandora had known of the shredded bed linen, the feathers scattered about the room from the ripped pillows and mattress, of overturned or broken perfume bottles on her dressing table, and drawers left open and now empty, with the clothes that had been inside thrown about on the floor.

      Yes, she had known to expect all of those things upon entering her bedchamber, but still it had in no way prepared her for how shocked she would feel at seeing all of her personal belongings either ripped or broken. As if, not finding what they had come here for, the perpetrator had then become intent upon destroying everything she might hold dear.

      ‘Sit, Pandora.’ Rupert had lifted and righted the overturned bedroom chair and now indicated she should sit down upon it—before, in his opinion, she fell down.

      Her eyes were deep pools of pained violet in the now deathly pallor of her face as she sank down gratefully on to the brocade-covered chair, the fingers shaking on the hand she now raised to cover her trembling lips.

      Rupert moved down on to his haunches in front of her to take her other hand into both of his. ‘Who did this, Pandora?’ he prompted gruffly.

      She blinked, the sweep of her long silky lashes brushing against the tears that had welled up in her eyes and causing them to fall down her cheeks as she looked at him blankly.

      ‘Pandora?’ Rupert’s hands tightened about hers. ‘Tell me who is responsible and I will see that they are punished accordingly,’ he assured grimly.

      ‘I— Why should you imagine I might have any idea who was responsible?’ She shook her head even as she pulled her hand free of his to stand up and move across the room to begin picking up the things scattered or broken on top of her dressing table.

      Rupert frowned as he slowly straightened. ‘Possibly because it has happened before?’

      Pandora spun about sharply, her eyes wide. ‘Why do you say that?’

      Rupert had not known that for certain. Until now. Pandora’s reaction to his question had just confirmed his earlier suspicions. ‘I’ve told you, you were not surprised or distressed enough earlier. And Bentley looked to you when I questioned why he had not called in the authorities. Is it—could it be that someone has done this out of a malicious need to hurt you?’

      Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. ‘A jealous wife, perhaps?’ she challenged scornfully.

      Rupert drew in a sharp and steadying breath. ‘It is not so out of the question, is it? Stanley had a wife, I believe?’

      Pandora closed her eyes. Oh, yes, Sir Thomas Stanley, the man who had died whilst engaged in that same duel which had killed Barnaby, had most certainly had a wife. And two young children. Which was the very reason that Pandora had not, and never would, publicly reveal the complete truth about the events of a year ago.

      She raised her lids, her gaze steady. ‘Yes, he did,’ she acknowledged wearily.

      The Duke nodded tersely. ‘That being the case, it’s not such a leap to suspect she may be the one responsible for—’

      ‘She is not,’ Pandora cut in firmly. ‘Clara Stanley moved to live in Cornwall with her two children not long after—after attending her husband’s funeral.’

      ‘Which doesn’t mean she hasn’t paid someone—’

      ‘For heaven’s sake! She has not and did not, Rupert.’ Pandora was losing all patience with this conversation.

      Rupert looked at her closely, noting the strain in those violet-coloured eyes, the slight trembling to Pandora’s bottom lip, the shaking of her hands as she bent to pick something up from the floor and set it back upon her dressing table.

      She raised that same weary hand to her brow. ‘It’s very late, Rupert, and surely you must realise how improper it is for you to linger in this way in my bedchamber.’

      ‘You are quite right—in that it is far too late for either of us to be concerned about our reputations. And with that in mind, I believe it best if you don’t remain in this house alone tonight.’

      ‘But I’m not alone—’

      ‘I beg to differ,’ Rupert cut in crisply.

      ‘There are the servants—’

      ‘An elderly man, two flighty young maids, a plump cook and her slightly addled-looking and very young assistant, and an hysterical lady’s maid—’

      ‘Bentley is not so elderly,’ she defended in offended tones. ‘Those two young maids are his granddaughters for whom he has been responsible since the death of their parents three years ago. Mrs Chivers is cheerfully rotund, and that very young assistant is her daughter, Maisie, who, although slightly … slow, is certainly not addled. As for Henley—I would far rather have her overabundance of emotion, than be forced to suffer the company of my previous maid.’ Pandora’s chin was raised stubbornly as she met his gaze in challenge.

      ‘And why were you forced to suffer her company?’ Rupert eyed her frowningly.

      Her cheeks became slightly flushed. ‘My husband previously