Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann Lethbridge

minutes passed with Robert listening at the chamber door for sounds in the hallway beyond. All he could think about was getting as far away from Wynchwood as possible and drowning himself in brandy. Only a shred of sanity kept him from storming down the stairs.

      Heart thudding slow, he continued to listen, angry he’d hurt her. Angry he didn’t have a choice.

      Hearing nothing, he stepped into the hallway, closed the door swiftly behind him and sauntered for the staircase as if he had every right to be wandering the upper chambers.

      A soft click behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Had someone seen him leave her chamber? If they had, they’d not raised an outcry. Resisting the temptation to turn and look, he continued on his way. A couple in medieval garb ascended the stairs giggling and laughing, clearly looking for privacy. The joys of a masked ball.

      Nodding politely, though he doubted they saw him, Robert continued on down the wide staircase, his footsteps drowned by the noise of revelry. The guests had spilled out into the entrance hall where tables sagged beneath punch bowls and glasses. He pushed through towards the front door, narrowly missing treading on Bracewell’s lion’s tail and dodging a wildly waving tribal spear.

      He caught sight of Frederica standing in the doorway to the ballroom, smiling brightly at Radthorn and a couple of his cronies. Too brightly. God, she looked lovely. Something dark rose up in his chest as John smiled down at her, his gaze fixed on her face in undivided attention. An overwhelming desire to snatch her away, to ride off with her, made him clench his fists.

      He didn’t have the right to take her away from everything she knew and he’d finally convinced her he no longer wanted her. Longing hung around his neck like a chain.

      He’d never stop wanting her.

      With an effort, he turned away. He’d have to leave Wynchwood. He would never be able to stand in the shadows watching her, seeing her with men like Radthorn and Lullington, and not commit murder.

      He stopped at a refreshment table and grabbed a bumper of brandy. It went down in one gulp, burning his gullet. Trust Wynchwood to buy cheap brandy. He needed fresh air. Needed to clear his head. Get a grip, Robert.

      There were hundreds more women waiting to be plucked.

      Except he didn’t want any of them. For his sins, he only wanted one.

      He continued his progress to the door.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ A voice rang out above the hubbub of talking and music. ‘May I have your attention?’ Lord Wynchwood’s voice. ‘I have an announcement. Please gather in the ballroom.’

      The crowd around Robert craned their necks in the direction of the voice, pressing closer, surging forwards.

      Robert pushed against the tide.

      ‘I say,’ said a pirate. ‘You are going the wrong way.’

      ‘You stepped on my skirts,’ a queen said crossly, tugging at her train.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he said, shifting his foot.

      Someone shoved him. His hat and wig slipped. He grabbed at it. Other faces turned his way, curious.

      Damn. Any moment now, his behaviour was going to garner unwanted attention. He let himself be carried along with the flow into the ballroom, slowly inching his way closer to the bank of French windows, which he’d earlier made sure were closed but not locked.

      He looked up to see Frederica standing on the orchestra dais beside her uncle. She looked mutinous and worried. What the hell was going on?

      Jammed between a Roman senator and a black cat and blocked by Queen Elizabeth’s enormous hoops, he wasn’t going anywhere without causing a stir. He remained still, watching Frederica, who looked more unhappy than when he’d left her upstairs, if that was possible.

      Someone bumped him. He braced himself to withstand the shoves of those around him.

      ‘Quiet, please,’ Lord Wynchwood yelled. The buzz of conversation died away. A trickle of sweat ran down Robert’s back as the temperature in the room increased along with the level of curiosity.

      ‘Thank you,’ Wynchwood said. ‘It is my very great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my ward, Miss Frederica Bracewell, to my heir, Mr Simon Bracewell.’

      Betrothed? All around him, people shouted their congratulations and exclaimed their surprise, while Robert felt as if a black hole had opened in front of his feet and he was falling in. His vision darkened, his heart seemed to still in his chest. Betrothed?

      The cold steel of betrayal knifed through his chest, an edge so finely honed, so cold and sharp, the pain almost drove him to his knees.

      Why hadn’t she told him? Had she tried, just now, and lost her nerve? Is that why she asked him to run away with her?

      Was that the reason she’d come to him in the first place, as a means to escape an unwanted marriage? Would she now confess her sins? At any moment he expected to hear her inform her uncle that she was no longer chaste.

      Not that she’d been chaste when she came to him, but they were not to know that.

      God, she’d even offered to pay him. To sit as a model. Was that all she had wanted to pay for? Was it? Was she like every other woman in his life, simply using him? She’d certainly betrayed his trust by not telling him the truth.

      He pushed blindly through the crowd, squeezing between hot bodies, his nose filled with the stink of perfumes and powdered wigs. The crowd parted with cross looks and grumbles. His stomach roiled with self-disgust. He’d allowed himself to be used.

      He felt sick.

      A scream rang out.

      Once more silence reigned in the ballroom. The room seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved, except Robert, pressing steadily ahead, the doors filling his vision like the Holy Grail to a Templar Knight.

      ‘My emeralds,’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘I’ve been robbed.’

      Exclamations of horror rippled around the room. People looked at each other in shock, checked their jewels, glanced at each other in suspicion.

      Barely aware, and uncaring, Robert drew the curtains aside. He needed air. Something to clear his head, something to stem the tide of icy blackness rising up from his chest and threatening annihilation.

      ‘Stop the highwayman,’ a male voice cried out from behind him. Lullington?

      A crocodile with a fat belly barred his path.

      Surprised, Robert shouldered him aside and grabbed the door handle. The crocodile gripped his wrist. Anger rose up. Robert swung his fist. It connected to bone and soft flesh with a satisfying crunch. The man landed on his tail with a howl. Robert pulled open the door, only to have it slammed shut by the weight of the oriental man and an enormously fat monk.

      ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ John Radthorn said, breathing hard beneath his conical hat. ‘No one leaves until we find the jewels.’

      Jewels? Right. Someone had yelled something about stolen emeralds. He glanced around at the suspicious faces, John’s, Simon Bracewell’s, his lion head gone, Lord Wynchwood’s. ‘I don’t have your bloody jewels,’ he said. ‘But I do have an urgent appointment.’

      ‘Search him,’ someone said.

      ‘Go to hell,’ Robert growled.

      John Radthorn raised a brow. ‘No one leaves this house until they are searched and unmasked.’ His voice was quiet, but full of determination.

      His disguise wouldn’t hold up in front of John. Not unmasked.

      He pulled his pistol from his belt. ‘Stand back, damn you. I haven’t got your jewels. I’m leaving.’

      People gasped, men muttered, but as one the crowd pulled back, leaving a glittering Lullington in the empty space, with Maggie a few feet behind him.