A Marquess, A Miss And A Mystery. Annie Burrows

face was enough to give her indigestion. And there were loads of other chairs dotted about, in little clusters, and sofas set at angles so that the occupants could chat.

      Though Horatia had the horrid feeling that what they were chatting about was her. Several times she caught a sly look, or somebody nudging someone else to make them aware she was about to walk by. And, of course, there was Lord Devizes himself, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling females, his eyes following her progress, his mouth slightly tilted in that mocking smile he very rarely went without.

      His flirts must all be wondering how she could possibly show her face in public after the scene she’d made in the chapel earlier. If only she had the courage to take her plate and cup up to her own sitting room where she could avoid the stares. Or if only there was a bank of potted plants behind which she could hide.

      But there wasn’t. For all his vaunted wealth, the Duke had not a single plant, in a pot, anywhere in this room, never mind a whole bank of them. The best she could do would be to find a corner and hope that once she’d sat down in it, and applied herself to her nuncheon, certain people would find something else to laugh at. She couldn’t help darting the Duke a rather resentful glance before beginning her search. He was standing with a group of men by one of the fireplaces, the over-mantel of which they were using as a shelf for their drinks while they tucked into their food. Which did nothing to improve her mood. It was all very well for men. They could eat standing up and put mantel shelves into use as tables, and all anyone would say was that they were making themselves at home. If she were to do the same...

      She resumed her search of the room for a secluded corner and after only a few moments finally spotted a straight-backed chair standing against the wall by a window. It had the advantage of being partially shielded by a heavy velvet curtain. With a sigh of relief, Horatia made straight for it. It was only once she’d sat down that she realised that it was going to be virtually impossible to eat anything while she had her teacup in one hand and her plate in the other. The windowsill was too narrow to be anywhere near as useful as a mantelpiece, as well as being a bit awkward to reach being swathed by such a bulky curtain. Why, oh, why did people not provide their guests with handy little tables? And not just the gregarious ones, who sat upon the sofas in the middle of the room. They were all amply catered for. They had tables to the front of them, tables at their elbows, even tables directly behind the sofa back should they take it into their heads to reach for their teacups over their shoulders.

      She was just wondering which of the groups of people who were in possession of tables she could go and join, when the Duke’s intended came bustling over, a little white dog bounding along at her skirts.

      ‘Miss Carmichael,’ said the dark-eyed, dark-haired, dark-skinned slip of a girl that nobody could believe the Duke would prefer over elegant blonde beauties such as Lady Elizabeth. ‘I am so sorry that I have not had a chance to speak with you before now. I am...’ She hesitated, a tide of pink rushing up her cheeks. And then she took a deep breath as though deciding she might as well say whatever it was she’d thought twice about. ‘As you can probably tell, I am not used to entertaining on such a vast scale. Well, any scale at all, to be honest. But, oh, dear me...’ She waved to a footman stationed at the door. ‘Peter, can you go and fetch a little table for Miss Carmichael? I am so sorry,’ she said the moment he’d strolled away. ‘I should have thought to have a table placed here.’

      The girl was so uncomfortable, so clearly out of her depth, that even though Horatia had just been mentally berating her for not thinking of providing a table, she started to feel some sympathy for her. Even though that smacked of disloyalty to Lady Elizabeth.

      ‘I don’t suppose you expected any of your guests to wish to sit behind a curtain,’ she said by way of a compromise.

      ‘Oh. But I should have known, since the first time I set foot in this room I only lasted five minutes before... I mean, well, that is, how are you finding things at Theakstone Court?’ Miss Underwood spoke in such a flustered manner that Horatia would have assumed, if she didn’t know better, that the girl was even more unused to polite company than she was. ‘It must be so awkward for you, being here at such a difficult time,’ she then continued. ‘Were you very close to your brother? Oh.’ She coloured up again. ‘That is not the kind of question I should have asked, is it? Oh, where is Peter with that table?’ She looked around with an air of desperation.

      And Horatia didn’t have the heart to maintain any sort of hostility at all any longer. After all, Lady Elizabeth herself didn’t seem to begrudge Miss Underwood the Duke. ‘I was very, very close to my brother,’ she said, in an attempt to lay to rest one of her hostess’s concerns. ‘And, yes, I do feel a bit awkward here, but then, to be frank, I was not that much less awkward before. In society, that is. In fact, I rarely went about much, even though I live in London.’

      Now it was her cheeks that heated. But at least Miss Underwood looked less uncomfortable.

      ‘Then it was very brave of you to attend.’

      ‘Loyal, I should have said,’ drawled Lord Devizes, who had somehow managed to make his way across the room without either of the ladies noticing. Both she and Miss Underwood jumped, though she was the only one to spill tea down the front of her gown. Fortunately, since it was black, the stain would hardly show. Which was yet another advantage of not having to wear the fashionably pale colours Aunt Matilda had insisted she wore in the past.

      ‘You came, primarily,’ Lord Devizes was continuing, ‘to provide support for your disappointed friend, Lady Elizabeth Grey, did you not? Against the woman who stole her intended from beneath her nose.’ He turned to give Miss Underwood a smile that was just about the most disdainful expression she’d ever seen on anyone’s face.

      Which made her want to leap to the girl’s defence. ‘It was as much to my advantage as Lady Elizabeth’s. That is,’ she said, belatedly realising that she’d been on the verge of giving too much away, ‘she thought that getting me out of Town might help to, um, lift my spirits.’

      ‘I can see that she is doing her utmost,’ he said, indicating the sofa on which Lady Elizabeth was sitting with her mother, at the far end of the room, ‘to do so.’

      Sarcastic beast.

      ‘Well, it must be very difficult,’ put in Miss Underwood, ‘to know what to do for Miss Carmichael. I mean, what with her being in mourning, it isn’t as if she can join in all that much with any of the activities we have planned for the entertainment of our guests this week.’

      No, but then she hadn’t wanted to do any joining in. She’d wanted to contact Lord Devizes and let him know what she knew, so that he could bring Herbert’s killers to justice. Once she’d shared all the information she had, she’d planned to stay in her room as much as she could, out of the way of all the festivities, and hand the work over to him.

      What a fool she was. She should never have assumed that a man, any man, even a man like Lord Devizes would have been better at tackling the active work. When had any man been any better than her at anything?

      Except dressing well and being charming, that was, at which both Lord Devizes and Herbert excelled. Which wasn’t surprising, the amount of time they spent gazing at themselves in mirrors. Why, Lord Devizes was doing so now. Though he was standing close enough to hold a conversation with her, he’d also chosen a spot which gave him a clear view to the mirror which hung between her window and the next one along. And was openly checking out the set of his neckcloth.

      ‘You were involved in the planning of the entertainment, were you?’ Lord Devizes raised one of his eyebrows in mock surprise at Miss Underwood.

      ‘I... Well, no, it was more my aunt, as I expect you know, but...’

      ‘Well, I certainly knew that it could not have been His Grace,’ he said, apparently satisfied with his appearance and turning to direct a sardonic smile in Miss Underwood’s direction. ‘Since he cares nothing for anybody’s pleasure but his own.’

      Miss Underwood gasped. ‘That is not true. He is a truly generous host—’

      ‘I shall