brother.”
The doctor looked at him oddly, then his eyes widened. “You were speaking about the old earl? Lord William? I beg your pardon, Lord Dalbury, I had forgotten you were out of the country last year. Yes, William, the fifth Earl of Manning died in August of last year. At his club. Heart, I believe it was. The current earl is his nephew, John Fitzwilliam. Had a bit of a run-in with highwaymen last evening. My lord, has your cheek become worse?”
A hiss, like the life being sucked from him, escaped Duncan’s mouth. Oh, God. Her story was all true. He fought to remain calm until Pritchett left, then sank down into his leather chair as though all the bones in his body had come unhinged. The facts fit together perfectly–the rope burns, the kidnapping. So perfectly, that Duncan could hear the gossip in the London streets: Did you hear the Marquess of Dalbury compromised the Earl of Manning’s sister? Have you heard the earl has challenged him? Do you think the marquess will kill him too?
One fact surfaced: he must find Lady Katarina and convince her to marry him. There was no other course open to him if he was to retain his reputation as a gentleman. For if she refused, the one thing he sought most to avoid would ride him again this year: scandal.
6
Anson, the valet, had finished making minute adjustments to the shoulders of Duncan’s impeccably cut Italian coat, when Grayson entered his bedchamber.
“Mr. Reginald Matthews of the Bow Street magistrate’s office is in the small reception room, my lord.”
Duncan gave the butler a curt nod and waved Anson away. He’d been expecting some sort of visit for the past three weeks. Someone must have recognized him that night and finally linked him with Lady Katarina. Well, he would just have to dance a fine jig around the situation.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, shifting his position. His golden brown coat and breeches–over the cream satin waistcoat embellished with running vines and leaves–was an elegant, but understated outfit. The overall effect did not sufficiently reflect his authority for this interview.
“Anson!” he called, and the lanky valet came at a run. “I have reconsidered the day. I believe the ice blue is called for.”
“Very good, my lord.” Anson disappeared into the dressing room and emerged with a suit of blue so pale, in some lights, it looked gray. The French silk coat glittered with silver trim at collar and cuffs, the buttons, round-cut diamonds. The completed outfit would in addition boast diamond studded buckles on his shoes and a large, single diamond stud in his ear. He would appear a perfect icicle, sharp and cold, when Anson was through with him. All the better to meet Mr. Matthews.
Duncan stood in the center of his bedroom as Anson stripped him of the brown and commenced turning him out in every bit of splendor the Marquess of Dalbury could muster. As he was divested of coat and waistcoat, he drifted back, as he did so often these days, to Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam. That spirited minx occupied more of his time than he cared to admit. How silky her hair had felt, how soft her skin, how firm and sweet her breasts had tasted.
As Anson stripped the breeches off him, he shivered at the thought of Katarina’s hands doing a similar service. Why could he not find the woman? God knew he was willing to make the situation right, but so far it had proven a task for Hercules.
Once he’d learned Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam did indeed exist, he’d gone immediately to the best source of information available, his Aunt Phoebe. She’d invited the earl and his sister to her masquerade ball, therefore she must have already made their acquaintance. Everyone in the ton knew everyone else and Aunt Phoebe always managed to uncover the freshest news. He didn’t doubt she employed spies in every noble house in London.
“The new Earl of Manning, Duncan?” Aunt Phoebe had whined in her pinched voice only two days after Pritchett’s revelation. “Yes, we were introduced just after he arrived. Lovely young man, though a bit green to the social niceties. Colonial, you know. I suspect he’ll do well enough.” The countess of Beaufort had sipped her tea and fixed him with a sour eye. “You haven’t been gaming with him, have you, Duncan? The one rumor about him I do believe is that he has the absolute best eye for horses this side of the grave. If you have wagered against him in some race, you will probably come to grief. They tell me he simply knows which horse is the fastest. Raised in Virginia, you know. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was some Irish blood there too.” Her tone implied neither connection was desirable.
As his aunt had sipped her tea, he’d steered the conversation into the channel he’d wanted to navigate. “I understand he has a sister, Aunt Phoebe. Have you met her as well?”
“Alas, no.” His aunt’s narrow frown had bespoken her displeasure. “She was still in mourning for her father, so the dowager Viscountess Bromley, her aunt, or great-aunt I believe, keeps a strict eye on her. I heard both the gel and the brother were to attend my masquerade ball but were waylaid by highwaymen.” She peered at him, vexed. “You weren’t waylaid by them as well, were you, Duncan? You did not turn up that night either.”
“I was unfortunately detained by some pressing business. You know I would have been here otherwise.” He’d shuddered at the mayhem his aunt would inflict on him if she knew exactly what business he had been up to that night. “So you have not met the earl’s sister?”
“And why are you so interested in the gel?” Her suspicious tone had informed him of his doom. “You’re not thinking of offering for her, are you?”
“I haven’t even met her yet, Aunt.”
“But you could make such a brilliant match, Duncan, if only you would be guided by me.” He’d hoped his face hadn’t completely drained of color at that suggestion. “The Forsythe gel, for example. I understand she has that Titian hair you are so wild about. And she’s the daughter of the second wealthiest peer in Ireland. She’s with her cousin, Lady Braeton, this season. You must meet her.” Aunt Phoebe then settled into a listing of all the most eligible matches, which he’d completely ignored. But he’d resolved to attend every possible assembly of the ton in order to scrape an acquaintance with Lady Katarina. Or at least with her brother.
Anson handed him the diamond stud earring and Duncan scowled, recalling his lack of progress. In the past three weeks he had thrown himself into the whirl of the social season, reasoning Manning and his sister would have to attend some ton functions. But he might as well have stayed home and nursed his wounds. No one reported sighting either of them at any event thus far. Neither had Manning been seen at his club, and all callers at the earl’s townhouse were politely turned away.
Anyway, he must meet them in a social setting. Even though he knew the identity of the woman in that room, he did not want to give her brother cause to call him out and risk another duel. If he simply went to the brother and asked for his sister’s hand, he would have to explain where they had met.
He knew what his reaction would have been in such a situation.
Duncan sighed. He perused himself in the mirror, hardened his jaw and stiffened his back. He was ready for the lion.
* * * *
“My lord.” Reginald Matthews bowed deeply as Duncan entered the reception room. The man was dressed better than he expected, in a well cut suit of amber brocade. So why hadn’t Grayson taken his cloak? The garment hung carelessly from the Runner’s arm.
“Mr. Matthews, is it? What may I do for you, sir?” He affected just the right tone, a scant measure above dismissive.
“It is what I may do for you, Lord Dalbury. I hope I am able to return some property to your lordship.”
“What property?” Had he gone to all this trouble for nothing? Was the man not here about Lady Katarina after all?
“Does this cloak belong to you, your lordship?” Matthews snapped the black folds out dramatically, letting them flutter slowly toward the floor.
His breath caught. God, how had he forgotten