How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(16)
Yet, even though they remembered the names of every eligible male, they couldn’t quite seem to recall that she was ruined and, therefore, unmarriageable.
“I do believe he’s hosting a party this evening,” Maeve added, sparking Prue’s immediate interest. But then she clucked her tongue in dismay. “It is a shame that we did not receive an invitation.”
“Indeed, sister! Oh, and he’s having a gathering for the visiting Duke of Merleton, who is also a bachelor. A duke! Imagine the wedding breakfast we could host for a duke and duchess!” Myrtle, single-minded in her excitement, rushed over to snatch up her discarded gloves. “We’ll need more recipes posthaste!”
“I do recall that Lady Cheshire serves a splendid trifle.”
“The one with the lemon savoiardi. Absolutely divine! We should definitely pay a call on her first, sister.”
After gathering up her own neatly folded gloves, Maeve paused at the door. “Would you care to come along with us? We could always use a lookout when we slip into the cook’s office to pilfer recipes.”
Prue smiled but shook her head, her thoughts distracted. “I need to finish my list.”
Myrtle popped her head back inside for an instant. “Don’t forget to add the Duke of Merleton, dear.”
A wistful smile brushed Prue’s lips as the aunts left the parlor. She was impossibly fond of them, which made retrieving her inheritance without any further setbacks all the more necessary.
Therefore, this evening, she was going to invite herself to a party.
*
On the bright side, Lord Holladay did not have a dog.
Brighter yet, he had her great-great-grandmother’s miniature, among a cluster of others on display in the library. It was still just as lovely as she remembered—her grandmother’s beatific face above a high-ruffed collar, the portrait surrounded by a frame of silver, studded with diamonds and pearls. A veritable treasure, and one that she intended to use for her own means of support. All she truly cared about keeping was the likeness itself.
On the not-so-bright side, however, she was no longer alone in the room.
She heard the creak of the floor behind her an instant before she heard a low voice say, “Good evening.”
Prue snatched her hand away from the miniature and turned with a start to see a tall, lean, dark-haired gentleman dressed in tailored black evening clothes, the white of his cravat accentuated by his olive complexion. He entered the long room with his attention fixed on her, his steps as silent as the footpads of a cat.
Trying not to look guilty, she attempted a smile and greeted him in kind. “Good evening—” She hesitated midcurtsy, unsure if this man was Viscount Holladay, the Duke of Merleton, or any number of others she’d never met during her short time as a debutante. However, since he seemed to possess an aura of authority, as if he owned every brick, board and book around him, she concluded that he must have been the viscount. “—my lord.”
Behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, dark eyes studied her like a mathematician discovering a new number and deciding whether to put it between six and seven or simply to throw it onto the string at the end of infinity. “I see you are an admirer of Samuel Cooper.”
Was that a name she should know? Someone in attendance, perhaps? Or no—she saw the way his gaze shifted to the wall of miniatures and realized he was referring to the artist.
“Mmm,” she murmured with a scholarly nod as she turned to study them. Only then did she see that her grandmother’s miniature was hanging at an odd angle. Her heart lurched to her throat. “I . . . um . . . particularly like the way he captures the essence of his subject.”
He came to stand beside her and she did her best to hold still and not shift nervously. “Then perhaps that is the reason for Lord Holladay’s collection.”
She swallowed, realizing that he wasn’t the viscount. After all, he wouldn’t refer to himself in the third person. Which meant that this imposing man was very likely the duke. And anyone who belonged at this party would have referred to him as “Your Grace.”
Oh, Pekingese, she cursed inwardly.
“Or perhaps,” he continued, “it is because Cooper was a great favorite of King Charles II. There are even some who believe he was a spy for the crown and used to paint secret messages in these miniatures. They travel quite easily, you know. There are few who would ever suspect subterfuge if caught with such an object.”
As he spoke, she started to feel like a spy. Her hands felt slick and clammy beneath her borrowed gloves. Perspiration collected along her hairline. Inside her mind, she was already waving a white flag, confessing everything. It’s me. I am guilty. Guilty of subterfuge, of slipping in through the terrace doors, of intending to steal that crooked portrait! I’m even guilty of borrowing Ellie’s primrose gown and slippers without asking . . .
Keeping her attention fixed on the miniatures, she felt his stare burning into her profile and she wondered how an innocent person would respond.
“Fascinating,” she croaked and slowly took one step to the side. “Oh, but look at the time. I really must be getting back.”
“Back to where, precisely?”
“Well, to the party, of course. My escort will wonder where I’ve gone.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. If you had been escorted here, I would have seen you in the room.”