The Scoundrel and the Debutante (18 page)

As the guests began to find their partners, Roan made his way to Prudence's side. “You must promise to come at once and save me if Vanderbeck comes in my direction,” he muttered. “Shoot to kill if you must.”

“Did you find her?” Prudence whispered.

Roan shook his head. “I haven't seen her. I tried to ascertain if all the guests were down for the evening, but the question invited more talk from Vanderbeck.”

There was no opportunity to say more—Mr. Fitzhugh sidled next to Prudence and remarked that they'd gone without rain for far too long now, and didn't she think the south lawn looked a bit brown?

In the dining room, Prudence was relieved to see that she and Roan were seated across from each other and at the opposite end of the long table from Stanhope. Not that it dampened his interest in her; Prudence could feel his gaze on her, making the hair on the back of her neck stand. Mrs. Gastineau sat to her right, and an elderly gentleman, Lord Mount, sat on her left. He was quite old and quite deaf, which Prudence thought might have something to do with the amount of hair growing in his ears.

No one around her seemed curious as to her presence. No one looked askance at her or Roan as if they suspected a deception. Roan was right—she had only to make the best of it, and it would be over soon. She began to relax as the meal was served. She glanced around at the people gathered. It was a strange collection of guests, and she was not acquainted with any of them, save Stanhope. Moreover, Howston Hall was so removed that she could now agree with Roan—the chances of her seeing any of these people again seemed very small.

The supper was actually quite pleasant. They dined on soup and pheasant, they drank wine, and the conversation centered around the planned shoot on the morrow. It was after the plates had been cleared and ices were being brought in that Roan found the opportunity to inquire of Penfors if his sister had come to Howston Hall. “She would have come within the last fortnight or so,” he said.

“Miss Matheson!” Lord Penfors said loudly, startling Prudence and several others. She glanced around her and noticed that down the table, Stanhope was watching her. She looked away.

“Aurora Matheson,” Roan said. “In her last letter she wrote that she was staying with friends who intended to travel here to call upon you.”

“Me?” Penfors said, looking confused.

Roan looked slightly concerned. “She's young,” he said. “She has auburn hair and brown eyes.”

“Ah, yes, the American girl,” Penfors said suddenly. “Such a delight she was. Very witty, that one, and quite good on the hunt.”

“The hunt?” Roan repeated uncertainly, as if he suspected Penfors had the wrong Aurora.

“That's
it
!” Penfors suddenly declared, shoving his forefinger high in the air. “That's where I've heard your manner of speech! I thought it Eton, but no sir, you speak in the way that you do because you're a Yankee!”

Roan glanced at Prudence. “Yes,” he said curtly.

“A
Yankee
,” Mr. Gastineau said. “My grandfather was there, you know, in the colonies, in seventy-seven. Harsh winter. Lost two toes.”

“The winters can be brutal,” Roan agreed, and turning back to Penfors he asked, “I beg your pardon, my lord, do you mean to say that Aurora has come and gone from Howston Hall?”

“Oh my, yes, she's gone,” Penfors said. “When was that, Mother?” he called, rapping loudly on the table to gain his wife's attention. He succeeded in gaining everyone's attention.

“Eh, what?” Lady Penfors responded irritably. “What do you bang on the table?”

“The American girl! When was she here?”

“Oh, the
American
girl! Cute as a button, wasn't she?” Lady Penfors said, suddenly smiling. “Quite good at the hunt.”

Roan looked at Prudence with a look of pure confusion.

“Yes, yes, but when was she
here
?” Penfors asked, rapping the table again with his knuckles.

“Here?”

“Yes, here!”
he shouted.

“Well, you needn't shout, Penfors, we all hear you very well indeed,” Lady Penfors said crossly. “I can't recall when she was here, precisely. When the Villeroys were here. She returned to London with Mr. and Mrs. Villeroy, you will recall. Cyril! When were the Villeroys here?”

“They've been gone a fortnight, madam,” the butler said.

“A fortnight!” Lady Penfors yelled down the table, as if no one had heard the butler but her.

“She's gone to London?” Roan repeated, his brow furrowing.

“She took a fancy to Albert, do you recall, Penfors?” Lady Penfors said, then giggled like a girl, pursing her lips naughtily.

“Albert who?” Roan asked.

“Al-
ber
,
Al-
ber
,” Penfors said, and to Roan, he added, “she almost drove the poor young man to drink with all her insistence on calling him Albert.”

“My sister?” Roan asked, confused.

“Lady Penfors!” his lordship exclaimed, clearly annoyed that Roan wasn't following his line of thought.

“What?” Lady Penfors called out.

“Never you mind, Mother, have your pudding. We've worked it all out. The American girl took a fancy to the Villeroy boy and returned to London with him and his family! Isn't that so?”

“Yes, that is so,” Lady Penfors confirmed. “Albert!”

“Al-
ber
,” Penfors shouted back at her.

“Christ Almighty,” Roan muttered, and sat back, staring into space.

“There's no call for alarm, sir,” Penfors said congenially. “The French aren't as randy as they once were. Rather sufferable now, aren't they? And the boy is no threat to your sister. I doubt he could lift a linen without a bit of perspiration.”

Mrs. Gastineau laughed at that. “Albert Villeroy. He's a whiff of a boy, isn't he, with high cheekbones and fine, slender hands,” she said to Roan.

“I don't care if he has hands like mutton chops,” Roan said.

Penfors laughed and pointed at Roan. “Look here, Matheson's in a snit! Our American girl has gone off with the Villeroy boy, has she? Lovely girl your sister, Matheson. Lovely. Quite good at cards.”

Roan looked as if he might come completely undone. Prudence pictured him unraveling, starting with his neckcloth, spinning off like a top. “Pardon, my lord,” she asked quietly, “but would you happen to know where in London the Villeroys might have gone?”

“Well, of course I know! I've dined there often. Not in the fashionable part of Mayfair, mind you, but on Upper George Street. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Prudence said absently.

“There you are,” Stanhope said, and looked at Roan. “Your cousin knows where the Villeroys are, Mr. Matheson. You might send her in after your sister with a shield and a sword.”

“Cousin!”
Lady Penfors echoed incredulously.

A silence fell over the table. Prudence felt the rush of heat to her face, the fluttering of her heart. This was the moment Stanhope would expose her lie and she would be humiliated before everyone gathered.

But Lord Penfors suddenly howled. “You devil you, Stanhope! She's much too young for Matheson, I grant you,” he said, indicating Prudence, “but don't malign the good Mrs. Matheson with your jesting.”

Stanhope graciously nodded his head. “I should rather cut out my own tongue than malign the good Mrs. Matheson,” he said. “Forgive me, madam, I misunderstood. I thought you were cousins in addition to...your arrangement.”

“Goodness, my lord, you should know better than anyone, shouldn't you? They are
your
friends,” Lady Penfors said.

“Indeed they are, my lady,” he said.

Prudence said nothing. She looked at Roan, whose jaw was as firmly set as the fist that rested next to his plate.

“Oh my, look at the time, Penfors!” Lady Penfors said. “Send for the port.”

Thankfully, the supper ended there, and the ladies were instructed by their hostess to retire to the grand salon to oversee the preparations for dancing, while the gentlemen were similarly instructed to enjoy their port.

It was astonishing to see that the musicians had indeed come up from the village while the Penfors guests had dined, a ragtag group of four men who were busy tuning their instruments. By the time the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, Lady Penfors was eager to have the dance get underway, opening with standard country figures.

Roan had scarcely entered the room, his gaze seeking Prudence. He'd almost reached her when he was intercepted by Mrs. Barton, who appeared at his elbow, her smile sultry. “You must allow me to teach you a country dance, sir.”

“I think—” Roan tried, but she wouldn't allow him to speak.

“You
must
humor me. I'm very keen to dance with a tall American stranger.” She slipped her hand in between his elbow and body, then flagrantly squeezed into his side. “Do Americans dance, Mr. Matheson? Surely not as we do. I think you must like the reels there, don't you?” she asked, tugging him away.

He glanced helplessly over his shoulder at Prudence.

“Mrs. Matheson?”

Prudence whirled about at the sound of Stanhope's voice. He smiled charmingly at her, his eyes blue and shining. “It
is
Mrs., isn't it?”

Prudence lowered her gaze a moment to steel herself, then slowly lifted it. “What do you want, my lord?”

He laughed, delighted. His face softened with his smile and he looked boyishly handsome. “To dance! What did you think? I'll confess that I've been brought into Mrs. Barton's scheme. She inquired after your companion almost before she was off her horse, and I must warn you, she may not allow him to return to you. She can be very determined in that way. I'm to keep you in good company.”

“Oh, is
that
what you are to do?” she asked skeptically.

“Of course,” he said cheerfully. “It would look peculiar to all if you remain in this corner, frowning as darkly as you are. You don't want to draw undue attention to yourself...do you?”

Prudence understood him, all right.

“Line up, line up!” Lady Penfors shouted as if marshaling forces to attack enemy lines. “The dancing will commence!”

“Come then, cousin, there's no avoiding it,” Stanhope said low. He smiled and offered his arm to her again.

With a sigh of frustration, Prudence put her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

As the first strains of music lifted, Prudence looked for Roan, and curtsied without thought to her partner. She was surprised to see Roan move effortlessly through the first steps; she'd assumed that the English dances would be too foreign to him. But he seemed well at ease. She herself was startled when Stanhope grabbed her hand and pulled her into the first steps.

“You'll have to look at me, I'm afraid.”

Prudence looked at him.

“Not even a hint of a smile?” he asked, teasing her. “Perhaps you are still cross with me for the remark I made over supper,” he said as he twirled her about before letting go. “But surely you can appreciate my confusion. At first, you were merely his cousin, desperate to reach an ailing father. And then you magically became his wife. It's all very curious.”

Stanhope had pale blue eyes, Prudence noticed. A strong chin. He possessed good looks, and under any other circumstance, she would have welcomed his attention. But tonight she found his look and manner unctuous. He arched a brow, waiting for her response as they moved one step to their right and a couple passed down the line.

“You seem out of sorts,” he said, still smiling, his gaze still intent on her.

There were so many lies now that Prudence couldn't think of what to say. She'd always been unfailingly honest, and these deceptions were taxing her. But there was one more lie she would tell, one more chance to save what remained of her tattered reputation. She said flatly, “You obviously know the truth.”

He arched a brow. “The truth?”

“Don't pretend. The truth is we eloped,” she announced. “Just as you suspected.” She smiled, pleased at least that there was nothing he could say about that, no holes he could poke in her words.

“
Did
you?” he said, and took her hand again, twirling her about. “How daring! I'm sure you had a good reason.”

Prudence colored at the insinuation behind that remark. “Of course.”

“Is there a child growing in you?” he asked casually.

The question was so unexpected that Prudence almost choked on a gasp.
“No,”
she said with all due indignation, and sent up a silent prayer that there was no child in her.

Stanhope merely shrugged. “Isn't that why most people elope? Perhaps I am mistaken. Frankly, one never hears of it, really. There are always rumors of it—this girl eloped with that boy,” he said casually. “Personally, I've never known any debutante to do anything untoward. Well, with the notable exception of the Cabot sisters.”

Prudence's heart stopped beating. She missed her step, stumbling over his feet in her shock. But Stanhope smoothly caught her and turned her about as if he had expected her stumble. They both moved one step to the right. She gaped at Stanhope—how could he know? She looked frantically about for Roan, but he was twirling a laughing Mrs. Barton around.

“Don't be alarmed,” Stanhope said soothingly.

Don't be alarmed?
She was panic-stricken! She felt flush, could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down her neck.
Good God, Prudence, don't faint.
What did he want? Money? Would he extort money from her now to keep his silence?

Stanhope clucked his tongue at her. “Judging by the way you are gaping at me, I take it you are surprised I've not been fooled by your ruse.”

“You are mistaken—”

“Come now, Miss Cabot. Has no one ever commented on the remarkable resemblance you bear to your sister Grace? I had always heard the younger Cabot sisters were the true beauties, and now I see that is true.”