Page 93 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Anwen is right where we left her,” Deene said. “Sir Fletcher’s back is turned. Off you go, and I’ll see what’s afoot.”
He loped away, very likely intent on finding his lady wife, or offering aid to the host and hostess in the event something untoward was in progress.
Megan scanned the ballroom one last time in hopes she’d catch sight of Hamish, then realized it might be better if he were absent. Sir Fletcher needed to know that Megan spoke for herself, and had made her own decisions.
Megan had needed to know that too.
In the next moment, Megan found herself staring at embroidered burgundy and white lace, the combination putting her in mind of a wound bleeding through its bandages. As if her thoughts had conjured him, Sir Fletcher—amid a cloud of attar of roses—stood before her.
“My dearest Megan, good evening. Your escort seems to have deserted you. How fortunate that I’ve come to your rescue.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Fortunate, indeed,” Megan said, though the menace in his tone had her knees wobbling. “Shall we enjoy the terrace?”
The terrace would have to do—more private than the middle of the ballroom, though on such a mild evening, not deserted by any means. More to the point, half the Windham family would see Sir Fletcher escorting her there, and stop him from any scandalous behavior.
He kept her hand in his, his grip uncomfortable through Megan’s gloves.
“The terrace? As I recall, you disdained to share the out of doors with me not long ago. For what I have to say to you, a crowded ballroom will do nicely. A moment, please, while I review the speech I’ve prepared. Do try to look pleased when I get to the business about until death do us part, won’t you?”
Hamish had tried to be discreet, but none of the footmen were willing to ask the Duke of Moreland to step out of the ballroom. Colin had located Moreland up in the minstrel’s gallery, which was only slightly less public than the middle of the dance floor.
“The talk will never cease,” Puget said as Hamish led him to the steps in the corner of the ballroom. “This is the social equivalent of housebreaking, MacHugh. You insult your host and hostess—”
Hamish stopped on the steps, which put him appreciably higher than Puget. Behind Puget, all of polite society was gawking and whispering, simply because three guests had arrived underdressed to the ball. Meggie was somewhere in that crowd, but so was Sir Fletcher, likely with a damned ring in his pocket.
“Puget, you will address me asMurdochorYour Grace, lest you insultme.”
Colin, whose presence prevented last minute attacks of cowardice from inspiring Puget to retreat, aimed a spectacular glower at the people gathered at the foot of the steps.
“Murdoch,” Puget said. “I beg your pardon.”
“Pardon denied,” Hamish said, resuming their progress up the steps. “It’s not me you’ve wronged, though not for lack of trying.”
Puget had disclosed the whole scheme, and had—like the dutiful scribe he was—kept track of every party who’d been fleeced by a forged IOU. Fortunately for Puget, Megan was the only lady whose letters had been copied and Hamish was the only person to whom a forged merchant’s bill had been sent.
Unfortunately for Megan, Puget confirmed that he’d made meticulous forgeries of each letter, with special attention given to rendering a perfect replica of the lady’s signature.
“If you knew it was wrong,” Hamish asked as they reached the minstrel’s gallery, “why did you do it?”
Puget was disheveled, exhausted, and facing the social equivalent of a firing squad. Hamish had intended the question as an opportunity for the condemned to unburden himself.
“It wasn’t wrong, at first,” Puget said. “Sir Fletcher asked me to make exact copies, works of art to safeguard the sentiments of his intended. Traveling across Spain, the originals had become creased and tattered. He told me he wanted only to preserve the correspondence.”
The gallery was less crowded than the ballroom, but all eyes turned to Hamish when he reached the top of the steps. Moreland was near the railing, looking every inch the duke—the displeased duke, flanked by no less than three family members.
His Grace aimed an unimpressed glance at Hamish, then turned back to Westhaven.
“So you made copies,” Hamish pressed, “not realizing they’d be used for blackmail?”
“I would never—of course I hadn’t realized what Sir Fletcher contemplated. One doesn’t, until it’s too late. He mentioned over a drink late one evening that somebody might get the wrong idea, given how exactly I had copied the lady’s hand. He never used the word forgery, but the threat was strongly implied. I was a complete dupe who’d taken artistic pride in—why am I explaining this?”
Hamish took him by one arm, Colin took him by the other.
“You’re rehearsing the story you’re about to tell the Duke of Moreland,” Hamish said, “and it had better exactly match the tale you told us at Angelo’s.”
“Exactly,” Colin said. “Word for word, not a detail out of place. Artistic pride and all that.”
