Page 26 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“Ah,” Gilbert said after a long moment. “I see.”
Alistair truly hoped that he did not.
Chapter Eight
Miss Church—Mr. Selby—Alistair had quite given up on the matter—danced every dance, fetched drinks for spinsters and wallflowers, and in general charmed and delighted a ballroom filled with jaded and cynical members of the ton.
A week ago, Alistair would have been proud, would have considered it a feather in his cap to have discovered such a fellow. Not only that, but he would have shared in his friend’s triumph.
Now he only marveled at the layers of deceit involved in this performance. It was absolutely impossible to look at Miss Church and see a woman. From the way she walked, to her manner of speaking, to the gallant way she brought ratafia to the ladies, she was every inch the fashionable young gentleman.
In the natural course of things, somebody ought to be fetchingherratafia, oughtn’t they? He tried to envision The Impostor wearing a white muslin gown and graciously receiving a proffered beverage, but the image proved quite elusive.
One who had made a less thorough study of her over the last month would have thought that tonight she was the happiest of God’s creatures. Her smile never slipped, her laugh—perhaps a trifle flatter than the champagne pop that had won his idiotic heart—still cut through the hum of music and chatter. And yet he knew from Gilbert’s report that she was not happy. She was quite possibly as distressed as he was, and indeed she had more reason for sorrow: they both knew perfectly well that he had the whip hand. The one time she had let her gaze stray to her host, he saw a flicker of fear on her open countenance. And rightly so. He could ruin her and her sister without even going out of his way, without using up a fraction of his power and esteem.
He surveyed the ballroom, glittering evidence of that power and esteem. A royal duke danced with a Russian princess. The prime minister stood by the door to the card room. Thousands of beeswax candles burned in highly polished chandeliers and sconces, their light sparkling off the jewels that the country’s most important families had retrieved from their vaults for the sole purpose of wearing tonight. This was, as he had known before even sending the invitations, the event of the season.
The longer he watched, the more his eyes dazzled, the dancers dissolving into sparks of light—a ruby necklace gleamed here, a beaded gown there. And in the middle of the glittering whirl, no matter where he looked, was Charity Church. His eyes couldn’t stop resting on that one person out of all the hundreds, his gaze snagging every time on that one crooked smile, that one bird’s nest of hair.
Even the reason she was present in this room tonight was rooted in a lie. She had begged a favor from him on false pretenses, although that lie now seemed almost comically insignificant in comparison to having masqueraded as a dead man and stolen another man’s inheritance. Falsifying a godparent seemed quaintly naughty as opposed to feloniously corrupt.
But, no, that wasn’t the real reason she was here tonight, was it? Alistair was too accustomed to honesty to ignore the fact that he had invited the Selbys for his own purposes. He had intended to make them into a cautionary tale about what happened to those who pester the Marquess of Pembroke for favors. He meant to use Louisa Selby’s beauty to crush Mrs. Allenby’s plans for her daughter and to annoy his aunt.
That was all before he and Robin had become friends, though. Had that friendship been a lie? Had he been deceived about that as well?
“She’s quite lovely.” Furnival had appeared at his shoulder.
“Who is?” Alistair asked.
“Miss Selby, of course.” Furnival laughed.
And so she was. Objectively, Alistair knew this, although the sight of her brought him no joy. Her gown was—well, her blasted gown was in annoying proximity to The Impostor, so he hadn’t quite gotten a look at it. “She’s a fine-looking girl,” he said.
“A dozen men would see your ‘fine-looking girl’ and raise the stakes with gold rings and wedding vows.”
He didn’t doubt it. As long as Gilbert wasn’t the bridegroom, he’d be glad to see Miss Selby wed and far the hell away from him. Were any of the contestants American? Canadian, perhaps? “I’ll wish her happy,” he said.
“That’s not what I heard.” Furnival’s voice was a childish singsong.
What on earth had the man heard? Had Gilbert confessed his intentions to this fellow? Alistair brought his voice to its chilliest and most aristocratic register. “Whatever you’ve heard, I assure you I wish the lady no ill will.”
“I didn’t think you did.” Furnival had his head cocked to the side, like a dog not quite understanding his master’s command.
He suddenly had an idea. “What do you know about them? You went to Cambridge with Selby, didn’t you?”
“Selby? He’s always been exactly as he is now. You’d think that coming from the middle of nowhere he’d have been bashful or awkward, at least at first, but he wasn’t. He seemed so dashed happy to be there, as if he had waited his whole life to sit in a freezing lecture hall and then sneak out of lodgings to have a pint at the pub. You never regretted running into him, if you know what I mean.”
Alistair most certainly did, more’s the pity. “He didn’t succumb to the usual undergraduate vices—gambling and women?”
Furnival made a dismissive noise. “He didn’t have enough money for any of that. And I don’t know why, but I had the sense that he had a sweetheart waiting for him back home.”
Ah. That was a notion Alistair had not thought of, but it added quite a dimension to the picture he was putting together in his mind.
“I have to...” He gestured vaguely around the room, hoping that Furnival would infer that Alistair had to attend to a host’s duties.
He watched Miss Church lead Miss Allenby off the dance floor. Really, it was a sad indication of his mindset that he could summon up only the merest whisper of disapproval at seeing that Allenby girl, the spit and image of their late father, present at Pembroke House. He was even able to acknowledge that she looked quite suitably pretty.
But then all the glittering, dazzling movement in the ballroom seemed to slide to a stop as he caught The Impostor using her teeth to pull off a glove, finger by finger. It was the sort of thing one didn’t do in a ballroom, remove gloves with one’s teeth. No, it was something boys did when well out of sight of governesses and tutors. Captivated by the graceful, boyish—yes, boyish, there was no way around it, however disorienting he found it—charm of the action, he reached for his spectacles to get a better look. She began with the other glove, starting with the thumb.
