“Please, my lord. Have you no interest in the fate of our nation?”
“In the fate of our nation, yes. In the fate of your corrupt schemes, no.”
“I would not call them that!”
“Of course you wouldn’t, you naughty little rascal. But I would.”
His companion’s mouth opened and closed as he spluttered his outrage. Guy couldn’t help laughing. Never had he expected politics to be such fun.
The man rallied fast, although if he wanted to appear dignified, he really should not have dressed as a badger.
“This scheme benefits you too, my lord,” he hissed. “I would expect you to appreciate my assistance, given that your late father bequeathed to your sisters every bit of property that wasn’t entailed. Why, I hear he did not even make you their guardian, so you haven’t the benefit of managing their trusts.”
No, indeed. That “benefit” went to Sir Walter Treadgold, an obscure knight whose sister had married Guy’s father a few years earlier. The law stood firmly on the side of his father’s will; according to Guy’s solicitors, the Court of Chancery would overturn the will only if Sir Walter was found to be mismanaging his wards’ trusts. Evidence of that should be easy to find: Any intimate of the late marquess was almost certainly corrupt.
“Your concern is touching, dear sir,” Guy said lightly. “But fortunately for me, the entailed property generates enough income to provide all I desire from life, namely several pairs of comfortable boots and a supply of hot buttered toast.” His gaze snagged on a pair of young ladies dressed as flowers, heads together in intimate conversation. Their bright eyes and fond smiles aroused a pang of nostalgia for something he had never had. “Oh, and a bride.”
“Is it true, my lord, that your bride will not be Arabella Larke? An alliance with Miss Larke would bring you considerable wealth.”
An alliance with Arabella would also bring him considerable indigestion, if she was still the bossy, quarrelsome know-it-all that he recalled.
“True,” he conceded. “But Miss Larke was my father’s choice, and it’s so much more sporting to choose one’s own wife, don’t you think?”
The man steepled his fingers. “Now you mention it, I recall that I have a niece.”
Guy laughed. Heads turned. Among them, he spied a pair of jesters, pink ribbons dangling menacingly from their hands. The young ladies dressed as flowers exchanged a mischievous glance and drew closer. A tempting diversion, but Guy could not be distracted by a merry game of courtship tonight; first he must find Freddie, before Sir Walter played another of his tricks and whisked her away again.
He casually sidled away from the jesters, his latest hen clucking along beside him.
“Of course you have a niece,” Guy said, still searching the crowd. “And if you didn’t have a niece, you’d have a daughter or a sister or a cousin. During my absence, everyone in Britain has developed a female relative of marriageable age.” He spread his arms expansively, taking in the hubbub of the costumed, perfumed crowd. “May everyone send them all my way, and let the games begin.”
“If I might be so bold, my lord, my wife is planning a dinner party. You could meet my niece and we could discuss—”
Guy clapped the man on the shoulder. “I admire your persistence, old chap, but you have nothing else to recommend you. Here’s an idea: Come up with an honest scheme, one that doesn’t involve lining your pockets at the expense of the good people of Britain, and I shall happily attend all your dinner parties and meet everyone’s nieces. But for now, do me a kindness and toddle off. Go. Begone. Shoo.”
With that, Guy wheeled about.
Only to nearly collide with a Minerva.
Instinctively, he stepped back, excusing himself, already looking past her at the crowd. But the Minerva made no effort to move aside or apologize. Indeed, she did not betray any surprise at all.
Now he was paying attention, it dawned on him that this particular Minerva was tall for a woman. That the dark curls artfully arranged under the elegant helmet did little to soften her pale, angular features. That her gaze was as blue and unflinching as the desert sky. That her lips naturally curved upward at the corners, in the promise of a smile that would never come.
And when her eyebrows arched ever so slightly, wielded with as much control and skill as an orchestra conductor wielded his baton, Guy reached the dismaying conclusion that this was not any Minerva.
This was Arabella Larke.
Arabella Larke, matured from a gangling, scowling brat to a poised, haughty woman. Her unfashionable height was increased by the warrior’s helmet, whose mane of red feathers cascaded down her back. The drapes of her long Roman robe were fastened at one shoulder with an owl-shaped brooch, a reticule resembling a shield dangled from one wrist, and her pale arms were bare but for a silver snake coiled around her upper right arm.
His thoughts shattered. Arabella had somehow transformed into a compelling woman, and the sight crashed against his memories of her as a child. He shook off the sensation. Seeing people after a lengthy absence was always strange; that was all. He had last seen her when she was fifteen or sixteen; it was only natural that she had matured. Besides, judging by her demeanor, quite unlike the obvious amiability of the young ladies he had admired, she had not otherwise changed.
So Guy saw no need to change his typical greeting.
“Oh no, not you,” he said. “And I was having such a lovely evening.”
“So it’s true: You’re not dead.” Her drawl was as imperious as ever, but her voice had developed an appealing huskiness. “The government was in quite a state over your absence.”
“So touching to know they cared.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t take it personally. It just doesn’t look good for the country, to go around misplacing its marquesses.” She eyed him with some perplexity. “How astonishing that no one did kill you.”
“Many tried. None succeeded.”
“Perhaps one did succeed but the Devil spat you out again.”
“He sends you his regards.”
Was that—a smile? No, not from Arabella. She had never been one to give smiles away easily.
Then she flinched, and a strong hand gripped Guy’s wrist.
Instinct had him jerking away, spinning, arm raised, ready to strike. Only to freeze— It was a jester who had grabbed him. Stars above, Guy had nearly hit the jester, and he felt sick to see that same knowledge reflected in the other man’s eyes.
With a resigned nod, Guy forced himself to relax; Arabella had distracted him, and it was too late to escape. He had to suffer through it, suffer through the two jesters pressing his bare forearm against hers, suffer through them deftly wrapping their joined arms with an ungodly length of ribbon. Her skin was soft and warm. What a surprise: She was not made of marble. He thought he caught a matching surprise in her eyes, but her eyelids lowered before he could be sure.
A greater surprise was that she did not object to being manhandled in this way. How disappointing, if the years had turned Arabella docile. Her ferocity had been one of her few charms.
“Three thousand guests are attending this party,” Guy said. “What are the odds that I’d get tied to you, of all people?”
“Rather better odds than if I’d not paid for it to happen, I suspect.”