Crispin Fitzwilliam fit the description of the man Nicolas searched for, however there was nothing here to indicate Lord Crispin could have been involved in the matter of which Nicolas believed him guilty. The ghost of Arianna whispered to Nicolas then as a line from the letter she had left behind, which was seared onto his memory, rose to the forefront.
The black Dahlia is the cruelest. He offered hope then silently watched as they shredded my soul.
Nicolas threw himself into the large wing-back chair by the fire, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. If the information he sought was not here, perhaps he needed to be inside the ballroom, subtly prying information from those close to the young lord. Nicolas wanted to understand who the young viscount was as seen through the lens of others.
A curl of amusement went through him at the thought of crashing the countess’s ball. He couldn’t show up dressed as he was now in unrelenting black. The ton believed him a feckless dandy concerned with wickedness and fashion. He had taken lodgings only a couple miles away, so Nicolas could slip away and be back in as little as an hour. This was a golden opportunity to observe the young lord in his domain.
He shifted, and something crinkled in his pockets. The ashes of his torment wafted away, and dipping his hand inside, he withdrew the paper that had fallen from the girl in the gardens. Nicolas stood, turned up the wick on the lamp, and unfolded the paper.
The first line read,
How wicked does one need to be to achieve the illusion of ruination?
The script was flowing, elegant, and quite feminine. He lowered his gaze to the next line.
Steps on how to lose one’s reputation without truly compromising one’s virtue, freedom, and independence.
-Persuade Mama to invite London’s most debauched lord, Nicholas St. Ives, to one of her balls or entertainments. (I doubt that will be possible. Mama strongly disapproves of him, but I must try.)
-Discover which events the marquess will attend. He is not friends with Crispin, who would not tell me even if I asked, but if I eavesdrop on some of the faster set, perhaps they will mention where the marquess will be.
-If I can get him alone, even briefly, perhaps that will be enough for a rumor to spread about me leading him on.
-Kiss him or allow him to kiss me, but I must make certain someone will witness it, someone who is known to gossip disgracefully.
-Persuade Nicolas St. Ives to be wicked with me! Even one stolen kiss will mortify my mother. I have no idea how to arrange that? Would he do such a favor if I simply asked?
-Declare myself ruined.
-Prepare for the scandal and the whispers.
-Prepare for an extended stay in the country.
“How silly you are,” Nicolas murmured, surprised at the measure of amusement he felt. She wanted him to kiss her. Flicking his eyes over the ridiculous list once more, he amended that: she wanted him to ruin her.
Ah yes, he recalled that the next plan she’d been about to discuss with her brother was how to escape a marriage. With a low chuckle, Nicolas replaced the note in his pocket and left the study.
He took his time walking down the hallway, hugging to the shadows so that he remained unidentified to the few guests he passed in the hallway. At the wide-open doors that led to the ballroom, he paused, keeping to the edge and scanning the room. There. It did not take long at all for him to find her.
She stood with a group of young ladies on the sidelines, speaking with animation. It was clearly a habit of hers to push her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, but such a charming one. She must have been out in society for some time now, yet he had never seen her before.
If not for her returning to the garden with that shovel, perhaps she would not have attracted his attention beyond their unusual encounter. A nameless face in the crush of a ball, or someone he might walk past in the shopping district. And he wouldn’t have taken a second glance.
Now that something about her had captured his regard, Nicolas had an odd sense that he might never unsee her, that she would be a prickly thorn in his side he might never be able to dislodge.
She lifted her chin and with uncanny perception stared right back at him. It was impossible for her to see him in the darkness of the doorway, yet she stared as if she could. For a brief moment, he stepped into the light and her eyes widened, her hands fluttering to her throat. A delicate and protective gesture.
Even with the distance, it felt as if something shifted in the air between them.
They stared at each other across the expanse of the ballroom. Her gaze seemed to linger on his mask, and from where he stood, he discerned the curiosity of her mien. She wanted to know his identity. He offered her a short, mocking bow, not understanding what possessed him.
Liar. Nicolas wanted her to know that he knew her identity.
A smile curved her lips, and he spied the unusual beauty of it, and that it held a dare. But a dare to do what?
Then she lifted her chin, hauteur and confidence settling over her like a second skin, and she returned a mocking curtsy. So bold, yet so wonderfully oblivious to the dangers of a man such as himself. Something primal in his gut stirred, a direct response to that unique defiance peeking back at him.
Three of her friends turned around, no doubt wondering to whom she bowed. Before their gazes could narrow in on him, Nicolas was back in the shadows, melting away from the ball and the unusual temptation of a wallflower.
Be careful what you wish for, Lady Maryann, for I am of a mind to be wicked with you, too.
…
Maryann couldn’t credit that Nicolas St. Ives would be this outrageous! Her mama had not invited him to tonight’s ball, yet here he was, descending the wide staircase from the upper bowers, confidently striding, casting sardonic glances at debutantes, and with a sensual smirk about his mouth, declaring him every inch the rake society bemoaned.
He was considered improper, disreputable, and was even whispered by some to be cunning. He was also appallingly handsome, and many ladies who should have known better flirted with him shamelessly. He clearly did not give a fig what society thought about him, a thing Maryann had come to believe, since the scandal sheets reported on his exploits weekly.
“Is it really him?” a young debutante asked. “Oh my, he is terribly handsome.”
Her friends dissolved into giggles and drew her away, as if they were saving their fair gazelle from the lion drawing closer. The man seemed sublimely unaware of his masculine beauty and the stir he caused whenever he entered a room. His expression was insouciant; she could not conclude what kind of man he was.
A few gentlemen of the ton were vain about their appearance to the point of being rather excessive. And it seemed Nicolas St. Ives was one of them, dressed in black trousers and jacket, with a bright golden waistcoat and a matching cravat. A cravat pin studded with a large diamond winked at his throat, and his hair seemed carelessly styled, yet curled at his nape and on his forehead perfectly.