That earned him the full brunt of Lord Ramsay’s regard. Was it any wonder criminals and nobles, alike, trembled before him? It wasn’t just his size, stature, and power that intimidated, it was the force of his disdain. The Caesar-like, tyrannical dominion he wielded.
“Fairly. Certain.” As usual, he plucked the most important words from the exchange.
“I chanced upon her and her bridesmaids exploring the ruins yesterday morning, and barely arrived in time to interrupt two gunmen.”
“Christ’s blood.” His brother tensed, alert as a hound on point. “Why did I not hear of this? Was anyone shot?”
“Only the gunmen. One is dead, and the other hovering quite close.” A dark satisfaction rose within him at the thought. “I was hoping you’d look into it. Use your vast connections to suss out any reason someone would want my fiancée dead.”
“Piers, chances are that person is here tonight,” Ramsay cautioned. “Ye should have yer woman and her companions protected at all times.”
“I can see all three women at this very moment, though I must be careful lest the observant, hungry crowd make any correct assumptions before the reveal.” He smirked. “I’ll admit I enjoy their suspicions and suppositions.”
A put-upon sigh was his brother’s reply. “Ye ken, I’ll need to know the identity of yer bride and her companions sooner than later, if ye want my help.”
“I’ll narrow it down to three, but I’ll not gesture.”
Ramsay stepped closer to the balustrade. “Who are they?” he muttered, his lips moving imperceptibly.
“Lady Francesca Cavendish.” Piers found her scarlet skirts immediately, as red tended to be her color of preference. “She’s dancing with the dandy young Viscount Crossland at the moment. Then there’s Miss Cecelia Teague, in the peacock mask. She’s over by the refreshment table.”
“I can see why she’d entice ye,” Ramsay commented, taking another sip as he thoroughly inspected the intrepid Miss Teague.
“I told you not to stare.” Pierce nudged him.
Ramsay blinked, breaking from some sort of trance. “Of course, who else?”
“The third is Lady Alexandra Lane, over by the door to the grounds.” Piers’s eyes ached for the sight of her.
But what if he never looked away?
“The wallflower trying to melt into the fern?” Ramsay asked.
Losing the battle with himself, Piers found her without difficulty.
Her features were softened by distance and dim lighting, but he could feel the absorption with which she studied the fourteenth-century falchions some ancestor of his had mounted on the wall in lieu of portraiture.
Her greatest nemesis: a row of topiary potted beneath the display.
She rose to her tiptoes, doing her best to examine the handles cruelly hanging just beyond her scope. She leaned so far forward, she lost her balance and nearly toppled into the branches before correcting herself with a few wild flings of her arms.
Instinctively, Piers took a step forward, only relaxing when she swatted at her skirts and scanned the ballroom to ascertain how many people had witnessed her misstep.
No one had noticed. Now that he’d allowed himself to look at her, to inspect her around her peers, he realized that she cultivated her own invisibility.
The ladies clustered in his ballroom like vibrant gemstones glittering in their jewel-toned silks and lace frippery; the good Dr. Lane draped herself in a soft shimmering silver.
A woman at such a soiree generally eschewed high-necked daydresses for dangerously low-cut bodices. She was encouraged to bare as much of her shoulders and arms as was possible whilse maintaining a nod to propriety with lace or something equally iridescent.
Lady Alexandra, however, had swathed herself in modest moonbeams from neck to wrist, her gown draping about the bodice in Grecian gathers to both accentuate and obscure her bosom.
Every other figure on shameless display somehow became redundant and uninteresting. The only vision he wanted, frustratingly concealed.
His fear had been validated. He couldn’t physically bring himself to look away, not even to save her from mortification.
He knew the moment her gaze found his, even from across such a distance. Every hair on his body vibrated with awareness of it. She ducked behind the topiary in an equally ungraceful motion and Piers found himself fighting an enchanted smile.
“Ye’re marrying the Countess of Mont Claire, obviously.” His brother’s correct deduction broke Piers of his enchantment.
“How, pray, is that so obvious?”
“Because Miss Teague, while a…” He paused as he examined the woman for longer than was necessary. “A desirable candidate, is a commoner, and Lady Alexandra’s family is not only recently destitute, but she’s socially irrelevant and an infamous eccentric. The countess is the only appropriate choice of the three.”
“Is that so?” Piers scowled, disliking the defensive knot in his gut where Lady Alexandra was concerned.
“Yes. Lady Francesca is the last of the Cavendish line. To marry her would fulfill yer father’s wishes toward her and is well done of ye.” The gentle approval in Ramsay’s tone reminded Piers of their mutual affection for his dearly departed father.
“If I remember correctly, Lady Francesca’s family died under rather horrific circumstances.” Piers watched the lithe, vivacious woman fight for the lead of the waltz with her overwhelmed companion.
“A suspicious fire,” Ramsay confirmed gravely. “No one ever found the culprit.”
“Do you suppose that could be connected to the shooting today? Do you have any idea if the Cavendish family still has enemies?”
“Not that I’ve heard of.” Ramsay gave another halfhearted shrug before he tilted his head in puzzlement. “Why do ye think I’d know?”
“Because you make it your business to know everything about these people. Because their secrets grant you your power. And—” Piers took the note from his pocket, the one with his brother’s native language scrawled upon it.
Ramsay glanced at it before grasping his bicep in a vise grip. “Piers, I ken this is my language, but ye can’t think I had anything to do with—”
“It never crossed my mind.” He narrowed his eyes at his brother, the years and pain between them yawning like a chasm upon which they stood on opposite sides. “Strange, that it should cross yours.”
Ramsay released him, visibly vexed for such a self-contained man. “All three of these women have hair some shade of red.”
“Therein lies the problem.”
Ramsay pocketed the paper and they both watched as Lady Francesca broke from her dance partner as the waltz ended, slipping through the crowd and down the eastern hall. “It would be easier to do if ye’d not rendered the assassins uninterrogatable.”
“One of them might pull through.” Piers made a helpless gesture. “And eventually he’ll be able to move his jaw again.”
His brother shook his head. “I’ll try to have an answer for ye before the wedding. In the meantime, keep yer fiancée and her companions out of trouble.”
Piers was interrupted from a reply as the dowager Duchess of Kent, a great friend of his father’s, engaged him with congratulations and a not-so-subtle interrogation regarding his impending nuptials.