As the men noted they were being observed, they suddenly became absorbed in an expensive John Constable painting to which Dorian directed their respective attentions.
“Your husband certainly has excellent taste in art,” Imogen ventured, placing her empty champagne flute on a servant’s tray and happily accepting another.
“My husband wouldn’t know Renaissance from Rococo,” Farah scoffed.
“Nor mine,” Millie blithely agreed, her midnight eyes narrowing.
“I acquired that painting and he’s never before noticed it.” Farah narrowed her eyes. “Now I know they’re up to something. The question is, what?”
“I fear their odd behavior is my fault.” Imogen sighed miserably.
“Oh?” Millie arched a quizzical brow as she sipped her champagne. Diamonds winked from rings she’d slid over the lavender gloves perfectly complementing her paisley purple gown. “Do tell. I love a bit of intrigue.”
Imogen took a few bracing swallows of her own champagne before explaining in a halting voice, “Chief Inspector Morley thinks that there is perhaps a serial murderer after me.”
“Is that so?” Farah exclaimed. “Is that why he actually accepted one of my social invitations for once? Well, that explains everything, doesn’t it?”
Imogen gaped at the countess, trying to process her calm reaction to the news.
“It’s a good calculation on Sir Morley’s part that, due to what happened to poor Lady Broadmore, the killer might be inclined to strike again at a similar event,” Mena postulated reasonably.
“Yes,” Millie agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “And of course he’d have notified Christopher and present male company for … obvious reasons.”
“I feel like a half-wit,” Imogen admitted. “But the reasons aren’t so obvious to me.”
The women shared a look. Farah nodded with a gentle smile, and they each surrounded Imogen in a sort of conspiratory huddle as they pretended to resume their inspection.
Farah slipped an arm through Imogen’s, the silver of the countess’s glove complementing the ruby silk of her own. “Surely you’ve heard that my Dorian is … somewhat notorious.”
“The Blackheart of Ben More, you mean?” Imogen blurted, and then decided that two glasses of champagne should be enough so early in the evening.
“Indeed,” Farah said with a wry smile. “Millie, Mena, and I share a distinct and singular friendship as the men we love are brothers, either by blood bond or bloodshed.”
“Blood bond, in my case,” Mena supplied.
“And bloodshed, in mine,” Millie finished, with a proud and rather fierce glance of adoration in the direction of the auburn-haired Viking.
Imogen had yet to recover her wits, but she realized that her suspicions regarding the familial resemblance between the laird of the Mackenzie clan and Dorian Blackwell were confirmed.
“Each of our husbands, in their own way, have their demons,” Farah continued solemnly.
“Those demons have sometimes spurred our men to do … questionable things in the past,” Mena confessed. “But those skills they have acquired along the way are most … effective when wielded in protection of those they love.”
Imogen thought that Mena’s use of the word questionable had to be the understatement of the century. She remembered the lethal skill and power Argent had wielded against Trenwyth as they sparred. She’d read about the Demon Highlander in the papers to dear Edward, and remembered that the man had infiltrated an Ottoman prison on his own. Also, she was quite certain Dorian Blackwell hadn’t acquired his moniker, his influence, his fortune, and sinister eye patch in his wife’s lovely parlor.
Millie put her hand on Imogen’s other arm. “Each of us has our own story of peril and danger,” she confided with twinkling eyes. “Either from, because of, or in spite of our men, but they’ve always protected us. And Morley knows Trenwyth will protect you, too.”
“Trenwyth is fast becoming a part of their blood brotherhood,” Farah observed. “Which, of course, means you’re one of us.”
“A sister in all but name,” Mena agreed.
“You’re not like the other missish, useless noblewomen the ton spits out every season,” Millie said heartily. “You help us achieve the good we want to. You have a quick mind, a tough hide, and a kind heart. All of which are needed if you are to take on men like them.”
Imogen had to clear the gratitude out of her throat before she could speak. “You are so very kind,” she said. “But neither Trenwyth nor I are interested in ‘taking on’ one another. He is only here as my escort because Morley recruited him.”
Millie let out an undignified snort. “I’d wager my entire fortune that is not at all the reason Trenwyth accompanied you tonight.”
“Pardon my saying so.” Mena smiled gently. “But it is very clear that Trenwyth would take you on whatever surface you’d permit him to.”
“Mena!” Farah laughed. “The uncouth Highlands are certainly rubbing off on you.”
The marchioness’s secret, self-satisfied smile had to be the loveliest thing Imogen had seen in some time.
“There is too much that stands in the way of a relationship between Trenwyth and me,” Imogen breathed as she glanced over at the man who stood taller than his companions, the lamplight gilding his neat hair a familiar shade. Tinting her memory in sadness and longing. “There are too many shadows in the past, too much pain, and too many secrets.”
“Be careful of secrets,” Mena warned. “They can ruin everything.”
Imogen nodded, and found herself with another glass of champagne in her hand as the women decided to turn their attentions to the arriving guests. She was well aware that secrets could ruin everything between her and Cole.
They already had.
* * *
The color of Imogen’s gown forced Cole to admit that crimson would always remind him of fucking. It also occurred to him that for a man doing his best to avoid said activity, her choice of dresses was a damned irritant. She looked like a sin wrapped in confectionary paper. The entire torturous night, a verse from the Bible, of all things, repeated in his head, leaving trails of madness.
Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit, indeed, is willing …
“But the flesh is weak,” he concluded, his eyes glued to the graceful lordling twirling Imogen about the dance floor in a perfect waltz.
“What was that, Your Grace?” Colonel Percival Rollins, Lord Winderton, tugged at the corner of a mustache curled in such a way that the jowly man seemed to be perpetually smiling.
“Nothing,” Cole replied. “Please continue.”
“I was saying the the Rook took a horsewhip to a Prussian lord not a week ago,” the man blustered. “If he has no respect for nobility then, mark me, the British aristocracy is next, by Jove.”
Cole made a noncommittal sound of dismay as he allowed the old man’s dialogue to fade into his periphery. He had chosen this spot by the fireplace as a perfect vantage because he could survey the entire ballroom, each point of entry, and glance into the gaming room. The drawback was having to mingle with the circle of men gossiping like a gaggle of matrons about the latest antics of the Rook.