Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“The moment I received your note, Leah, I changed my plans for the evening. You look delightful. Come.”

Sophie watched the two of them walk toward the huge buffet table at the far end of the large ballroom, weaving their way gracefully through the crowds of black-coated gentlemen and rainbow-gowned ladies.

“He seems so charming,” Sophie said. “Not showing on the outside what boils inside him.” Why does he believe you murdered his sister? But she said nothing.

Neither did Julian.

“You came to rescue me?”

“Consider yourself rescued. Since there is no champagne, would you like me to take you to Roxanne? She is speaking to a portly gentleman who is, I believe, a longtime friend of her father’s.”

“Let us stroll for a bit, if you don’t mind. I wish to consult my wise uncle.”

“I am at your service. Something bothers you, Sophie?”

She placed her hand on his arm again and drew close. “I’m thinking perhaps I can mask my face, lure my aunt Leah onto the balcony, tap her on the shoulder, and when she turns, smack my fist to her jaw, topple her over into the bushes. What do you think?”

“That could work, since the balcony railing isn’t all that high. She is so very dreadful?”

“This evening, before we left, she told Roxanne to her face that she had aged, that Leah now looked like the younger sister. Then she mentioned that yellow wasn’t the best color for her, as it made her look sallow. Can you imagine?”

“No, yellow doesn’t make her look sallow at all, but I have seen a certain shade of blue she wears that does. What did Roxanne have to say to that?”

“Roxanne laughed. She said perhaps Leah could lend her one of her own beautiful gowns and then she would look just the thing.”

“That was well done of her,” he said.

“Roxanne said she’d been watching how I turned Leah’s insults back to her with a smile and agreement, thus spiking her guns.” Sophie sighed. “However, this time it didn’t work out. Leah said since Roxanne had vulgar red hair, wearing any of her stylish gowns would only make her look more slovenly. Roxanne laughed again, even though I saw her hands fisted at her sides. She acts like she doesn’t care, but I know she does. Leah is not happy, Roxanne tells me, to excuse her, I suppose. Evidently, she never has been happy, even when she was a child. When I asked her what in heaven’s name Leah had to be unhappy about—then and now—Roxanne couldn’t think of a single thing. I think Leah was born mean.

“And now she is cooing over Richard Langworth. I really want to cosh her, Julian. Is the railing really low enough so I can heft her over it?”

“It is, my child, but your kindly wise uncle fears you must forgo retribution, as tasty as it might sound.”

“I am tall. I could come up behind her; she might believe she’d been smacked by a man, her lovely Richard Langworth, for example. Then I would run away, quickly.”

“It is Roxanne’s decision how to deal with her sister.” He placed his finger on her mouth. “If you like, I will speak to Roxanne, give her my wise counsel.”

Sophie sighed. “I wonder what Roxanne would say to you if you did offer her counsel?”

“Surely she would be excessively grateful.” He paused for a moment, tapped his fingertips to his chin. “Do you know, Sophie, I have changed my mind. Maybe you should sneak up behind her.”

“I might,” Sophie said, leaned up and kissed his cheek, patted his arm, and danced away.

“Are you Lord Julian Monroe, sir?”

He turned to face James Sherbrooke. So he’d heard him speaking and recognized his voice, had he? Well, Julian had wondered when this would happen. He remembered so clearly the night last fall at Saint Osyth when he’d smuggled in tea and brandy from France, the only time he’d come back to England in three years. And it had been only for a fortnight, staying with Harlan in his rooms on Potwin Street, because he hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was here, except for the gentlemen in the ministry who’d asked him to play diplomat for England to Rome, and, naturally, he had.

“Yes, I am.” He said nothing more, simply waited for James Sherbrooke to introduce himself and his wife.

Julian bowed to James but made no attempt to kiss Corrie’s wrist, a good thing, since she kept her hands at her sides. She said, “You are Devlin’s uncle, sir, are you not?”

“Yes, Lady Hammersmith, I am his ancient graybeard uncle.”

She tried to look fierce and condemning but couldn’t manage it. He smiled down at this lovely young lady, seeing the tangle-haired ragamuffin on that wild night long ago. He remembered her knee against his neck. A heroine, she was, that was what Devlin had told him. More courage than brains, Devlin had added. Could he believe she’d actually ridden a horse into a cottage, a pitchfork in her hand, to rescue James?

No, Julian would never have believed such a tale until she’d had her knee pressed hard against his own throat.

Both husband and wife were studying his face. Trying to make certain he was indeed the smuggler? He realized they weren’t quite certain what to say to him now that the evil villain was standing two feet in front of them.