Page 39 of The Duke of Ruin
Ruan deposited Poppy--or was it Alexandra?--at the side of the ballroom once their dance had ended, and went in search of his wife, but she was no where to be seen. Ruan scanned the room, thanking his lucky stars that he was one of the tallest men there, but still he could not see her. He began to make his way toward the refreshment table, where he had spotted Jane, but his path was blocked by a rather familiar face.
"Lord Keyford," he said, pausing mid-step, as he came face to face with his father in law. The last time the two men had met, was five years ago at Catherine's funeral. The atmosphere had been tense, to say the least, and Ruan had left St. Jarvis convinced that his father in law wanted him dead --something he was still sure of now.
"You decided to return," Keyford said, his words slurred. It was obvious that the old man was drunk, even at a distance Ruan could smell the overpowering scent of alcohol on his breath.
"Aye," Ruan answered slowly, carefully watching the older man's reaction. "I thought it was about time I showed my face, even if it's the last face that some people might want to see."
The old man looked at him curiously and to Ruan's surprise his eyes became misty. "I hope you're not referring to me, lad," Keyford said, his voice thick with emotion. "For I know all that you did for Catherine, and you're forever welcome here, by me, at least."
"You know?" Ruan's face paled; what exactly did the old man know, and who had told him?
"Mrs Hogg." As though he had read his thoughts, Lord Keyford offered up the name of his informant. "I met her one day at Catherine's grave, and I'm ashamed to say that I began to abuse your reputation terribly --Mrs Hogg soon set me straight."
Ruan swallowed in lieu of a reply, he could not think of what to say in response to the man that his late wife had despised. Keyford seemed different now -- defeated, almost as though his daughter's death had affected him profoundly.
"Catherine always attracted ne'er-do-wells; if it wasn't Lord Somerset breaking her heart, it was that Birmingham chap. I should have thanked you properly, when you took her under your care. You did her a great kindness Everleigh."
"Lavelle?" Ruan felt a stab of confusion, "What does Lavelle have to do with anything?"
"He proposed to Catherine, the last summer he was here," Keyford spat angrily, "Then disappeared to London and promptly forgot about her. Is it any wonder she ended up in the arms of that scoundrel Birmingham?"
Ruan felt as though he had been punched in the stomach; he had not known that Lavelle had proposed to Catherine. It was a despicable thing to have done, to have raised her hopes and then dashed them --but they had been young men.
"Perhaps there was some misunderstanding?"
"No misunderstanding," Keyford was firm, "And then he had the gall to accuse her of betrayal when she married you. I tell you, when I saw him in Southampton, not two weeks ago, I was tempted to run him over with my carriage."
Realisation dawned in Ruan's mind, slowly at first, but like a gas lamp catching flame he soon saw the light. It had been Lavelle all along; the attacks, the accidents, the attempts on his life, even the two roses at Catherine's grave. Lavelle had not arrived in Southampton to assist his friend --he had come to pay the man he had hired to kill him!
"Good God," he whispered, glancing frantically around the room to see where his nefarious friend was.
"Everything all right Everleigh?"
Ruan nodded curtly, and left Keyford standing in the middle of the ballroom, as he went in search of Lavelle.
"Have you seen Somerset?" he asked Jane urgently, once he had reached her side.
"I have seen no one, your Grace," the young woman replied miserably, "I can't see past the end of my nose without my spectacles. The waltz is soon though, I know that much. You'd best go fetch Olive before somebody steals her away!"
Although Jane's voice was light and teasing, her words sent a jolt of fear through Ruan. The last time he had spotted Olive, she had been hiding in a dark alcove. He made his way to where she had stood, when she had smiled at him, but there was no one there. The curtains on the French doors, which had been left open to catch a breeze, rustled slightly as they were stirred by a gust of wind. A dash of colour of the floor caught his eye, and he stooped down to inspect the item. It was a ribbon, a green ribbon: the same one which Olive had worn on her dress. It had caught his eye because he had vividly imagined untying the thing once he had her alone in his bedchamber.
Silently he exited the doors, which led to a dark veranda. He could see signs of a struggle --an overturned urn of flowers, a wrought-iron chair on its side, and most worryingly of all, a lone slipper. He hunkered down and picked it up; it was small, black and utterly anonymous, but he knew instinctively that it belonged to Olive.
Agitated he stood, and made to return to the ballroom, but a confused voice called out to him from the shadows.
"I say Everleigh, is that you?" It was Lord Deveraux, relaxing and smoking a cheroot. "Finished already?"
His old friend gave a rather saucy laugh, which left Ruan perplexed.
"Finished what?"
"With your wife. I heard you dragging her away, old chap," Julian guffawed with amusement, before taking another drag on his cigar. "Well done, you finally convinced her."
Ruan near staggered at Julian's words --the stupid fool had heard his wife, who had obviously been putting up a fight, being dragged away into a dark garden, and he had done nothing!
"That wasn't me," he bit harshly, to a startled Lord Deveraux, "That was Lavelle. He wants revenge for Catherine and so he's taken my wife."
"W-what?"
