Page 28 of Anastasia and the Duke
"Dead?" Oliver raised a stunned brow.
"Throat slit," Hunter winced, "Someone powerful is involved in this, we just need to work out who."
"That task would be much easier if the chaps who might be able to share that information lived long enough to share it," Oliver commented, his dryness earning him a reluctant grin from his friend.
"Here's to that happy thought," Hunter lifted his glass again in toast.
The two men fell into idle chatter, sharing news and titbits of gossip about shared acquaintances. The clock upon the wall began to chime, indicating that the day had come to an end, and Hunter set his glass down upon the table with a sigh.
"I had best make for home," he said, running an agitated hand through his hair, "I have an appointment with Miss Robin tomorrow, and I will need to have my wits about me."
"Ah, yes," Oliver grinned, "Your affianced. How is the blushing bride to be?"
"I wouldn't know," Hunter frowned, "She's rather difficult to pin down."
"Too busy planning her trousseau and her dress for the day?" Oliver guessed.
"More like planning her escape," Hunter grunted, his expression one of annoyance.
As Hunter was not the sort of chap to share secrets, Oliver did not press him any further, but his curiosity must have been writ on his face, for Hunter gave a chuckle.
"Miss Robin and I have entered into an arrangement of convenience," Hunter explained, "I shall have a bride and her good name shall not be tarnished after the unfortunate...incident."
"My curiosity is truly piqued," Oliver drawled, wondering what on earth the "incident" was.
"It shall have to remain that way," Hunter said stiffly, as he began to put on his gloves, "I shall not share a lady's secrets. Unfortunately, Miss Robin is under the illusion that our state of engagement is but temporary, until such time as matters blow over."
"But that is not the case?" Oliver asked, whilst inwardly wondering why Hunter was so irritated. Most men who found themselves in engagements not of their own making would be delighted to be released from the obligation.
"I am honour bound to marry her," Hunter said stiffly.
"Lud, man," Oliver whispered, casting an eye about the room to make certain no one was listening, "Did you ruin her completely? I'd expect better of you."
"Of course, I didn't," Hunter glared, "But I am determined to see our agreement through to the end; Miss Robin, while she won't admit it, is in need of the protection of my name."
"Of course," Oliver soothed, as he tried to hide his smile.
Hunter was besotted with Miss Robin; all his talk of honour and obligation, was just talk. He wanted to marry the chit, only he was too stubborn to admit it. As for Miss Robin, Oliver was certain that she would fall for his friend's charms soon enough...if Hunter could somehow muster up the ability to charm. The earl was a good man, but high-handed and commanding in his approach to life and, Oliver guessed, love.
"What are you smiling at?" Hunter grumbled, as he spotted the grin that Oliver had failed to hide.
"Nothing," Oliver covered his mouth with his hand and feigned a cough, "Just thinking of a limerick Kit shared with me."
His lie passed muster and Hunter took his leave, leaving Oliver to settle into his chair for one last drink, content in the knowledge that he was not the only love-sick fool in London.
Oliver could never quite tell the difference between a rout, a ball, or asoirée. All involved hundreds of well-heeled guests piling into someone's home to dance, play cards, and eat copious amounts of fine foods. If there was any distinction of note between the three events, however, Oliver was blind to it, but then, he supposed most men would be.
As he made his way from room to room in Lord and Lady Sotheby's vast mansion on Sloane Square, Oliver nodded at acquaintances, but did not stop to chat. He was on a mission to find Miss Blackmore, but as yet it did not appear that she had arrived.
Still searching, Oliver entered the card-room, where his grandmother and Lady Uptondown were laying waste to the annual allowances of several young bloods. He paused, for a moment, to appreciate the play, but when he heard his name whispered--and spotted Lady Darlington watching him with a gleam of machination in her eyes--he beat a hasty retreat.
"Where might one partake in a cheroot?" Oliver inquired of a passing footman.
"In the library, your Grace," the footman answered, "Through the double doors at the end of the hallway. Shall I show you the way?"
"No need," Oliver shook his head, and made for the safe-haven of the library. Here, he lit his cigar with a spill he found by the fireplace and strolled over to the French doors which opened out onto the garden.
Spring was in full-bloom, and a canopy of cherry-blossom trees, glowing white under the moon's light, offered a shelter for those seeking it.
