dishonor would never net them a marriage. “I…I have no enemies.”
He sent her a look of such incredulity, she blushed.
“Naive,” he murmured low, but she caught it.
There was something different about him in this moment that scared her a bit, though what it was she could not say. It was just present.
“Leave. I will take care of this matter.”
That promise jolted her.
“I will come with you,” she said. “I must…I must know the identity of the man who would do me harm, at least.”
He stared at her, his expression becoming chilled. She took an instinctive step back, made uncomfortable by the iciness of his mien.
“Viscount Talbot waits for you.”
The last man she had expected him to name. “I…”
“Do not let me tell you again to leave this ball, Lady Maryann.”
She did not like him at all like this. Hating that she felt uncertain, she walked away. Once at the end of the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder to note he watched her with the stillness of a hawk.
Why did you come to warn me, and how did you know of their scheme?
Breaking the stare, she rounded the corner and stopped. Biting at her lower lip, she flushed against the wall, then carefully peeked toward where she had left him. His shadow disappeared toward the steps leading to the conservatory, and grabbing the edges of her gown, she ran after him. Surely he really did not believe she would meekly obey him. And it was not that she doubted his shocking call of villainy waiting for her, but she wanted to see the evidence of it for herself, in the hopes that she was not being deceived by some forces she did not understand.
He had left the conservatory door unlocked, and she slipped in, grateful the room was in more darkness than light. Her heart pounding, she stopped, tucking herself away in the slim shadows made by the potted plants and begonias.
“Who the blazes are you?” a voice she recognized as Viscount Talbot demanded.
Her heart sank, and a heavy weight pressed against her belly. The man was a friend of Crispin and he was known to her. Why would he partake in a scheme so ugly?
“The lady you are expecting will not be coming,” the marquess said. “I suggest you find another lady to fix the problem of your empty coffers.”
“I do not know what you are babbling about, Rothbury. I suggest you—”
“I know the full of it, the plans you made with Lady Sophie.”
A shocked wheezing sound came from the viscount’s throat.
“It is useless to feign ignorance with me,” St. Ives said mildly.
They could have been discussing the light patter of rain against the glass of the conservatory.
She frowned at the import of St. Ives’s words. Lady Sophie. Maryann should have guessed it was that bully ruffian.
By the large potted plant in the corner, she peeked to see what was happening. The viscount waited, his posture one of stiff tension, with a note clutched in his fist. He tugged at his cravat, and even with the low light from the burner and the fireplace, Maryann detected the sheen of sweat above his brow.
St. Ives leaned casually against a table which held a pair of pruning shears and a clay pot.
“Are you here to issue a private challenge?” Talbot demanded tightly.
Maryann gasped. A duel? What was it with these gentlemen solving problems over the brace of pistols or a clash of swords? They were ridiculous in the extreme!
“Do not be foolish,” St. Ives said bitingly. “I leave such things to the purview of the lady’s family. And since they are very much in the dark about this matter, it is unlikely you will be facing a pistol at the crack of dawn.”
“What business is it of yours, then?”
“Indeed, I have asked myself the same question.” He sounded bemused. “But then how could I ignore the dastardly act you have planned for her? Planned for any young lady?”
“You will mind your own—”
With a swiftness she could barely track, the marquess grabbed the pruning shears, opened them, and fitted the vee perfectly at the front of Viscount Talbot’s neck. Maryann instinctively stepped forward, the violence of the marquess’s action shocking her into almost fainting. The move placed him in the light, every nuance of his face evident for her to observe.
He was unjustly, unfairly handsome, his classical profile turned saturnine only by the cold in his eyes. She did not doubt that he could or would inflict damage of death to the