Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,10

he had sworn to avoid for the rest of his life.

“We must keep up appearances, and nothing says ordinary like a country dance,” Arthur Pickering told him over an after-dinner brandy they had shared during Greystone’s first visit to Dredthorne Hall. “I have invited all of the unattached young swains and ladies in Renwick, so there should be a large crowd. Jennet Reed will be among them. Once I have left for London, you may follow on the morrow, unless you have some particular reason to linger.”

“None.” He kept his expression as bland as Pickering’s tone.

“I am gratified to know it will not disturb you to see your jilted bride again,” Pickering said. “You will be in costume, so you need not reveal yourself to her. I expect we will all have a marvelous time.”

The other man’s notion of marvelous encompassed many things Greystone personally despised. “What are you playing at, Arthur?”

“Nothing at all. I enjoy the lady’s company, and there’s little else in this damned place to provide me with amusement. Not even a decent brothel within riding distance.” He toasted him with his snifter. “Never tell me you would have come here without seizing the chance to see her again.”

“I never expected nor desired to,” Greystone countered. “What would be the point?”

“Precisely.” Pickering drained his glass and set it aside. “But my ball will permit you the opportunity to see her without being seen. I am certain that will gratify you in the end. You must be curious. We know you have been making regular inquiries.”

The we meant London, which boded nothing favorable for Greystone.

A yawn would have been too deliberate a show of indifference, so he smiled lazily. “You must also be aware that I have inquired after the welfare of my mother, my cousin Germaine and her boys, and some old friends from school.” He shook his head. “Have you invited them to your masquerade as well?”

Pickering’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “It seems I have overstepped. I am not questioning your steadfastness, old chap. Of all the men I know, you are the most unwavering.”

“There was another,” Greystone reminded him. “He sacrificed his family on the altar of his loyalty. That is why I will never have one.”

“Yet you still make inquiries.” Pickering propped his elbows on his knees to lean forward. “Do not glower at me. Until you relinquish the past, you will never be free of the resentment. Had I not been orphaned, I daresay I would have arranged to have my parents believe me dead.” He gave him an unpleasant smirk. “Perhaps you should consider the same. Even the most discreet of inquiries can lead to revelations far more unpleasant than the abandonment of a bride.”

He shrugged. “My mother would not care if I were dead, and Miss Reed is nothing to me.”

Now Greystone stood on the balcony watching for her carriage, that he might see the woman he had dismissed with such callousness. The sight of her would return to him the cold reason he needed for the work, for time would have bestowed much change. He needed to see her dulled and aged by the years, her bloom gone, her innocence giving way to artifice. Perhaps she would resemble her mother now, or have grown stout from consoling herself with sweets. She would be bitter still, and carrying that grudge for so long that it would have etched unkind lines in her face.

Please, God, let her be made plain and dull and forever safe from me.

Footmen came out of the hall to place hollowed turnips on the tops of railings and the sides of steps. Once they had been arranged, tapers were employed to light the candle stubs inside them. The flickering light caused the faces carved through the sides of the turnips to appear appropriately demonic. Snatches of music came faintly from the back of the old chateau as the musicians tuned their instruments in preparation for the dancing. Downstairs the servants would be rushing about to check that all was in readiness; the air would be rosy with the scents of spiced cider and mulled wine. The incomplete renovations to the elderly house gave it the distinct air of being suitably dilapidated and possibly haunted.

Around him the deep violet skies slowly darkened to a charcoal velvet, sheened silver by the rising moon. Greystone heard the first clatter of horses’ hooves and creaking of carriage wheels approaching, and drew back into the shadows. The