A Stroke of Malice (Lady Darby Mystery #8) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,13

draped his arm around her waist, anchoring her to his side.

“You could go to the meeting and ask her if she sent the note,” Gage pointed out. A pointed glare from Alana prompted him to add, “And of course, ask your wife to join you.”

Philip shook his head. “Nay. That’s courtin’ trouble.” He scowled. “And yet if she’s bein’ played as I am, I dinna wish to leave her waitin’ in some isolated corner o’ the castle.”

“If she goes, she deserves it,” Alana stated without sympathy.

“And if she thinks it’s part o’ her role?”

Alana arched her chin upward, refusing to be swayed.

“Then why not seek her out here,” I suggested, to which they all turned to me curiously. “Ask her to dance and find out whether she sent the note, and if she also received one. Then make it clear, either way, that you have no intention of keeping the appointment. If she happens to be the mutual victim of such a prank, I’m sure she’ll be relieved to have you tell her so.”

Philip seemed much struck by this idea. “Aye, I think you’re right. It’d be better to be forthright.”

I turned to gaze across the room at Lord Traquair, the duke’s heir. He stood conversing with the Earl of Dunadd, seeming oblivious to the daggered glares his father’s latest mistress, Mrs. Blanchard, continued to send his way. For all that she was acclaimed to be one of the most gifted actresses of the age, she wasn’t very adroit at hiding her contempt.

“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is likely some bit of mischief concocted by the Lord of Misrule, or perhaps the villain,” I suggested, having forgotten it was Marsdale’s task to undermine and disrupt Lord Edward’s orders and the general merriment of the evening. “In any case, I overheard an argument earlier that seemed to indicate you aren’t the only one who may have received a forged note.”

Gage’s expression was questioning, but I decided the conversation I’d heard between Traquair and Mrs. Blanchard outside the lady’s retiring room—which, courtesy of the child inside me, I had already visited twice—was not worth repeating.

“Then I shall definitely speak to the lady in question,” Philip replied before thanking me and striding off.

I looped my arm through Alana’s and pulled her toward the door, my heels tapping against the gleaming wooden floor in my haste. “You are not going to stand here glaring at them, making an already awkward encounter even more so.”

She drew herself up, donning a mask of righteous fury. “I have a right to know who may be trifling with my husband.”

She forgot that, as her younger sister, I had witnessed just such a display far too often to ever be swayed by it. “You trust Philip, do you not?”

“Yes, of course, I do. But . . .”

“Then ask him later. I’m sure you can convince him to tell you.” I slid my eyes sideways to glance at her coyly. “Or is he no longer susceptible to your charms?”

She tossed her head, taking a cue from her husband’s earlier words. “Don’t be daft. Of course he is.”

“And if he keeps drinking whisky and spirits like everyone else at this party, his Highland accent will be as broad as any Scotsman, and his resistance even weaker.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And why would my husband wish to resist me?”

I shrugged, not caring to correct her if she thought I was somehow insulting her. My goal had been to distract her, and I had achieved that.

I glanced up at Gage where he walked on my other side, his lips quirked in amusement. He might not have any brothers or sisters to provoke, but that did not mean he couldn’t appreciate our ability to badger and irritate one another almost to the point of violence over the most inconsequential things. Something I was sure the duchess’s children could appreciate as well. In fact, at that very moment, Lord Henry looked as if he might wish to commit some sort of violence to his brother Lord Edward.

Poor Henry. His brother definitely hadn’t spared him in making him his fool. I couldn’t help but empathize, even as my lips curled into a smile at the sight of him. He’d been obligated to don a pair of purple tights and a multicolored tunic which strained across his broad shoulders. His pointed shoes were fitted with bells, as was the hooded cape worn over his head. But perhaps worst of all, he’d