In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster Read online

  “Very likely. She may even be happier than Mama, who has divided loyalties, so to speak.”

  “And next …” Scanning the dancers, then, able to see over most heads, looking further, Jeremy murmured, “Would it be your aunt Helena, your aunt Horatia, or Lady Osbaldestone?” He glanced down at Eliza. “Which do you think?”

  But Eliza shook her head. “Oh, no — none of them. You’ve missed the lady who, now I think of it, is almost certainly the second happiest lady here tonight. Indeed, the more I think of it, that must be true. She, of all others, has the most cause to be thrilled.”

  Jeremy racked his brains.

  Knowing he liked puzzles, Eliza waited.

  But after two more revolutions, he shook his head. “No. I can’t fathom it. So who, my darling, is the second happiest lady here tonight?”

  Eliza laughed. “Angelica, of course.” She tipped her head to the side of the dance floor.

  Glancing that way, Jeremy saw Eliza’s younger sister standing by the side of the room.

  “Just look at her face — at her smile, at her eyes,” Eliza said.

  Jeremy had to admit that, even from a distance, Angelica’s delight was plain to see. “But”— he looked at Eliza, let her see the puzzled frown in his eyes —“why? Why should she be especially thrilled?”

  “Because not only are both Heather and I engaged, very happily to our heroes, who happen to be gentlemen of whom the ton at large and our family in particular approve — proving that waiting for the right gentleman is the sensible course for Angelica, too — but the laird is now dead.”

  “What’s he got to do with it? With Angelica?”

  “Because had he lived, a continuing threat to ‘Cynster sisters,’ then Angelica, Henrietta, and Mary would have been kept under the closest imaginable guard. Our brothers and cousins had already become unbearably autocratic and obsessively protective before Scrope whisked me away — can you imagine what they would have been like after that? According to Angelica, she was forbidden to set foot outside the house in Dover Street without at least one of them at her elbow, and both Rupert and Alasdair came up to town and took up residence at home, so there was always one of them in the house, on hand. Or, as Angelica put it, underfoot. She, in particular, had no peace, and, even more importantly, no opportunity at all to hunt for her own hero, which, of course, she’s now even more set on doing than she was before.”

  “But she’s only …” Jeremy ransacked his memory. “Twenty-one, isn’t she? She’s years younger than you — she has plenty of time.”

  “Yes, but you have to remember that she’s grown up together with Heather and me. She’s the youngest, but she discounts the three years between me and her. To her mind, now Heather’s engaged to Breckenridge, and I’m engaged to you, it’s her turn next. And for Angelica, next means now. You may be absolutely certain that she’ll set out to search for her hero in earnest tomorrow. Or, as the case may be, tomorrow evening. I’m quite sure she’ll have already assessed all those attending tonight.”

  The music ended. The dancers swirled to a halt; the gentlemen bowed and the ladies curtsied. Rising, Eliza set her hand on Jeremy’s proffered sleeve, then glanced at where Angelica had been, but the crowds blocked her view. Turning back to Jeremy, she smiled, eyes dancing. “Knowing Angelica, her search for her hero is bound to be, at the very least, highly entertaining.”

  Jeremy met her eyes. “I shudder to ask, but why?”

  Eliza hesitated, then said, “Take every strong female trait Heather and I have, put them together, then double them, and you’ll have some notion of what Angelica is like. Of the three of us, she’s the most stubborn, the most decisive, the cleverest by far, the most determined, and she’s very good at manipulating people — exceptionally good at getting what she wants. Angelica might be the youngest, the shortest, the smallest of the three of us, but she’s also the boldest, the strongest, and she’s the one with a fiery temper, too.”

  “Well, her hair is reddish, after all,” Jeremy said. “But I still don’t understand why her romance should be especially entertaining.”

  “Because whoever Angelica sets her heart on, you can be absolutely certain there’ll be fireworks.”

  “Ah.” Placing his hand over hers on his sleeve, Jeremy gently squeezed her fingers. “Have I mentioned how very grateful I am that we’ve managed to reach this point without any fireworks?”

  Eliza laughed, then nodded toward a door. “That’s where all this started.” She looked up and met Jeremy’s eyes. “That’s where I was standing when the footman brought me the note that took me to the back parlor and Scrope.” She searched Jeremy’s eyes. “I was so desperate to find my hero that I went — and that’s how I came to be in that coach heading north toward Jedburgh, calling to you for help.”

  Jeremy’s lips quirked in an understanding smile. “So you’ve come full circle — back to where you started, but with me by your side.”

  “With my hero, my fiancé, and my husband-to-be.” Eliza’s gaze grew misty. “Fate was kind.”

  “More than you know.” Jeremy held her gaze. “I left Wolverstone that day wondering how to find the bride I had finally come to accept that I needed — and fate stepped in and set me the task of rescuing you.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her fingertips. “And so here I now stand, with the lady who will be the perfect wife for me on my arm.” He smiled. “Fate has, indeed, blessed us.”

  “To our credit,” Eliza said, “we were up to the challenges she threw our way.”

  “True. Fate dealt the cards, but it was you and I who played the hand.”

  “And won.”

  “Yes — we won. Everything we wanted, all that we desired.”

  “And now”— she glanced about them, at their families, connections, and friends all gathered to wish them well —“now that we’ve claimed our just reward, our future looks rosy.” Looking up, she smiled into Jeremy’s eyes. “I can’t wait for it to start.”

  Watching Eliza smile at Jeremy, watching Jeremy set Eliza’s hand on his sleeve, and, head bent to hear what Eliza was now saying, stroll on down the room, Angelica Cynster sighed. Relieved, content, happy, and delighted.

  All was once again well in her world, just as it ought to be.

  Glancing to where Heather and Breckenridge stood chatting with Great-aunt Clara, Angelica smiled; she thoroughly approved of her sisters’ choices. They had searched for and found their heroes, and all was well with them.

  Which meant she could now turn her full and complete attention to her own search, to locating and snaring her own hero.

  Wherever the damned man was.

  Sending a brief glance skating over the shoulders around her, she muttered, “He’s not here, that’s clear. So where should I look next?”

  Fingers rising to close about the rose quartz pendant depending from the strange old chain comprised of gold links interspersed with amethyst beads that she now wore, she waited for inspiration to strike. The necklace was now hers — her talisman just as it had been Heather’s, and then Eliza’s. And, apparently, Catriona’s, too, so many years ago. Eliza had passed it on to Angelica on the day Eliza and Jeremy, along with Celia and Martin, had returned from Wolverstone. Eliza had explained Catriona’s — or possibly her Lady’s — directive that the necklace was to be passed down among the Cynster girls as each found their hero, their fated husband. Angelica wasn’t sure she believed in fate, but she was happy to accept whatever help came her way with respect to locating her hero. She’d already combed the ton for him, or at least all of the ton she was allowed to explore, the tonnish entertainments deemed suitable for a well-bred young lady of her age.

  “Clearly, I need to cast my net wider.” Clinging to the shadows along the wall beneath the overhang of the gallery, she considered what alternatives she might have, what wider fields she might wander. Most of the gentlemen present were either related or connected in some way, so all knew better than to disturb her seclusion, and for the sa
me reason the grandes dames, who would otherwise ensure she was introduced to every potentially eligible gentleman in the room, had tonight no reason to turn their beady gazes her way, leaving her free to think.

  To set her mind to defining her way forward.

  Tomorrow, she felt sure, was the time to start — to strike out on her own now that her brothers and cousins had relaxed their vigilance after learning that the laird had died, and his threat against “Cynster sisters” along with him. Their obsessive protectiveness had subsided to its usual irritating, but manageable, level, but there’d been so much to do with preparing for this ball that she’d set aside her concerns to help Eliza and Celia.

  But now the ball was nearly at an end, and it was time to reinstitute her search — indeed, to intensify it given she now wore the necklace and was therefore marked by The Lady as next in line to find her true love. Even more pertinently, she should make a start before her brothers and cousins realized, and remembered that the laird was not the only dangerous male inhabiting the wider ton.

  The whole question of the laird’s intentions as yet remained a mystery; Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, had volunteered to discover the man’s identity, but yesterday word had arrived that Royce and his half brother Hamish had still not located the band of drovers who had removed the laird’s body and that of his henchman Scrope from the bottom of the cliff over which they’d fallen. Regardless, there was no question that the man had died, and eventually, as always, Royce would prevail, and then they’d know the whys and wherefores, but the laird’s motivations no longer concerned her … or at least they wouldn’t, not unless some other member of his family took up the vendetta … no — she wasn’t going to entertain that thought.

  Glancing at her eldest brother, Rupert, standing chatting with others nearby, she fervently prayed the possibility of a family vendetta continuing did not occur to him. Or to Alasdair, or Devil, or any of the others. If it did … they were quite capable of making her life a misery, regardless of whether there was any real threat or not.

  Narrowing her eyes on Rupert, she murmured, “Best to start as I mean to go on, and best to start immediately — tomorrow it shall be.”

  Pushing away from the wall, she moved into the crowd, smiling, nodding, exchanging comments here and there as she made her way toward the exit. Catching sight of her mother, she detoured to explain that she had an incipient headache and would take the carriage home, then send it back the short distance for Celia, Martin, and Eliza, who wouldn’t be free to leave until the last stragglers had departed.

  Having received her mother’s blessing, Angelica continued to the door, then descended the stairs to the front hall. Devil’s majordomo, Sligo, on watch, popped up with her cloak and to inquire if she needed assistance. She let him summon the carriage and help her into it.

  With the door shut, Angelica leaned back against the squabs. Alone in the comfortable dark as the carriage rattled over the cobbles toward Dover Street, she focused on what lay ahead.

  Her hero. Wherever he was, she intended to hunt him down.

  And then … love, she fully expected, would take care of the rest.

  But finding him was her test, the challenge she faced, the hurdle she had to overcome to prove she was worthy; she seriously doubted that he would find her. Regardless, she fully intended to enjoy herself while she searched. Who knew? She might not stumble on her hero for a year or more …

  She frowned. That might not be how matters came to pass. Henrietta — to whom Angelica was supposed to pass the necklace after she’d found her hero — was only a few months younger than Angelica.

  Henrietta was just a few steps behind Angelica in the hero-hunt. So …

  “Hmm … I might not have as much time as I’d thought.”

  Frowning more definitely, she refocused on her purpose and mentally reaffirmed the specifics of her hero. Tall, handsome, and well set-up went without saying, and she had a distinct preference for dark hair, but she was willing to compromise on that. What was far more important was the requirement that, once he’d realized and had had it made clear to him the role he was to play in her life, her hero should look at her in exactly the same intelligent and knowing, yet no longer caring how he might look to others, besotted way that Jeremy looked at Eliza.

  The same way Breckenridge looked at Heather.

  The exact same way her father still looked at her mother, even after all these years.

  That look was the key.

  Relaxing against the seat, frown evaporating, replaced by an inflexibly determined expression, Angelica nodded. “That’s what I want, and that’s what I will have. Or my name isn’t Angelica Cynster.”

  * * *

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  March, 1829

  Wadham Gardens, London

  eather Cynster knew her latest plan to find a suitable husband was doomed the instant she set foot in Lady Herford’s salon.

  In a distant corner, a dark head, perfectly coiffed in the latest rakish style, rose. A pair of sharp hazel eyes pinned her where she stood.

  “Damn!” Keeping a smile firmly fixed over her involuntarily clenching teeth, as if she hadn’t noticed the most startlingly handsome man in the room staring so intently at her, she let her gaze drift on.

  Breckenridge was hemmed in by not one but three dashing ladies, all patently vying for his attention. She sincerely wished them every success and prayed he’d take the sensible course and pretend he hadn’t seen her.

  She was certainly going to pretend that she hadn’t seen him.

  Refocusing on the surprisingly large crowd Lady Herford had enticed to her soiree, Heather determinedly banished Breckenridge from her mind and considered her prospects.

  Most of the guests were older than she — all the ladies at least. Some she recognized, others she did not, but it would be surprising if any other lady present wasn’t married. Or widowed. Or more definitively on the shelf than Heather. Soirees of the style of Lady Herford’s were primarily the province of the well-bred but bored matrons, those in search of more convivial company than that provided by their usually much older, more sedate husbands. Such ladies might not be precisely fast, yet neither were they innocent. However, as by common accord said ladies had already presented their husbands with an heir, if not two, the majority had more years in their dish than Heather’s twenty-five.

  From her brief, initial, assessing sweep, she concluded that most of the gentlemen present were, encouragingly, older than she. Most were in their thirties, and by their style — fashionable, well-turned out, expensively garbed, and thoroughly polished — she’d chosen well in making Lady Herford’s soiree her first port of call on this, her first expedition outside the rarefied confines of the ballrooms, drawing rooms, and dining rooms of the upper echelon of the ton.

  For years she’d searched through those more refined reception rooms for her hero — the man who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss — only to conclude that he didn’t move in such circles. Many gentlemen of the ton, although perfectly eligible in every way, preferred to steer well clear of all the sweet young things, the young ladies paraded on the marriage mart. Instead, they spent their evenings at events such as Lady Herford’s, and their nights in various pursuits — gaming and womanizing to name but two.

  Her hero — she had to believe he existed somewhere — was most likely a member of that more elusive group of males. Given he was therefore unlikely to come to her, she’d decided — after lengthy and animated discussions with her sisters, Elizabeth and Angelica — that it behooved her to come to him.

  To
locate him and, if necessary, hunt him down.

  Smiling amiably, she descended the shallow steps to the floor of the salon. Lady Herford’s villa was a recently built, quite luxurious dwelling located to the north of Primrose Hill — close enough to Mayfair to be easily reached by carriage, a pertinent consideration given Heather had had to come alone. She would have preferred to attend with someone to bear her company, but her sister Eliza, just a year younger and similarly disgusted with the lack of hero-material within their restricted circle, was her most likely coconspirator and they couldn’t both develop a headache on the same evening without their mama seeing through the ploy. Eliza, therefore, was presently gracing Lady Montague’s ballroom, while Heather was supposedly laid upon her bed, safe and snug in Dover Street.

  Giving every appearance of calm confidence, she glided into the crowd. She’d attracted considerable attention; although she pretended obliviousness, she could feel the assessing glances dwelling on the sleek, amber silk gown that clung lovingly to her curves. This particular creation sported a sweetheart neckline and tiny puffed sleeves; as the evening was unseasonably mild and her carriage stood outside, she’d elected to carry only a fine topaz-and-amber Norwich silk shawl, its fringe draping over her bare arms and flirting over the silk of the gown. Her advanced age allowed her greater freedom to wear gowns that, while definitely not as revealing as some others she could see, nevertheless drew male eyes.

  One gentleman, suitably drawn and a touch bolder than his fellows, broke from the circle surrounding two ladies and languidly stepped into her path.

  Halting, she haughtily arched a brow.

  He smiled and bowed, fluidly graceful. “Miss Cynster, I believe?”

  “Indeed, sir. And you are?”