Free Suzanne Robinson by Just Before Midnight Page B

during his years in the cavalry. The restraint was necessary. Lady Hortense’s nasal whine reminded him of a goat that had swallowed a trumpet, and the comparison did nothing to control his urge to snap at the woman. But he couldn’t risk giving vent to his usual sarcasm if he wanted to remain on the guest lists of Society. So he had to stand here, wondering how his gloves got boot blacking on them, and play the repentant horror-stricken gentleman.
    Fortunately Lady Hortense’s mother arrived.
    “Mother, just look at my gown. It’s awful, and I’ll never recover from this. Never.”
    “Oh, hush, Hortense. No one wants to listen to you.”
    “But Mother!”
    Cheyne fixed his gaze on a chandelier before his sympathy for the mother began to show. Then he looked at his gloves again. Sighing, he pulled them off and glanced around the room. Nearby he saw Miss Mattie Bright, a pleased-with-herself expression on her face. In that instant he knew what had happened. Fury exploded in him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Boiling with frustration, Cheyne made his apologies to Lady Hortense and her mother, made a graceful offer to replace the gown and excused himself.
    Turning on his heel, he marched straight for Matilda Bright, who sat amid her spangled rose silk and complacency. The moment he took a step, however, Miss Bright rose and glided away from him through the thickest part of the crowd. He knew he should return to the business of hunting for the blackmailer, but he was too angry. Besides, he reasoned, how could he continue to move through Society unobtrusively with this mischief-making little savage making him look like an idiot at every function? She had to be stopped. And it would be his pleasure to do it.
    Cheyne glimpsed Miss Bright’s spangled gown as she fled across the ballroom and went through the French doors that opened onto the terrace. He darted after her into the cold April night. He was in time to see her race down the terrace and vanish into one of the rooms on the other side of the house. He ran after her and found himself in the Silk TapestryRoom, so called for the woven Renaissance tapestries that hung from its ceilings.
    He heard a door slam somewhere and hurried out, but stopped in a picture gallery with half a dozen rooms off it, uncertain. Light footsteps sounded above him and he plunged up the west staircase to another gallery. There he hesitated and caught a whiff of perfume—lilacs and spice. He followed the scent through several rooms, but it faded. Cursing, he started down the stairs. He’d been gone from the ball too long. As he made the turn in the staircase, he sniffed and smiled. The little devil had doubled back.
    He slithered along the picture gallery, taking care to stay on the carpet that muffled his steps. He paused beside a pair of doors carved of mahogany, slowly turned the gilded handle and slipped inside the Music Room. Miss Bright stood at the floor-length windows and peered at the terrace through the wine-colored velvet curtains.
    She really was a stunner. As he watched, she bent over to remove her slippers, giving him an interesting view of her posterior. Cheyne smiled and approached her while she rubbed her foot. He was near enough to deliver a good swat to his tempting target when she gasped, whirled around, and threw her shoe at him. The silk object hit him in the chest.
    “Ouch! That hurt, you little harpy.”
    Cheyne grabbed for her, but Miss Bright dartedaround the grand piano. Cheyne dashed around the other side so that he was between the piano and the doors.
    “You put boot blacking on my gloves, blast you.”
    “You’ve got no call to get wrathy. You made me dance with that passel of mangy oafs.” Miss Bright turned the color of the curtains. “That Isidore Chelmer gawked at my—he stared at—I’ve never met a more repulsive fella in all my born days. Except you.”
    “Miss Bright, if you wish to marry a title, and it appears that is your quest,