Free Ballrooms and Blackmail by Regina Scott Page A

done?”
    “If you are innocent, I have no need to
answer that,” Priscilla replied, voice low and determined. “I
merely asked what you knew about a certain note connected with the
Duke of Rottenford.”
    A note? How did Miss Tate know about the
note if she hadn’t sent it? Yet if she had sent it, why was she
questioning Miss Bigglethorpe about it? And she’d certainly never
warn the duke away from herself!
    “Unlike some people,” Miss Bigglethorpe
said, and Nathan could imagine her patrician nose in the air, “I
have no need to resort to love letters to express my interest in a
gentleman. The gentlemen pursue me, not the other way around.”
    “Then of course you have no interest in the
Duke of Rottenford,” Priscilla said. “After all, I haven’t seen him
trouble himself to further your acquaintance.”
    “Oh! I’ll have you know we spoke at length a
fortnight ago, and he took me driving only last week. He is a
frequent caller!”
    If by frequent she meant he ambled by on his
way to another appointment once or twice a month, she was
correct.
    “How nice. The fact that he dances with
other ladies must not concern you, then, with him living in your
pocket and all.”
    Nathan winced. Now he knew why some people
referred to certain tones as catty.
    “I’m quite sure I could care less how the
Duke of Rottenford spends his time.”
    Nathan had heard enough. He rapped on the
open panel, and all voices instantly hushed. It was Miss Cranberry,
er Crandall who came to see who was visiting. He could only surmise
that their parents had gone out during the intermission, thinking
the gazes of a dozen other people sufficient chaperonage for the
short time.
    One look at Nathan, and Miss Crandall paled,
blinking her blue eyes. “Oh, Mr. Kent.” She glanced past him. “Is
His Grace with you?”
    “No indeed,” Nathan said. “Though he sends
his regards. We simply wished to know whether you and Miss
Bigglethorpe are enjoying the evening.”
    “Oh, well.” She shuffled on her evening
slippers, light green skirts swinging. “The music was lovely.”
    But present company was not. That much was
clear by the tension in her pale face. “I quite understand. May I
escort Miss Tate away so you can enjoy the rest of the opera?”
    “Oh, yes, thank you!” As if she realized how
rude that sounded, her smile of relief vanished. “That is, I’ll see
if she’s ready to leave. Excuse me.” She ducked back behind the
curtain.
    There was a whispered confrontation, and
then Priscilla burst through the curtain quite as if she’d been
shoved from behind. Every golden hair was still in place, but her
emerald eyes snapped fire, and her cheeks blazed with her
emotions.
    Nathan bowed. “Forgive me, Miss Tate, but
Lady Minerva gave me to understand you were in great peril.”
    She smoothed down the satin of her skirts.
“She would not be mistaken.” Glancing up, her smile blossomed, and
once again, he swore the scent of roses floated on the air.
    “And how chivalrous of you to come to my
aid,” she said, threading her arm through his and directing him out
into the corridor. “I must thank His Grace for sending you.”
    Some part of him wanted all her thanks
directed his way, even if he suspected it wasn’t entirely
sincere.
    “I doubt we’ll have time to meet with him
before the second act begins,” he told her, “but I will be sure to
thank him for you.”
    Her mouth quirked, but she kept walking at
his side down the scarlet-papered corridor. “How considerate.” She
slanted him a glance wreathed in lashes as gilded as the lace at
her impressive décolletage. “I hope my conversation with Miss
Bigglethorpe did not concern you.”
    “On the contrary,” Nathan said, tightening
his grip on her arm, “I find myself quite curious about this note
associated with His Grace.”
    Her color deepened, but her laugh danced in
the air like the notes of a song. “Oh, we ladies are forever
passing notes, praising this gentleman,