“I’ll stick with this one if you don’t mind. Coop? Is the woman important?”
Leave it to Darby to see past the obvious. “Not in herself, no.”
“No?”
“No, Rigby,” Coop repeated.
“Hmm, I had wondered, but I will admit your answer comes as a small shock. All right, let’s try this one. Is there a signet ring?”
“No. And you’ll have to do better than that if you’re attempting to appear brilliant. Miss Foster already deduced as much.”
“Are you at all romantically interested in Miss Foster?”
“Rigby, for God’s sake, you’re asking that as our third question?”
“I rather had to,” Rigby said sheepishly. “Clarice made it quite clear that I was to report back to both her and the duchess. In some detail. Oh, by the by, the duchess believes Miss Foster is full to the brim with spunk. Her Grace admires spunk. The duke was just pleased that he spied a fellow hawking meat pies on the corner when they left the chapel.”
With Gabe and his Thea out of town, Rigby’s betrothed—formerly maid to Thea but now Miss Clarice Goodfellow of the Virginia Goodfellows—was camping with the Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, and would until her wedding. Which was rather the same as saying Rigby had all but taken up residence in Grosvenor Square, as he couldn’t seem to exist for more than a few hours without breathing the same air as his beloved.
“Go again, Darby. I won’t count that question against you.”
“I suppose that’s sporting of you,” Rigby admitted. “Although it does me no good. I suppose I’ll just have to make something up on my own. Even if I can’t see why you won’t answer.”
“Not won’t, can’t. I don’t know the young lady even twenty-four hours. Nobody knows such things in less than a day.” And now he was lying to his friends.
“Yes, they do. I took one look at Miss Frobisher and knew I couldn’t care for her romantically if someone held a pistol to my head. You remember her, don’t you, Darby? The one my aunt was pushing on me a few Seasons back? Stands to reason that if you can tell who you don’t want in an instant, it’s just as simple to know who you do want. Look at Clarice. I took one look. Saw one smile. And here I am, soon to be a happily married man. Now will you answer, Cooper?”
“Once again, Rigby, no.”
But the man wasn’t about to give up. This, Coop quickly decided, was another strike against marriage; it made fools out of formerly intelligent males. “No, you won’t answer? Or no, you’re not interested? Clarice will ask, you know, and the duchess, as well. You could have a little pity for a man having to face those two in the morning.”
“Consider yourself pitied. You have one more question. You might want to make it a good one. Darby?”
“Give me a moment, friend, if you please. The woman isn’t important. The signet ring is not only unimportant but imaginary, as well. Yet the threat, the danger to our good friend here, obviously remains real. So where does that leave us? Ah—and forgive me this lengthy question, but the answer will still ultimately be yes or no.”
“Go on,” Coop said, wishing he hadn’t offered to answer any questions.
“I fully intend to, yes. The woman unimportant, the signet ring no clue at all—which probably leaves out the small estate, the female guest, the servant—and we’ll consign all the derring-do since Quatre Bras to the dustbin of fantasy, as well. And yet—and yet—the blackmailer has threatened exposing something so dangerous that you’ve called on us to help you, even gone so far as to betroth yourself to a woman you just admitted you don’t known from Adam.”
“Is this going to take much longer? I’ve had a long day.”
“I’m getting there, friend. So what are we left with? We’re left with this business of the highest reaches of the Crown, that’s what. We’re left with Prinny showering our hero with land, a title and even money—the latter something Prinny has precious little of, I should add. Are you paying attention, Rigby?”
“He could have just said he finds Miss Foster attractive. That might have appeased Clarice somewhat,” Rigby mumbled into the neck of his wine bottle.
“We’ll continue without you, then,” Darby said. “Unless my question—yes, I’ve finally arrived at the sticking point—brings you back to attention. Cooper, requiring an honest answer of either yes or no—if we cannot find and stop the blackmailer, for the sake of all the others in similar predicaments but most especially in aid of you, dear friend, and if the blackmailer goes through with his threat to publish some truth in Volume Three—is it more than just conjecture that your life very likely will be forfeit?”
Finally. “Yes.”
Darby retook his seat. “I see. Well, then, what do we do next?”
“Next being tomorrow morning, I’m forgoing my appointment with my supposed new tailor and taking Miss Foster to Bond Street to buy her a betrothal gift. You, Rigby—yes, the answer was yes, so are you going to close your mouth anytime soon?—will please me by escorting your beloved to Mrs. Yothers’s dressmaking shop, armed with a bit of gossip.”
“Gossip? Clarice lives for gossip. Oh, thank you, Coop. You may have just saved me. What is she supposed to say?”
“That, my friends, might take another bottle. Because I don’t know which of you two will first selflessly fling yourself forward as volunteer.”
“I’m game,” Darby said without hesitation. “I take it you have reason to believe this Mrs. Yothers is in the employ of our blackmailer?”
“I can’t be sure, no, but Dany—Miss Foster—seems to think it’s possible. If she’s correct, and if our blackmailer isn’t just tidying up all his victims before setting sail for parts unknown, another note demanding payment for silence could arrive on your doorstep within a few days.”
The viscount nodded his understanding. “You have considered the possibility that Mrs. Yothers is simply a gossip, and could tell several of her customers, any of whom could be in the man’s employ?”
“I did. But we have to start somewhere, damn it all.”
“I agree. Just be sure to make this gossip something suitably salacious. I do have my reputation to uphold, you understand.”
DANY WATCHED IN amusement and some admiration as her sister, so lately seen hanging her head over the chamber pot, entered the drawing room with the graceful glide and the upturned chin that were the result of long years of practicing to be perfect. Or snooty, Dany often thought.
Mari, with her uncanny way of spotting imperfection, took herself immediately to the large vase of flowers Dany had rearranged the previous afternoon, clearly in an imperfect way. Mari frowned in distaste, measured the bouquet with both eyes and hands and then removed four blooms. Four, exactly the number Dany had grabbed in her attempt to impress Lord Townsend. One, two, three—four, and the bouquet was perfect once more.
“A lesser person could hate you,” she told her sister as Mari then sat herself down on one of the couches, arranging her yellow morning gown into precise folds. She entwined her fingers in her lap.
“A clever person might attempt to emulate me,” Mari responded in her sweet voice. “As Mama has encouraged you to do. After all, look at me. Just another country miss from a respected yet fairly ordinary family, and now a countess. I worked hard to accomplish that, you know. Years of practicing with books balanced on