Intimate Betrayal Page 12

  Chapter Eight

  Morgan glided Caroline effortlessly around the crowded ballroom, his feet automatically following the rhythmic patterns of the dance. Lady Holland’s ball was an unmitigated success, and everyone was having a marvelous time.

  Except Morgan. It had been a long, tiring week for the duke, who had attended an inordinately large number of society functions in hopes of stirring the interest of the elusive Falcon. Thus far he had met with no success, and he knew if he did not learn anything soon, his usefulness to the War Ministry would end.

  It was rare for the duke to attend so many parties of the season, and there was a great deal of speculation as to the reason for his sudden descent on the ton. Morgan again heard the rumors he was searching for a suitable bride, and the very thought made him shudder in distaste. The failure of his marriage had haunted him for years, and his mind had remained tortured until he made the firm decision never again to marry. He honestly couldn’t say which he feared more, the French or a new wife.

  As he and Caroline made the circuit around the vast ballroom, his eyes scanned the various faces, mentally recording those he saw, hoping he could somehow make some small connection that would lead him to the Falcon.

  “Tristan and I have finally set a wedding date, Morgan,” Caroline announced pleasantly.

  “Mmmmm,” the duke replied, too absorbed in his task of observing the other guests to pay much attention.

  “Mother wanted to wait until the fall, but Tristan insisted he would wait only until early summer.”

  “How nice.”

  Caroline turned her head sharply to look up at Morgan and realized at once he was not paying the least bit of attention to her.

  “I have decided that Tristan should wear a pink satin evening assemble,” Caroline said in a droll tone. “Wouldn’t he just look divine?”

  “I’m sure,” came the vague response.

  “And I thought you might wear lavender satin, or perhaps even canary yellow and lavender stripes. I know that is a bit more extreme than your usual style of dress, but after all it is my wedding and I want everything to be just perfect.”

  “Yes, perfect.”

  “Wonderful,” Caroline cried in a teasing tone. “I shall direct your tailor at Charing Cross to begin work on the suit immediately. Is that all right?”

  “What? You want my tailor to make you a suit, Caroline? Whatever for?”

  “Not for me, Morgan.” Caroline laughed wickedly. “I want a suit made for you. To wear to my wedding.”

  Morgan turned his face down to hers and saw the twinkle in her eyes.

  “Come now, Morgan,” she pouted. “You have already agreed. You are not going to renege on your promise, are you?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “Of course you may have a suit made for me if you feel it is necessary.”

  “Ha!” Caroline exclaimed triumphantly. “You have just agreed to appear at my wedding attired in a yellow-and-lavender striped suit, Morgan.”

  “What?” he thundered, nearly colliding with another couple. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” she teased. “Honestly, Morgan, you should pay more attention to a woman when you make her a promise.” She tapped her fan sharply on his shoulder. “I should hold you to that promise, to teach you a lesson.”

  Morgan laughed. “I guess you should. It is the very least I deserve for my rudeness. I haven’t been a very attentive partner, Caroline.” The duke executed an elegant bow. “Pray forgive me.”

  Caroline smiled charmingly. “Naturally I forgive you, Morgan.”

  The duke escorted Caroline off the dance floor, and they stood near the open French doors, catching a refreshing breeze.

  “I wish I knew what holds your interest so intently,” Caroline commented a few minutes later. Following Morgan’s line of vision to a group of people on the far side of the room, she purred in a knowing tone, “It appears the lovely Mlle Madeline Duponce has caught your eye.”

  “Lovely?” Morgan responded, his eyes resting on the petite brunette. “I suppose there are some who might consider her attractive.”

  “There is no need to be coy with me, Morgan.” Caroline grinned. “Madeline Duponce is one of the most sought-after women of the season. My poor brother Gilbert shall be crushed when he learns of your interest. I do believe he fancies himself in love with the darling French emigre. And how could he, the mere heir of a baron, compete with you, a wealthy and sophisticated duke?”

  “You have an extremely vivid imagination, Caroline.”

  “Don’t worry, Morgan. Your secret is safe with me.”

  The duke was about to correct her and tell her the field was clear for young Gilbert, but thought better of it. Perhaps it would be an intelligent notion to focus some attention on Mlle Duponce, Morgan decided. There were a number of French emigres whose loyalties were questioned by the War Ministry.

  “Secret?” Tristan commented as he joined them. “Did I hear you say Morgan has a secret?”

  “Morgan is smitten with Mlle Duponce,” Caroline eagerly informed Tristan.

  “So much for keeping secrets, Caroline,” Morgan replied with a wry smile.

  “ ’Tis only Tristan,” Caroline defended her actions. “If you can’t trust your own brother, who can you trust?”

  Morgan did not answer, his gaze still following Madeline Duponce.

  “Oh dear,” Caroline spoke suddenly. “Here comes my great-aunt Eudora. I haven’t had a chance to speak with her all evening, and she wants to hear about the wedding. I know we were supposed to dance this set, but would you mind if I spend the time with her instead, Tristan?”

  “Go on, love,” Tristan replied affably. “I will stand here and look deflated.”

  Giving him a saucy look, she turned to intercept her great-aunt. As soon as they were alone, Tristan spoke to his older brother.

  “It sounds as though Caroline has been matchmaking again. I sincerely hope she did not offend you, Morgan. I know too well how you detest being paired with various women.”

  Morgan waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Tris. Caroline was merely being observant. I was indeed staring at Mlle Duponce.”

  Tristan whistled in astonishment. “Well, if you have any intentions of paying court to Mlle Duponce, you will have a true challenge getting past her watchdog brother, Henri.”

  “Do you know Henri Duponce?” Morgan asked, suddenly alert to the coincidence.

  “I’ve met him a few times. At Caroline’s home, as I recall. I remember once teasing her about Henri having indecent designs on Priscilla. The truth is, it is Caroline’s younger brother who pursues the lovely Mlle Duponce.”

  “And does she return his regard?”

  “It is impossible to say. She certainly leads him on a merry chase, but I am told the French have a natural talent in that area. Caroline’s father had apoplexy when he learned of Gilbert’s interest. He has rather strong feelings about the French.”

  Morgan grinned, recalling Baron Grantham’s rather spirited discussions of the war. “Yes, I remember. Have the Duponces ever been to Ramsgate Castle, Tris?”

  Tristan considered the question for a few moments. “They attended our annual Christmas ball at the castle last year. It was such a crush, I imagine you never even saw them. They might have also been down to a house party or two last season, but I cannot recall for certain. You aren’t really serious about this girl, are you, Morgan?” Tristan asked with a puzzled frown.

  “I might be,” Morgan replied mysteriously. “But not in the way you think, little brother. Excuse me, I am going to find out if Mlle Duponce has a partner for supper.”

  Morgan negotiated the crowded ballroom expertly, coming to rest at an ornate marble pillar near the group of young men surrounding Mlle Duponce. After observing her for several minutes, he could not help but admire what an accomplished flirt she was, bantering coy remarks with the suitors surrounding her, never favoring one in particular, yet encouraging them all.

&n
bsp; A brief lull in the conversation afforded Morgan the opportunity to join the circle of admirers around Mlle Duponce. A quelling look from him sent several of the younger men scurrying quickly off, but a few of the stouthearted remained, including Caroline’s brother Gilbert. It was young Gilbert whom Morgan addressed.

  “Would you be so kind as to do the honors, Grantham,” the duke said in a deep voice. “I have not yet been properly introduced to mademoiselle.”

  Gilbert’s sullen expression revealed he would like nothing less, but he had little choice. Reluctantly the younger man complied with the duke’s instructions.

  “Mlle Duponce, may I present Morgan Ashton, the Duke of Gillingham,” Gilbert said tonelessly.

  “Mademoiselle,” the duke responded in a silky voice. Lifting her hand for a kiss he added, “I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Madeline Duponce flushed slightly at the duke’s obvious interest in her, but remained regal and composed. Morgan’s commanding presence made the other men beside her seem like mere boys.

  “Your Grace,” Madeline replied in a musical voice. “I am so pleased to meet you. Caroline has often spoken of Tristan’s charming brother.”

  The duke favored her with a dazzling smile. “You flatter me, mademoiselle.”

  She returned his smile with one of her own, and Morgan was forced to admit she was a pretty girl. She was a small woman, barely reaching his shoulder. The low-cut neckline of her icy-blue satin gown accented her full-bosomed figure and set off her dark brown hair and eyes. As Morgan boldly appraised her, a sudden image of Alyssa’s sweet smile flashed into his mind, but he ignored it as he continued to charm the young French girl. There was, however, no chance for further conversation, because Henri Duponce suddenly materialized at his sister’s side.

  “Are you ready for supper, Madeline?” Henri spoke to his sibling. “Lady Ogden has been kind enough to offer us a place at her table.”

  “How delightful,” the duke piped in. “That is where I plan on sitting. May I?” He offered his arm to Madeline before either Gilbert or Henri could react. Confused, she looked from one man to the next, then shrugged her shoulders philosophically and accepted the duke’s outstretched arm. Henri and Gilbert quickly took up their positions behind the pair and followed Madeline and the duke doggedly into the buffet hall.

  Lady Ogden was immediately spotted by Gilbert at a large table in the corner of the dining hall.

  “You will be joining us, Morgan?” Lady Ogden asked in a slightly puzzled tone as the small group settled in around the table.

  “If you have no objection, Priscilla?” the duke replied.

  “Of course not,” she responded immediately. “I see you have made the acquaintance of Mlle Duponce. Have you also met her brother, Comte Henri Duponce?”

  “I’m sure we have met at the gaming room at White’s, have we not, sir?” Morgan lied in a challenging voice.

  “Perhaps,” Henri replied vaguely. He appeared to be even more annoyed with the attention Morgan was showering on his sister once he learned the duke’s identity.

  Madeline expertly covered the awkward silence with idle chatter, until everyone’s attention shifted to the sumptuous meal Lady Holland had ordered for her guests. Instead of a long, elaborate formal meal, Lady Holland had planned a more informal late-night buffet. The buffet table fairly groaned under the profusion of food with a seemingly endless array of pheasant, roast, fowl, and fish entrees, numerous side dishes, vegetables, puddings, jellies, mousses, and finally the desserts of pastries, fruits and nuts, bonbons, and sweetmeats.

  Elegantly garbed footmen in powdered white wigs moved swiftly from the buffet to the various tables strategically placed throughout the dining room, bringing food and wine to the guests. The room sparkled with the light from hundreds of small candles, as the fragrance of the elegant food blended with the sweet scent of the many fresh flower arrangements that decorated the tables.

  Once everyone was comfortably seated at the table, Morgan directed the conversation toward Madeline.

  “Tell me, Mlle Duponce, do you miss your native France a great deal?” Morgan asked in his most charming manner.

  Madeline was briefly startled by his question, but answered readily enough.

  “I regret to say, Your Grace, there is very little I remember about France. I was a young girl when my uncle managed to smuggle my brother Henri and myself out of Paris. We have never returned.”

  “And your parents, mademoiselle?”

  “The guillotine, Your Grace,” Henri answered for his sister in a curt tone. “They were not as fortunate as we were.” Henri shot Morgan a quelling look.

  “I am so very sorry,” Morgan replied somberly, suspicious of Henri’s tale. “I did not know.”

  “Ours is not an especially original story, Your Grace,” Madeline spoke softly, trying to cover her brother’s obvious hostility.

  “But surely you hope someday to reclaim your lands and birthright,” Morgan pressed on. “It is said that Napoleon is willing to assist in the restoration of the titles and property of many of those who fled during the revolution.”

  “We would not be so foolish as to trust the ranting of a madman, Your Grace,” Henri said sharply. “We are staunch royalists, and would never consider lending our good name to the reign of the Corsican.”

  “You really must try the roasted venison, Morgan,” Lady Ogden chimed in, attempting to change the volatile subject. “No one can compare with the culinary skills of Lady Holland’s latest chef.”

  Morgan accepted her lead for the moment and allowed the conversation to drift onto the ordinary topics of food, the crush of people in attendance, and Gilbert’s newest horses. He casually watched Henri Duponce throughout dinner, and came to the conclusion that there was more to the Frenchman than met the eye. Although appearing to participate in the dinner conversation, Morgan noted Henri kept a watchful eye on the guests around him. He was subtly on guard. Against who or what, Morgan could not be certain.

  After dinner, the gentlemen excused themselves and entered the gaming rooms to indulge in a bit of whist and faro. Morgan was unable to seat himself at a table with Henri Duponce, and he quickly grew bored. Deciding he might have better luck with Madeline now that her brother was otherwise occupied, he went to seek out the French girl, but she was nowhere to be found.

  “This is odd,” he muttered to himself, circling the ballroom for a second time. He then spotted Gilbert’s distinctive red hair near the open doorway. The younger man had a tight grip on Madeline’s arm, and the two of them disappeared conspiratorially onto the balcony and out of sight.

  Deciding he had probably tweaked Gilbert’s nose enough for one evening, Morgan concluded it would be in very poor taste to follow the couple. After saying his farewells to first his brother and then his hostess, the duke left the party in far better spirits than when he had arrived.

  He settled back in his carriage for the short ride back to his London residence, realizing how tired he felt. It had been a long week, but perhaps he had finally uncovered a clue. First thing in the morning, he would to go to the War Ministry and discover all he could about the Duponces. Afterward he could spend the remainder of the day visiting Westgate Manor. His secretary, Jason Cameron, recently completed all the arrangements for Alyssa’s latest gift, and Morgan was anxious to present it to her. That rather pleasant thought brought a genuine smile to Morgan’s lips.

  The duke slammed the file down on the oak desk in frustration, cursing under his breath. He had spent the entire morning wading through endless files in the War Ministry and had been unable to come up with any pertinent information about the Duponces.

  Their file was exceptionally brief. Henri and Madeline Duponce, two orphaned emigres who arrived in England 15 years ago with an uncle, Phillipe Lobeur, their mother’s brother. Phillipe, deceased two years, apparently sent a vast amount of the family’s fortune out of the country before he fled with his young niece and nephew. Subsequentl
y, Henri and Madeline had led a comfortable life. They currently resided in London at a fashionable address on St. James Street, not far from where Morgan’s own house was located. The Duponces also kept a small country home in Kent.

  Having discovered nothing of interest in the Duponce file, Morgan began reading other files of French emigres, in hopes of perhaps making a connection to the Duponces that had been missed. His tireless search yielded nothing. In fact, there was nothing negative at all written about Henri or Madeline, whereas most of the other files listed something: a financial problem, some indiscretion of either a personal or business nature. The very absence of anything negative only enforced Morgan’s belief that perhaps the Duponces were not as they appeared.

  A discreet knock at the door pulled Morgan’s attention away from the files for a moment.

  “Enter,” he commanded, not sure who it could be, since he had encountered no one, except the customary guards when entering the building early that morning.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Lord Castlereagh greeted Morgan. “I see you have been busy today.”

  “A wasted effort, I am afraid, Your Lordship.” Morgan glared at the scattered files in disgust. “I have not been able to come up with one conclusive fact after sifting through all this material.”

  “Take heart,” Lord Castlereagh sympathized. “We certainly don’t expect the Falcon just to fall into our hands. I assume you have some sort of lead or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well,” Morgan hedged, not wanting to look like a fool, “I thought there might be some information about the Duponces, Henri and Madeline. Are you acquainted with them?”

  “Duponce . . . Duponce.” The foreign secretary absently rubbed his chin. “A brunette, isn’t she, rather petite? And her brother, a tall, thin man who is very protective of her.”

  Given the foreign secretary’s keen eye for a pretty woman, Morgan was not surprised Lord Castlereagh knew Madeline.