Peregrine's mouth quirked up. "You know better than that."
"It certainly is different from your house in Kafiristan," his friend agreed. "All those people and animals coming and going as they pleased. I never did understand exactly who most of them were, or how they were related to you."
"I didn't always understand, either. Kafir households are both hospitable and complicated, and most of those people were in no way related to me." The prince took a sip of his brandy. "Is your book going well? I haven't seen much of you lately."
Ross made a wry face. "I doubt if writing a book ever goes well, but progress is being made. Sorry I've neglected you, but after the first fortnight, you didn't seem to need assistance."
"No need to apologize, you're not my nursemaid. And you're correct, I have had no problems. Many hostesses enjoy having a tame barbarian in their drawing rooms," Peregrine said with sardonic humor. "Besides, I would not want to separate you from your work when the Muse is cooperating."
"It would be more accurate to say that the Muse and I are engaged in a tavern brawl, with the Muse striking mostly illegal blows. If my publisher wasn't demanding the manuscript weekly, I'd have given up by now," Ross said feelingly. "And there are distractions ahead because my mother persuaded me that it's my duty to give a ball in honor of Sara and Sir Charles. It will be held at my country place, three weeks before their marriage. The invitations haven't been sent yet, but I hope you will be able to come and stay a few days. The house will be full for the first time in..." He paused to consider. Then his eyes went opaque. "For the first time in a number of years."
With difficulty, Peregrine masked the elation that raced through his blood. Fate had just given him the last thread for the web. "Will the guests of honor be staying with you?"
"Yes, along with my parents and some others." Ross chuckled. "My mother is doing most of the work, so I really have no right to complain of the nuisance."
"I'll be delighted to come and meet your parents. They live mostly in the country, don't they?"
His friend nodded. "Yes, my father is near eighty now. His health is good for a man of his years, but he prefers to avoid traveling. However, he's prepared to make the effort for Sara's sake. She's a great favorite of his."
"Lady Sara is a remarkable young woman." Peregrine's tone was carefully neutral. "I understand why she is so dear to you."
Ross's expression became serious. "Obviously you have had no success in persuading my cousin to end her betrothal."
"I have not yet given up hope of changing her mind." Idly Peregrine swirled the brandy in his glass. He had seen Sara several times at social affairs, had danced with her twice. It had been surprisingly hard to treat her as a mere acquaintance when there had been so much more between them. He had wanted to make her laugh, he had wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to finish what they had begun at Sulgrave.
If Sara wanted the same, she had shown no sign of it. She had been perfectly, sweetly polite, and as remote as if he were a complete stranger. Every inch a lady, to his regret.
With irritation, he swallowed the rest of his brandy, then poured more. She was a distraction and a means to an end, no more. He should waste no more time thinking about bedding her. "I doubt that Lady Sara is deeply attached to Weldon, but I think she feels honor bound to marry him."
"That's Sara," Ross said ruefully. "Honorable to a fault. She would bend over backward to give the devil a fair hearing. If you have good reasons why she shouldn't marry him, it would be better to tell her directly so she can decide for herself."
It had never occurred to Peregrine to tell the simple truth, but after his initial surprise, he considered the possibility before discarding it. "I don't think that would work. Weldon's crimes are too appalling, too vicious—there is an English word. Heinous, I think?— too heinous for an honorable person to believe. I have been gathering proof, but so far, most of what I have is abstract, a matter of complex financial records rather than a true picture of the suffering he has caused. Not enough, I fear, to persuade your cousin to break her betrothal."
"You're probably right." His friend frowned. "Is Weldon really so dreadful? I find him disturbing, but it's hard to believe he is quite the monster you describe."
"He is worse than you can imagine, and you have seen much more of the world than Lady Sara," Peregrine said bluntly. "Even you, who have some cause to trust my word, have trouble accepting that Weldon is evil. Since that is so, how can I convince an honest innocent like your cousin?"
"I take your point, though it would be easier to believe if you were more specific about what Weldon has done," Ross observed. "However, you obviously don't want to say more, and I assume you have your reasons. But about Sara—you said you have not given up hope."
Peregrine looked into his friend's eyes and began to lie. "I may soon have an incontrovertible piece of evidence. If so, I would like to present it to Lady Sara in the presence of you, her father, and Weldon. That way, Weldon can speak in his own behalf, and you and Haddonfield will be there to ensure that he does not try to coerce her. Will you help me?"
The other man gave a long, measuring look. "That seems fair. If it comes to that, I'll do whatever I can to help."
Peregrine raised his glass in a half salute. "To Lady Sara's best interests and future happiness." Then he downed the rest of the brandy. He was not interested in the pallid English concept of "fairness." What he wanted was to see Old Testament justice visited on Charles Weldon.
One way or another, he would separate Sara from her betrothed—even if the price was Ross's friendship and Sara's reputation.
Chapter 10
"You dance very well, Lady Weldon."
As they swung in time to the music, Sara laughed up at her partner. "I'm not Lady Weldon yet, Charles, but soon. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Very much." Her betrothed smiled back. He was splendidly handsome in formal evening dress, the touch of silver at his temples adding to his distinguished appearance. "It's very gracious of your cousin to give this ball for us."
"Most of the credit must go to Aunt Marguerite," Sara said. Briefly her gaze went to the tall, golden-haired figure of the Duchess of Windermere, who stood on the far side of the glittering ballroom and viewed the results of her work with calm satisfaction. Though over fifty, in the soft chandelier light she still had the beauty that had captivated a duke. Sara felt a familiar pang of regret that her own mother, who had so resembled Aunt Marguerite, was not here to see her daughter marry.
The duchess saw Sara's glance and sent a smile, which Sara returned affectionately before the figures of the waltz turned her away. "Even though Aunt Marguerite voluntarily renounced the fashionable world to stay with her husband in Norfolk, she does like reemerging occasionally to prove that no one can entertain quite as elegantly as she."
"She does it very well," Charles agreed, clearly relishing the idea of being related to the duchess by marriage. "But you will be even better."
"If you want me to be a grand hostess, I'll do my best." Sara was pleased at how well she and Charles had been getting along in the last weeks. The tension at the beginning of the summer had melted away after she had stopped seeing Peregrine.
The music ended and partners separated. Weldon said, "What lucky man is your next partner?"
"You are très galant tonight, Charles," she said teasingly. "As it happens, I want no partner for this dance. I knew that by this time I would be ready to catch my breath and visit with Great-Aunt Sylvia. I haven't seen her for months."
Charles gave a mock shudder. "I will let you do that on your own. I've always found the dowager countess to be most alarming. I'll join you later for the supper dance."
"Until then." Sara smiled before turning toward the card room, where her great-aunt was likely to be found.
Her smile faded as she moved across the ballroom, exchanging greetings and accepting good wishes from other guests. She could not help but remember another ball, where Prince Peregrine had coaxed her
into dancing again. Since the trip to Sulgrave, he had been all too willing to abide by her prohibition against seeing him privately. They had met casually at parties and balls, almost as strangers.
She had been grateful, of course; without the prince's disturbing presence, her normal equilibrium had returned. She had ordered her trousseau, sent wedding invitations, gone to Charles's house with Eliza to plan redecorating the girl's room, and calmly accepted her betrothed's chaste, respectful kisses when he brought her home after social functions.
But whenever she saw the Kafir, something secret and sorrowful tugged deep inside her. His behavior confirmed what she had suspected: he had made advances because she was available, and turned his attention elsewhere when she proved unwilling. Because he had taken the time and effort to guide her through her fears, she had thought there was a special friendship between them, but obviously she was wrong. As unthinkingly as a child plucking flowers, he had changed her life, then moved on. And because she had gained so much from knowing him, she had no right to feel anger or regret.
Tonight she had seen the prince only from a distance. He had arrived late and immediately been surrounded by eager women. She wondered if any were his mistresses. Perhaps all of them were; harems were popular where he came from.
She must stop thinking such things, she told herself as she stopped to greet Lord Batsford, Charles's pleasant, undistinguished older brother. Peregrine had no place in her life, and he never would. Never.
* * *
Peregrine made his way toward Ross across the ballroom, politely refusing to allow anyone to deter him from his path. Ever since arriving in England, exultation had coursed along the edges of his consciousness, but now it surfaced like a hidden river reaching for the sun. The time had come. Tonight he would strike the first direct blow against Weldon, though his enemy would not recognize it as the opening salvo of a war. Like a warrior going into battle, Peregrine felt heightened awareness, a sharpening of wits and senses that would enable him to turn whatever happened tonight to his advantage.
Ross saw his approach and came to meet him. Pitching his voice below the music and chatter, he asked, "Have you found the proof that you wanted?"
"I believe so." Peregrine studied Ross, knowing that the Englishman was one of the most unpredictable elements in what would happen tonight. He would not take kindly to the knowledge that he had been played for a fool. Well, for Ross's sake he would make the attempt to persuade her with words. "I'm going to ask Sara to come to the library and listen to what I have to say. Give me half an hour to try to persuade her to end her betrothal. If neither of us has emerged after thirty minutes, bring Weldon and Haddonfield to the library."
Ross's golden brows arched up. "You want to do this now, in the middle of a ball?"
"So English, worrying about a scene," Peregrine murmured. "In fact, that is one reason tonight is perfect. With the house full of people, the principal players in this little drama will do their best to suppress undignified reactions. Much more tidy. Besides, the sooner this business is done, the better."
"That I agree with. Very well, half an hour. The library is a good choice. You should be undisturbed there." Ross's eyes narrowed. For a moment, the formidable man who had survived some of the world's most dangerous places was visible through his gentlemanly facade. "I just hope you know what you're doing."
Peregrine gave a brief, feral smile. "I do."
Then he went to find Lady Sara. The music had started again, and she was skirting the edge of the ballroom when he intercepted her. Tonight she wore an amber silk gown trimmed with blond lace, and its luxurious simplicity suited her perfectly. In the aftermath of dancing, she glowed with rosy warmth, and the deep décolletage exposed an enticing expanse of delicate curves.
Surprised at his sudden appearance, Sara glanced up at Peregrine without the cool reserve that she had maintained since Sulgrave. He caught his breath, unexpectedly moved by her closeness, and by the pleasure of once again seeing the essential Sara St. James revealed in those clear brown eyes. Once more he thought of a sibyl, a timeless beauty, simultaneously wise and innocent, and he wanted her with blazing intensity.
But now was not the time for such thoughts, for desire had little to do with what would happen next. "Lady Sara, I must speak with you alone."
"What... ?" She halted, puzzled and wary.
"I do not ask this lightly." For a moment he was distracted by the way her burnished gold hair was drawn back in shining waves, revealing the flawless bone structure beneath her creamy complexion. Forcing himself back to the business at hand, he said, "There is something very important you must know."
Her cool reserve back in place, she studied his face before saying, "Very well. We can go out on the patio."
Feeling her resistance, he focused his will and issued the silent command, Come with me. Aloud, he said, "The library would be better. What I must say should not be overheard by others."
Sara had sworn not to be alone with the prince again, but his green eyes and deep voice were compelling. And she was also curious, wondering what he could have to say that required such secrecy. As she wavered, Peregrine took her elbow.
She almost jerked away at the intensity of her reaction, for even his light, passionless touch aroused her, reminding her why she had decided to keep her distance. But there was nothing of the seducer about him—heavens, what could he do during a ball in her cousin's house?—so she allowed herself to be guided from the room.
The library was on the opposite side of the house, and the sounds of music and voices vanished when Peregrine closed the door. Faint illumination came from two lamps, and he turned up the flames before facing her. "Perhaps you should sit down," he suggested. "What I am going to say will come as a shock."
She sat at one end of the long leather-covered sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. Her primness was a direct reaction to the Kafir's dark, dangerous allure. He stood a dozen feet away, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet like a fencer. Sara felt no physical threat, but something in the atmosphere made her uneasy, like storm clouds rolling across a dusky sky. "What is this vital issue you must speak of, Your Highness? I should not absent myself too long from a ball that is in my honor."
The silence stretched as he regarded her with brooding eyes. Abruptly he said, "This will not be easy for you to believe, but try to listen with an open mind. Lady Sara, you are betrothed to a man who is evil, corrupt in ways beyond anything you can imagine. You must not marry Charles Weldon."
Sara was so surprised that her mouth fell open. She did not know what she had expected, but it was not this. "Ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"
"You should." There was a raw power in him that she had not seen before, and she realized that he had discarded the veneer of civilization to reveal the fierce mountain warrior. "Do you know how his first wife died?"
"Jane Weldon tripped and fell down the stairs, I believe," she said slowly. "A tragedy, but I fail to see the relevance."
"She told her husband that she was leaving him, taking Eliza, and going back to her family. The next day, she died—at her husband's hands."
Sara stared at him, feeling a stirring of anger. "This is utter rubbish. There was never talk of a rift between Charles and his wife, nor was there any suggestion that her death was anything but an accident. I will not sit and listen to your absurd accusations." She got to her feet. "I would advise you not to say such things to anyone else, or you run the risk of being charged with slander.''
"Don't go yet, Lady Sara." He raised one hand commandingly. "I have just begun."
Reluctantly Sara sat down again, her hands clenched around her folded fan. There couldn't possibly be any truth in Peregrine's charges, but having agreed to listen, she supposed she should hear him out. If she could show him how wrong he was about Charles, it could prevent trouble for her betrothed.
"A housemaid heard Weldon and his wife shouting on the landing moments before the accident. T
hen there was a scream, and the sound of a falling body," Peregrine said. "The maid was the first one on the scene, but Weldon was gone, and his wife was already dead of a broken neck. Weldon came home an hour later, claiming he had been at his office."
Sara felt a faint, chilling finger at her nape. Could Charles possibly have been so angry that he had given in to a brief, violent impulse? Feeling disloyal for even thinking it, she asked, "If a crime was committed, why didn't the girl report it to a magistrate?"
"Because Weldon had her kidnapped and sent to a brothel," Peregrine said harshly. "After several months she died there, but not before she told another girl what had happened. I have an affidavit sworn by the second girl, but it is hearsay evidence and inadmissible in court."
"And since the original housemaid is dead, the story is impossible for Charles to refute." Sara shook her head, utterly unable to reconcile the prince's accusations with the dignified, familiar man she had promised to wed. "That is why hearsay is not evidence—there is no way of determining the truth."
"If that was the only charge against Weldon, perhaps one could give him the benefit of the doubt, but there are dozens of such incidents." He gave a deeply cynical smile. "Isn't there an English expression, no smoke without fire? Weldon is surrounded by the smoke and fire of hell itself, and I'm going to see that he burns."
Sara's eyes narrowed as his words triggered a flash of insight. "This has nothing to do with me, does it? It is about Charles. I thought you were his friend, but I was wrong. You hate him," she said softly. "Every time you and I have been alone, you have made some oblique remark against Charles. Because I would not listen, you have invented this parcel of lies. It will not work, and I will not stay here to listen to you slander an honest man." She stood and walked toward the door, but she had to pass Peregrine to do so.
He blocked her path and caught her by the upper arms, his clasp light but implacable. "Yes, I hate him, but that does not mean that I am lying." His eyes blazed like green fire. "Weldon is corrupt to the depths of his black soul. He is the prince of hypocrites, infinitely dangerous because he pretends virtue while performing the most despicable deeds."