Despite plentiful rumor to the contrary, Christian de Bord, the 6th Marquess of Ashford, had never killed anyone.
For the first time in thirty-eight years, however, he was giving murder very serious consideration.
“You’re certain she’s here?” he asked Whitby in a low voice.
His friend—one of the few left who both received Christian in his homeand was invited to society events—nodded nervously. “Ashford, are you quite sure this is a good idea?”
“It is an excellent idea.”
“You, er”—Whitby had the grace to look embarrassed—“you know for a fact she’s the one who did the engravings?”
“She bloody well signed them.” His outrage was hot and fierce and righteous, and unlike the guilt that coiled in his chest, it felt goddamned wonderful.
“She signed them?” It was hard to tell in the dark, but Whitby looked faintly green. “The Earl of Warren’s sister drew pornographic pictures of you and thensigned them?”
“Oh, yes.”
MH.
Her artist’s mark had swirled in the bottom-right corner, a slanted diagonal. When he’d seen the pictures—when his life had descended even more ludicrously into chaos—when his sister’s art tutor had tendered her resignation—Christian had vowed to find out who was responsible. It had taken a month and a small fortune, but he’d done it.
Matilda Halifax.
“Can you point her out?” he asked Whitby as they made their way through the poorly lit crush.
Whitby’s dark brows drew together. “You do not know her? Surely everyone in London knows the Halifax Hellions.”
Christian clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack a tooth.
He knewof them, of course. The scandalous redheaded Halifax twins were nearly as infamous as he was. They had debuted probably half a dozen years before, to the delight of every gossip rag in the country. Even at his estate in Northumberland, he’d heard of their antics. One of them stripped down to her chemise and threw herself into the Serpentine. The other—or perhaps it was the same one, Christian had no notion—was caught charging into a duel in the guise of a medical man, dressed in breeches and jacket and brandishing a cheroot. They drank smuggled French brandy, terrorized pedestrians in their high-perch phaeton, and, if the scandal sheets were to be believed, paraded about the city with their tits out and their skirts up to their knees.
Yes, he knew of the Halifax Hellions. He did not think he’d have any trouble recognizing her. Red hair. Scandalous gown.
He was, perhaps, a trifle unhinged. He had a moment of pause as he considered confronting this complete stranger.
And then he thought again of the pictures, and how crushed Bea was going to be when he told her about her tutor, and his resolve hardened. What use was his blackened reputation if he could not frighten some sense into a spoiled, mercenary debutante?
A reputation blackened further by Matilda Halifax herself, damn it. Herefused to hesitate.
“Never mind,” he said to Whitby. “How many gingers with a flask and a cigar can there be at this bloody event?”
Whitby winced. “Two, I think.”
Goddamnit. Twins.
“Fine,” he grated. “Find her. And then leave well enough alone.”
Whitby led him through the party and out to the sculpture garden where couples nestled together in the shadows. Christian’s gaze skipped over two MPs from opposite sides of the aisle looking not at all repelled by the other’s politics in the heady, rose-scented night air.
And then Whitby paused and nodded. “That one,” he said. “Lady Matilda is usually the one in blue.”
Christian followed his friend’s gaze. Matilda stood in front of a statue, a naked male form. He could not see her face—only a neatly pinned coil of red hair, a closely cut blue dress, one pale hand extended to caress the curve of the sculpture’s hip.
