Ballrooms and Blackmail by Regina Scott Page B

both puzzled.
    “I suppose,” Acantha said slowly, “Miss
Bigglethorpe might have set her cap for him. He is an exceptional
catch. And Lord Eustace is a bit on the possessive side. He gets
miffed if I so much as mention another gentleman in his
hearing.”
    “He is one of the gentlemen I refused,”
Priscilla said. “So is Mr. Richmont.”
    Acantha colored as if she did not like the
reminder.
    “Then we will have to question them all,”
Emily said. She rose. “Never fear, Acantha. We will uncover the
truth.”
    “Thank you.” Acantha hopped to her feet as
well. “I cannot tell you how good it feels to know I am not
alone.”
    Priscilla wished she felt the same way. As
they took their leave and returned to the carriage, she couldn’t
help going over their conversation in her mind. It wasn’t hard to
imagine another girl might be jealous of her. She’d faced that
emotion more times than she cared to remember. But her and Acantha
Dalrymple both?
    Who else was out for her duke?

Chapter
Eight
    “It makes no sense,” Priscilla told Emily as
they headed for the Emerson house in Emily’s carriage. “How did
Miss Bigglethorpe, Mr. Richmont, or Lord Eustace know about Aunt
Sylvia? I haven’t met Miss Bigglethorpe above a few times, and I
always keep that knowledge from my suitors.”
    “Perhaps one of them has a relative living
at the same estate,” Emily guessed, leaning back against the velvet
squabs. “Or a country house in the area.”
    “And they also know Acantha’s pearls are
paste?” Priscilla protested.
    Emily shrugged. “Lady Minerva did make that
accusation aloud at our ball. One of them might have overhead or
talked with someone who overheard.”
    Priscilla shook her head. “Too coincidental.
Something more is at play, Emily. You may depend on it. But if you
must find a way to question them, you could start with Miss
Bigglethorpe’s father. He’s a member of the Royal Society.”
    Emily’s look darkened. “And a more
inveterate gossip you are unlikely to find. Like father, like
daughter, perhaps?”
    Priscilla felt cold and gathered her
mother’s shawl closer for all the day was sunny. “I am doomed.”
    “If he’s the culprit, you may be right.”
Emily shivered as well. “I’m sorry, Pris. I didn’t mean to sound so
dismal. It’s just that the meeting of the Royal Society was not
what I expected.”
    Priscilla frowned at her. “How so? I cannot
believe they would be unkind to the daughter of a duke!”
    “As some of them are dukes and duchesses, my
rank hardly matters,” Emily assured her, gaze out over the
carriages they were passing. “And that wasn’t the problem. All they
do is talk, about themselves, about their families, about their
friends. I’ve never heard such gossips! I was given an earful at
the meeting today, and some of it had to do with your duke.”
    Priscilla stiffened. “What about His
Grace?”
    “It seems he’s the head of a rather large
family,” Emily explained, fingers tapping at her plum-colored
skirts as if she found it hard to describe something without
painting a picture of it. “No siblings still living, but countless
cousins, aunts, and uncles of varying degrees. One of them fancies
herself a sculptress: mushrooms and toadstools, of all things, out
of marble! He supports her and all the rest from what I
gathered.”
    “You mean he’s actually poor?” Priscilla
stared at her aghast. “Aunt Sylvia’s last husband, the late Earl of
Brentfield, had that problem, to her everlasting regret. All his
funds were tied up in art.”
    “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that,”
Emily said as the carriage rounded the corner onto her street. “His
Grace seems to keep his family members like Miss Fairtree out of
generosity. But because of that, they are keenly worried about who
he will marry.”
    Priscilla nodded, drawing a breath. “His
wife could well encourage him to turn them all out and use the
money to support her interests