The Trouble With Being a Duke by Sophie Barnes Page B

his. It would have been badly done not to invite them.
    Now was not the time to deliberate, however—there would be time for explanations later. Instead, it was imperative that they did whatever they could to help the woman who’d been shot. Looking beyond them all, he saw that the footman he’d stationed at the ballroom doors was starting to have trouble turning the guests away. It wouldn’t be long before someone pushed the man aside, demanding entry. “This way,” Anthony told Neville as he switched directions and began heading toward the green parlor. Ushering everyone inside, he closed the door behind him. “You can set her down over there, Neville. I’ve sent for a doctor, but in the meantime . . .” He hesitated before asking the dreaded question. “Is she alive?”
    “It appears so,” Winston said while his mother—whom Anthony would have thought to be beside herself in light of how her perfect evening was turning into a rapid disaster—walked across to where the lady now lay and began pulling her sleeve down over her shoulder.
    “The least we can do is try to clean this,” she explained. “Would you please give me some brandy and another cravat? This one’s soaked through.”
    Anthony blinked, momentarily taken aback by his mother’s air of command. It had been years since he’d seen her like this. Eager to help in any way he could, he quickly poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it on the table next to where she knelt just as Winston and Neville both handed him their cravats. He gave one to his mother, who dipped the length of fabric into the glass of brandy, then pressed it against the lady’s open wound. Her mask had been removed, he realized, revealing a face he hadn’t seen since . . . well, he couldn’t quite remember since when, but he suddenly understood why Lord and Lady Grifton were present.
    “I thought she was—”
    “Quite,” Lady Grifton snapped. “Apparently she pulled the wool over all of our eyes.”
    Trying to find an appropriate response to that and failing miserably, Anthony decided to go in search of Miss Smith. “I ought to explain the situation to our guests, but I’ll be back soon. Can you manage until I return?” It was partly true of course—the guests had looked quite disgruntled at being kept outdoors. Deep down inside, however, there was no denying that it was an excuse to find Miss Smith and at the very least bid her a good night before she left.
    But when he returned to the ballroom, it was clear that panic had begun to unfold. The rest of the guests must have realized what had happened and were now worried for their own safety. Ignoring the jumble of nerves that tumbled through his stomach at the thought of addressing everyone, Anthony stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled—rather uncivilized perhaps, but it worked immediately, drawing the attention of one and all.
    “Will she be all right?” Louise asked, coming up to him as soon as he’d assured his guests that the shooter had already vacated the premises and no longer posed a threat to any of them. Determined to be hospitable, he ended by saying that the music would resume and that dancing would continue, though he secretly hoped they’d all depart within the next half hour. There was much for his family to attend to; more so once the doctor and constable arrived. “I hope so,” he told Louise while her husband stood silently at her side. “It’s Lady Rebecca, by the way—the Earl of Airmont’s daughter.”
    The surprise on Louise’s face was unmistakable. “The mad one?” This was spoken in a whisper of disbelief.
    “Precisely,” Anthony said. He still had to figure out what she was doing at the ball. He hadn’t invited her, and judging from Lord and Lady Grifton’s expressions, they were equally surprised by their niece’s attendance.
    “If you need assistance, I’d be happy to help,” Huntley said.
    Anthony nodded his appreciation. “Thank you. I was