Page 25 of Twice Upon a Midnight

“Half of whom were married, andnoneof whom resided at Albany.”

Ella bit back a smile. She’d never seen her mother looking so…trapped. Once again, Ella realized exactly how much her parents loved her. No other society mother would go to the extremes that the duchess was going to today for her.

“I love you, too, Mama,” she said and placed a kiss to her cheek.

Her mother flushed.

“Your Grace and Lady Elenora.” A deep voice calling from the end of the hall twined down Ella’s spine. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Ella held her breath in desperate hope as she turned to face—

Not her Spenser…Was he?

She blinked. The man who sauntered toward them could have been her masked man’s twin.Almost.They were both of the same height and breadth, same high cheekbones. Even his wavy hair was the same, a shade somewhere between chestnut and black. But his eyes were different as he gazed curiously at her, lacking the crinkling warmth and quiet intensity of Spenser’s brown depths that had always reminded her of warm chocolate.

No, not a twin…a doppelganger?

As he came forward to greet them, her mother looked hopefully at Ella, who faintly shook her head.No, he isn’t the man we’re looking for…Confusion passed through her that two men could be so very much alike. And yet, the marquess simply wasn’t her Spenser.

Her heart ached with disappointment.

“A pleasure to see you both again,” Walmesley said as he sketched a shallow bow to the duchess and a nod to Ella. “Your ball was the event of the season. Everyone is still talking about it.”

“Thank you, Walmesley,” her mother returned with pride. “We hope the party expressed our gratitude to everyone for welcoming us back to London so warmly.”

A lie. Their reception by London society had been anything but warm, or they wouldn’t have needed to throw such a grand affair in the first place. Ah, but that was the rub when it came to interacting with theton. Lies were always better received than the truth.

“You did exactly that, Your Grace.” His eyes gleamed. “I hope we’ll have the opportunity to see each other at more events this season.” He paused, puzzled. “But what brings you to Albany today?”

“Durham asked us to call on you on his behalf.”

“What about, Your Grace?”

“Parliament.”

He frowned, confused. “I don’t sit in Parliament, ma’am.”

“Don’t you? Oh, well, our mistake then.” Her mother waved away her feeble excuse for calling on him, then caught her breath as if an idea had just occurred to her. “Perhaps, while we’re here, you might be able to help us identify one of our guests?” She cast a glance at Ella and added beneath her breath, disheartened, “Although now it doesn’t seem to be quite so important.”

“Which guest?” he asked.

“That’s just it, you see. We don’t know his name. He waltzed with Lady Elenora, but everyone was in masks and—”

“He left this behind,” Ella interrupted. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to think her pathetic for searching out a man, or foolish enough to have given him a waltz without even learning his true name. “A glove.” Ella pulled it from her reticule and held it out toward the marquess. “We wanted to make certain it was returned to its owner.” Another lie, although not completely. Shedidwant to return it, just for different reasons than she’d implied. “It has the initialsSandRembroidered at the wrist, so we thought perhaps it might belong to you.”

He took the glove to examine it. “Alas, no. I’m afraid it’s not mine.” He smiled broadly. “And doubly sorry since it also means I missed my chance to waltz with you.”

Oh, he resembled her Spenser so very much! Too much for coincidence. A familial connection, perhaps? New hope blossomed inside her at the possibility. “Are you certain you don’t know whose it might be?” Throwing caution to the wind—and swallowing down her pride—she admitted, “He called himself Spenser.”

Ella sensed an instant change in the marquess. A hardening. A cooling. Although she couldn’t have pointed out exactly where his expression or demeanor had changed, shefeltit, the way old sailors felt approaching storms in their bones.

“Spenser, you say?” he repeated, his smile still present but now oddly tight.

She nodded. “After the author ofThe Faerie Queene.He said it was his mother’s favorite. Do you know of anyone who might use that name who attended the ball?”

“No, I don’t. And unfortunately, he wasn’t me. My favorite author is Sir Walter Scott.” Then he clasped his hands behind his back, leaned in, and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. “But you can call me Scott, if you’d like.’

She gave him a weak smile. She appreciated his teasing, yet he wasn’t her Spenser. How she was able to stand there and not break down in tears she had no idea. When she felt a sob rise inside her, she bit her inner cheek to force it back.