Kasey Michaels (28 page)

“God, Silsby, you must love your chocolate-tart goddess very much!” he at last choked out, holding his folded neckcloth to his nose and mouth, to keep away some of the smell.

“Yes, milord, so much that I’d do anything for her to notice me, as I was struck by her the moment she came into the house,” the valet concurred solemnly, nodding his head. The motion sent another wave of something that smelled like camphor and onions in Simon’s direction. “But, then, milord, you’d know how I feel, wouldn’t you’?”

Simon’s good humor evaporated as he eyed Silsby through narrowed lids. “Now just what is that supposed to mean? And for God’s sake, man, put that towel back on. You look like you’ve just had a horrible fright.”

Silsby did as he was ordered, then looked to his employer again. “I spoke out of turn, milord,” he said apologetically and perhaps a bit frantically, looking past Simon to the door, and escape.

“Why should you be any different from the rest of the staff, Silsby?” Simon remarked. “Go on—say what you were going to say.”

“Well, sir,” the valet began, clearing his throat, “it’s not like it’s no great secret or anything, is it, sir? What with you buying Miss Johnston everything under the sun, and having this ball for her and everything—and letting her friend, Mr. Plum, live here and all? The old dear is happy, Roberts is over the moon, and even Emery is saying nothing could suit us all more. We’re all most pleased for you, milord,” he ended, smiling brightly, as if he had just said something wonderfully brilliant. “Most pleased.”

“I see,” Simon said, nodding. “Well, thank you, Silsby, but I believe that you and the rest of the staff are laboring under a misapprehension. Miss Johnston is here to entertain my mother and for a... for a... well, for reasons that don’t concern you. There’s little that smells of April and May in this house—most especially in this room. However, in order to save me from my mother, you will, as a good servant to your master, keep that piece of information between ourselves?”

“Oh, yes, milord! It wouldn’t do to upset her ladyship when she thinks she’s getting her own way,” the valet averred sincerely, then pointed to his towel-draped head. “And this, my lord? We’ll keep mum about this as well?”

Simon rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, indubitably, Silsby. You may rely on my discretion.”

“Thank you, sir,” the valet said quickly, then bowed himself out of the room after Simon assured him he could competently undress himself this one evening.

However, once alone in the room, Simon sat down on a straight-back chair he used when Silsby was helping him on with his boots, and only stared into space for a long time, realizing that, just perhaps—as he had admitted to Silsby—everything was not quite so splendid as he had just this evening tried to make himself believe.

Callie could think of nothing more pleasant than riding through London up beside Simon Roxbury—unless he would hand over the reins to her, which would make her happiness complete.

He was being the perfect gentleman this morning. He’d complimented her on her choice of gown. He’d personally assisted her as she climbed onto the seat of his curricle which was smack up to the echo and had two of the finest horses in the traces that she had ever seen. He had taken on the role of guide as he drove her through Mayfair, past Hyde Park, and then westward, out of the city and into the rolling countryside.

And all the while that they drove, his hands light on the reins, he kept up an easy banter meant to amuse and enlighten her. He spoke not a word about Noel Kinsey or their plan or, worst of all, what would happen to her once they had accomplished their mission.

He also did not speak of those moments in her chamber, when they had both lost their tempers, and their heads, and done something best left unremarked-upon, and then forgotten. Or at least that’s how she believed Simon saw the thing, so that, if he did dare to mention any of it, she would lose all of her good humor and burst into tears—or hit him.

It was only as the scenery changed from houses and public buildings and turned to fields and green trees that the silence between them became charged, uncomfortable, and Callie’s earlier happiness began to fade.

Only to disappear entirely when Simon turned to her after one particularly lengthy silence and, reaching into his waistcoat, pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper. “Here,” he said, holding it toward her even as his eyes remained on the road ahead. “I’ve taken the trouble of writing down a few more bits of elementary information for you.”

Callie eyed the paper suspiciously. “I should have known,” she said, surprised at the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to smack his hand, and the paper, away. “I try and try, but I’ll never please you, will I?”

“Don’t be—”

“Silly?” she interrupted hotly, snatching the paper from his hand and tearing it into small strips, flinging those strips over her shoulder so that they wafted away in the breeze. “Stupid? Simpleminded?”

“Stubborn,” Simon responded, “if you wish to be at all lyrical, and stay with the letter ‘s.’” With the reins transferred to his left hand and the horses still entirely under his control—damn him for his easy expertise—he reached into his waistcoat once more, extracting another folded sheet. “Shall we try again?”

“Yes, why don’t we!” Callie exclaimed hotly, taking the second paper and, again, tearing it into shreds, then tossing the pieces into the air. “Are we quite done now?”

He turned to her; smiling in that wonderfully indulgent way of his—curse his eyes!—and reached into his waistcoat once more. “I can go on as long as you can, Miss Johnston. Remembering the fate of my mother’s list of rules, I took the precaution of having my secretary write up a number of copies. Shall we go for three, or perhaps an even half dozen—or will you realize that learning the names of Almack’s patronesses may be of some importance?”

Callie snatched the paper from his hand and unfolded it, quickly reading down the list of names. “That’s what it is,” she announced, as if he had been no more sure of the contents of the note than she had been. “I don’t think I understand.”

He shifted the reins so that he was once more holding them with both hands. “My God,” he said, turning to smile at her, so that her stomach did another one of those small flips that had become almost the norm whenever he smiled at her, “now there’s something I never thought to hear from you—an admission that, just perhaps, you don’t know everything. But, then, I suppose this is my fault. I imagine I should have first told you that you’ll be going to Almack’s tonight.”

Her jaw, and her stomach, dropped. “I’m going
where
? I thought that wouldn’t be until—but I’m not ready! Am I ready? I couldn’t be ready, could I? And what about the ball? Am I still to have my ball?”

He returned his gaze to the all-but-deserted road, as if expecting a huge mail coach to come bounding over the hill at them at any moment, startling the horses, and wished to be prepared for any emergency. “Actually, as Imogene planned the timing rather badly, the ball has been postponed for three weeks,” he told her as calmly as if he were pointing out another site of architectural interest. He turned and smiled at her once more, looking young, and handsome, and rather endearingly childlike. Oh, yes, she really could punch him!

“Ordinarily,” he went on as a strange buzzing began in her ears, “this sort of reshuffling would be disastrous, but I’m Viscount Brockton, and I can do things others cannot. Are you impressed? Bones was impressed.”

“Postponed,” Callie repeated, realizing her lips had gone numb—was this how Imogene felt just before she fainted? “Or do you mean that it’s been
canceled
? That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve canceled my ball. Why?”

“There’s a lovely, tall tree to our immediate left, Miss Johnston,” Simon pointed out in a drawl that made her long to choke him—there were so very many ways to kill him, and she had a sudden desire to explore at least a dozen of them. “Perhaps you’d like to fly up into its boughs so that you can be as high as your temper?”

“I am
not
losing my temper, Simon Roxbury!” she shot back at him. “I
refuse
to lose my temper, for you would say it just proves that I cannot be trusted to play out our plan the way it is supposed to be done and cancel Almack’s as well. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t think you’re the most evil, pernicious,
back-stabbing
—”

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Charlotte, is to be married at Carlton House the night Imogene selected for your ball,” Simon interrupted just as a drop of rain splashed against Callie’s nose—she was surprised it didn’t sizzle, so hot was her anger. “It is to be a small, intimate ceremony, but it seems that many private parties and balls already had been thrown together at the last moment, to celebrate the nuptials. Your ball would have been one too many, that’s all. We want to make sure Filton chooses ours, don’t we?”

Callie subsided against the seat, glaring at him, only slightly mollified. “Oh. I suppose that’s all right, then.”

“How magnanimous of you. Prinny will be so pleased not to have Imogene set up as competition for the favor of his guests.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be snide. But this does set us back, doesn’t it? I mean, Almack’s is splendid, and will make for wonderful practice, but Bones told me he doesn’t think Filton has set foot in Almack’s for these past five or more Seasons.”

Simon smiled at her. “Bones is correct, Callie. However, as word also came to me—never mind how—that Filton’s great-aunt has now died, and didn’t leave her nephew a groat, I’m convinced the man will be dowry-hunting with a vengeance in London’s premier marriage mart within the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks? So long?”

“Patience, my dear. Filton’s been living fairly high on his expectations this past year or more, since his great-aunt first took ill, as a matter of fact. But even he must show some sign of mourning, of being respectful to his aunt’s memory, before kicking up his heels in London. You just consider this evening at Almack’s as part of your necessary preparation, for both the ball Imogene has conjured up and your meeting with the dear earl. Filton will come to both you and London all in good time, to be enraptured and spurned and left to lie, as I believe you’ve said it, facedown in the gutter, his life in tiny little pieces and raining down on his body. You just have to be patient. Now, are there any more questions?”

“His
broken
body, actually,” she corrected, then held out her hand, watching raindrops hit her palm. “And now I only have two more questions, my lord,” she said as sweetly as she could. “One—as I will be given permission tonight by one of the patronesses on this list, this also will mean that I may waltz at my ball, yes? And, two—do you think we should be looking for somewhere dry where we can wait out this shower? Straw wilts when damp, you know, and I am most heartily fond of this bonnet.”

“There’s a small inn just ahead, beyond the next curve in the roadway,” Simon told her, urging the horses into a trot, then turning to smile at her. “Nervous?”

“About Almack’s?” she asked, wishing his smile didn’t affect her so much. “No, I don’t think so. I haven’t had time to be nervous, which is probably a good thing.”

“I didn’t mean Almack’s. You’ll be splendid,” he said, his expression serious. “I meant, are you nervous about going with me now, unchaperoned, to a small country inn?”

She froze him with her glare. He had yet to say a word about what had occurred in her bedchamber. Was this how he was going to treat what had happened between them—as a joke? Did he think she was a child, to be infatuated with him over a silly kiss or two? That she’d be frightened of being alone with him, fearing she might well leap onto his body and beg for yet another kiss? To have him touch her again?

Well, she wasn’t, and she wouldn’t. In fact, she didn’t give a snap of her fingers for him, the rotter, and it was about time he knew it. “Ha!” she said with a flip of her head, turning away from him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth should I be nervous?”

“No reason,” he replied silkily, so that she wished she’d had the foresight to secrete a large brick in her reticule, a brick which she could pound on his head.

The rain remained a slow drizzle until they reached the inn yard, then showed signs of turning into a deluge. Simon tossed the reins to the ostler who ran out to greet them, then made short work out of grabbing Callie at her waist and hauling her down from her perch. He all but carried her inside the door to what—it had appeared from the roadside and now was proven—was little more than a rude country tavern.

She blinked raindrops from her lashes as she walked forward a few paces to peer into the common room. “Oh, this is nice,” she said as she saw a half dozen men sitting around tables, sipping ale and eating what looked and smelled to be bowls filled with fragrant rabbit stew.

She turned to Simon, noticing his frown but not much caring what he thought “We have an inn much like this near my home. Justyn would take me there every once in a while, whenever he was at home. We’d sit with the farmers and talk to the coach passengers and sometimes even play darts. I’m rather accomplished at darts, Simon. Do you think we might be able to—”