A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (28 page)

At the last minute, neither Sebastien nor Eleanor wanted to leave for Castle Eaton. Teg had run away the night before and gotten into a brawl with three gutter dogs. He returned home in such pathetic condition that Eleanor had to stitch up his ears and scold the gardeners for leaving the back gate open.

One of the housemaid’s aunts died of mysterious causes the morning of their departure. She left her niece all her worldly possessions, which didn’t amount to enough for an early retirement from service, but the girl was so inconsolable that a crowd of strangers—law clerks and hot-chestnut sellers—gathered at the curb to offer sympathy, roasted nuts, and legal advice.

“At least,” Sebastien confided to his wife, “it isn’t a mob of do-gooders searching for a certain fabled mischief-maker.”

She pivoted on her heel and left him standing alone on the pavement.

She could not find her traveling cloak. Nor her costume for the masquerade at the castle. She and
Mrs. Bindy, the house keeper, searched high and low before they located the large portmanteau that contained both items sitting beside the bed. It had obviously been there all along, Sebastien said. A bag could not move by itself.

Then
his
traveling trunk came unstrapped when the coachmen leaned down to lift it.

All of Sebastien’s clothes, his smalls, silk cravats, nightshirt, and books, tumbled into the gutter for London to behold.

“I refuse to believe in omens,” Eleanor said, and wondered why she felt so sick to her stomach that she couldn’t even finish her usual pot of tea.

“But you believe in fortune-tellers,” he reminded her, when he knew he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“That’s different,” she said. “I only believe in the good things he predicted.”

“There were the bad ones?”

“I knew you were superstitious.”

Sebastien looked from his wife sitting resolutely in the carriage, to Mary standing on the front steps with an expression of black doom that could have stopped the sun from shining.

Superstitious?

Had he been a sailor about to embark on a voyage, he would have pulled his boat back to shore and waited for calmer seas.

But he knew that Eleanor was resolved to deliver this last letter to the duchess. Therefore, come heaven or hell, he intended to help her keep
her promise—and keep her safe at the same time.

After their auspicious departure, Eleanor could not shake off her dour mood. She studied the metallic sky through the window as if waiting for the clouds to unleash calamity upon the earth. She kept wondering whether she had forgotten to do something before they left.

She complained that the carriage interior smelled unpleasantly of ashes and vinegar, the very concoction the footmen always used to refresh the squabs. She noticed a smudge on her glove and refused to believe Sebastien’s reassurances that no one would care.

“Take my word on it,” he murmured, not looking up from his newspaper, “no one who meets you is going to notice the condition of your gloves.”

She laid her head against his shoulder. “The duchess is right. You are a rogue.”

“I take umbrage to that accusation,” he said mildly. “Even if it is true. Which reminds me, when am I going to see what you purchased at that naughty dressmaker’s?”

“When it’s delivered to our Sussex home.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The carriage rumbled past Apsley House with its multiple chimneys puffing smoke into the surly November sky. Bustling London would soon fall behind.

“We’ve almost escaped,” he said, putting his paper aside. The relief on his face made her smile. But then, lately, she had only to glance at him and feel an incredible lightness come over her.

“Her grace is leaving in another week to go to the country with the children,” she said, restraining herself from taking one last look at the mansion that the duchess loved. “I think she’d have gone sooner but Bellisant asked for a few more days to finish his sketch.”

He smiled grimly. “I ought to finish him.”

“I’m glad that you have restrained yourself,” she teased, enjoying his possessive streak.

“Barely.”

“By the way, she was grateful that you retrieved Mrs. Watson’s letters without causing another uproar.”

He smiled. “They practically fell into my hands.”

“The duchess dislikes being in London for Guy Fawkes night,” she said, changing the subject. “Of course the boys adore every moment of it. I cringe every time I hear one of those Roman candles set off in the street. Last year Will and I were returning home from a play when a carriage was overturned by a drunken crowd. It started in fun. Then someone threw a burning effigy at a gentleman walking to his club, and his coat caught fire.”

“How fortunate I shall be close by to protect you from those vulgar people. In fact”—he tugged at one of the tiny white bows that adorned her bodice—“I’m close by right now.”

“Yes. And you’re always unfastening me one way or the other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

His laughter filled her with poignant warmth. “No. I’m not.”

She gave a small sigh and closed her eyes, the creaking of the coach wheels, her husband’s deep voice, relaxing her. “I hope Teg doesn’t get out again while Burton is walking him.”

“I think you frightened the staff into vigilance.”

“Mary did seem flustered when we left.” She opened her eyes as she felt his teeth sink lightly into her earlobe. She struggled to remember what they were talking about. “Will,” she went on, distracted by the dark head that had nestled between her breasts, “was quite put out, too, until he received that invitation to the castle.”

His head lifted. “What invitation?”

“I think it came from the earl himself. He’s apparently asked Will to give a few readings at the party. Will is very excited about it.”

“I was excited about finally having you to myself.”

“Does that mean he can’t stay with us over the winter? I know his heart is set on it, but if you want me to rescind the invite—”

“You didn’t.”

She chuckled. “No. Only teasing—” She glanced up at the light pinging from above. “Is that rain?”

He listened. “I don’t think so.”

“A good downpour tomorrow night would put out all those awful bonfires.”

His mouth thinned. “Pity it wouldn’t put out conspiracies at the same time.”

Castle Eaton’s historical notoriety had existed for centuries before its current owner began hosting his popular masquerades. Beneath the castle keep lay a torture chamber that boasted five oubliettes. Inside these hidden cells, medieval prisoners had moldered, having been forgotten after months of interrogation. These heartwarming premises now served as a stage for the Earl of Eaton’s opening entertainment.

The lords and ladies of the ton loved a good scare. The earl’s midnight tours of the oubliettes, complete with a display of genuine torture instruments and servants moaning behind the walls, guaranteed that at least one guest would faint dead away.

Lord and Lady Boscastle made only a token appearance at this uplifting spectacle on the evening they arrived. Eleanor provided all the uplifting that Sebastien required. He, in turn, could make her faint dead away without even leaving their room.

Mr. Will Prescott, however, arrived in the nick of time to give a candlelight reading from Othello in the banqueting hall. Sir Perceval had accompanied
him from London, having been employed by Lord Eaton to tell fortunes in the torture chamber and lend an air of mysticism to the party.

Unfortunately the fortune-teller dropped his crystal ball in fright when a beheaded ghost popped out of a trapdoor to greet the other guests. Sir Perceval read palms afterward in an aggrieved mood.

The next morning, Sebastien and Eleanor lingered in their bedchamber to brace themselves for the formal breakfast and the rigorous demands of intermingling with the other guests. Eleanor had become more at ease in this situation than was her husband, who’d never had much patience for parties to begin with. After all, she had pulled the wool over the eyes of an entire town. Still, it was Sebastien who received the first invitation for a social connection.

A chambermaid brought a message to the bedchamber from a gentleman who’d asked to meet Sebastien on the beach after breakfast. He had not given his name, but claimed that he and Sebastien were acquainted.

“It could be a hundred men,” he said, hunting for his coat.

Eleanor handed his coat to him. “I’m coming with you.”

“No. It might be news concerning the plot against Wellington.”

“It might be another woman,” she said tartly. “I know perfectly well what goes on at these parties.”

His mouth pursed in objection. “This could be my
personal contact. I don’t want you getting involved in my work.”

“I didn’t want you involved in mine, either,” she reminded him.

He curbed his impatience. “You don’t understand. Some matters can only be dealt with by a man.”

“I’ve been a man,” she said. “I think I understand quite well.”

“And I’m supposed to explain that to another agent?”

“Of course not. You may introduce me as your wife. After all, a good operative should be the last person one suspects.”

The castle perched upon chalk clifftops that eclipsed a bay. They walked down to the beach, he in his long black coat, Eleanor wrapped in a red cloak that reached her ankles. Their breath huffed out in the cold. Where the mist met the water on the horizon, fishing boats sailed in defiance of the unstable sands and storms that often arose without warning.

They waited over an hour for Sebastien’s anonymous contact to appear. He never did. The only persons in sight were another couple who had sneaked from the castle to stroll along the beach.

“I knew it,” Eleanor said. “It was another woman. When she saw me with you, the hussy lost her nerve.”

He shook his head amusedly. “Then it is a good thing you came.”

“Does that mean I can come with you the next time?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her teeth were chattering as he guided her to a sheltered spot between a crop of boulders. She plopped down in the sand, her cloak drawn around her.

“Well,” she said, with enforced cheer. “Here we are.” She picked up a piece of driftwood and drew a castle in the sand. “Isn’t this a nice day to contract a lung ailment? Are my lips blue yet?”

He grinned at her. “I’ll revive you when they are.”

“How long are we going to wait?”

A gust of wind blew across the boulders. He shielded her from an onslaught of wet sand, glancing up at the cliffs. “Another minute or so. The sea is best this time of year. There’s no one else around.”

“I don’t wonder why. The sensible people are sitting by the fire taking tea with—”

“I have a confession.”

Confession. A chill chased down her spine.
Finally
. She schooled herself to look surprised, the driftwood slipping from her fingers. “Do you?”

“I meant it when I said I wanted us to start over,” he began somberly.

She gave him an encouraging nod. “The truth is a good place to start.”

He nodded, his gaze inscrutable. “When I was gone, I did things in my work I’d never done before, things I did not dream myself capable of.”

“You’ve hinted as much.”

He smiled without humor. “There were times when I realized what I’d become and wasn’t sure that I should come back to you.”

“What changed your mind?”

“For one thing, I could not live any longer without you.”

She didn’t speak. She was afraid he would stop.

“And for another, I realized what
you
had become and knew I was responsible.”

He subsided into a long silence.

Suddenly she couldn’t endure the suspense. “And that is all that you wanted to confess?”

He frowned at her. “I wish to make it perfectly clear that my confession concerns acts of love, not those of war.”

“Love?”

His unflinching gaze gave her another chill. “The duke did not order me to interfere with his wife’s affairs. I asked to be put in charge.”

“Did you indeed?” she asked, swallowing over an unexpected tightness in her throat.

“I deceived you,” he said simply. “And I did not know how to tell you.”

She expelled a sigh. So much for making him suffer. “I know what you did,” she admitted. “I have known for some time now.”

He studied her in disbelief. “And you allowed me to go along feeling guilty?”

“I kept waiting for you to tell me the truth.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know the whole time.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you weren’t upset?”

“Because you cheated? Because you played your duke against my duchess?”

“Your work for her placed you in danger,” he said. “I never realized how much until I returned.”

“I assure you, I was never in as much danger as you are now.”

“Then you forgive me?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“I think you have.”

“Did the duke approve of this deception?” she asked.

“Well, he heard me out and didn’t offer much of an opinion one way or another.”

The sea breeze lifted the dark red strands of her hair. “But he didn’t stop you.”