A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (30 page)

“Please let Lady Boscastle know that I’ll be delayed a few more minutes,” he instructed the footman before he closed the door.

He took the time to find his coat and throw it on over his costume. A secret agent did not need to be parading around as Aladdin. He wished that Eleanor had read the letters she had found, but perhaps now it didn’t matter. He would simply explain the contents of this last one to Heath. That way his wife would not have breaking a promise on her conscience.

He hurried down the spiral staircase, managing to dodge the guests who had strayed from the festivities. He would have to return to London if he was asked. He strode through the muddied bailey, beneath the portcullis, a man who’d run through worse than rain to prove himself.

Eleanor would understand, a woman who had
proven her own loyalties in England and to him in some rather startling ways. As she had once pointed out, their children would benefit from their parents’ penchant for intrigue—medals, titles, positions at court or in foreign lands.

Ambitious, he and his wife.

If Heath Boscastle had come all the way from London to enlist Sebastien’s help, she would understand why he had to accept. His problem would be persuading her she could not accompany him.

To his surprise, the cloaked man standing on the drawbridge was not Heath, but his own younger brother Gabriel. He felt a pang of fondness, remembering the wicked hell they had raised when he and Gabriel were growing up. He had not only taught Gabriel how to shoot a solitary acorn from a tree, but also how to entice a barmaid into sneaking a handsome boy an ale in the stableyard. Indeed, there was no one like an older brother to introduce a sibling to sin.

Well, so much for his ambitions. “You,” he said, clasping his brother’s arm. “You were supposed to be Heath.”

Gabriel eyed Sebastien’s silk turban in amusement. “I won’t ask who you’re supposed to be. Heath sent me, actually.”

Sebastien glanced down the drawbridge to the sea, his anticipation sharpening. “Why?”

“Because I can ride faster than he could in the rain.”

“No one can ride faster than you.”

“A skill I honed so I wouldn’t be blamed for what my three elder brothers had done. I was usually left to look the guilty party.”

“Boys in trouble learn to be fast.”

It was the second time in years they’d faced each other. Sebastien had come to his younger brother’s rescue last September in London when he’d been ambushed in an alley. Gabriel had not contacted him since, although Sebastien had hoped he might.

Still, for the previous decade they had pursued different paths. Sebastien had chosen his career with hopes of glory, a military promotion. Gabriel had fallen into heroism.

Gabriel glanced up at the raised portcullis. He might be wondering whether the iron gate would drop and forever divide them. He drew a harsh breath. Obviously he had ridden hard to bring this message.

“The conspirator has been traced to someone who frequents your house,” he said. “Heath thought you ought to know and respond accordingly.”

“My house?” His brow knotted. “When?”

“Over the past year.” Gabriel wiped a wet streak of rain from his face. “The link to the plot was only discovered last night. Do you have any suspicions?”

Sebastien’s heart pounded. The wind howled across the cliffs and castle battlements. A man’s house was his castle, the fortress in which he guarded everything he cherished. But if that man left his castle undefended, whether he ranked as a duke or
baron, he should expect that an enemy would try to find a way inside.

Who had visited his house while he was away?

The bailey had become a sea of churning mud and confusion. The castle standards fluttered in the wind, their direction elusive. Rain slammed against his back and blew into his brother’s face.

Whoever had befriended Eleanor would presumably have used her to gain access to the duchess. Her grace trusted few people with true friendship, and while those she did received special favor, she also associated with a certain questionable element. Questionable, at least, in Sebastien’s biased opinion.

“Nathan Bellisant,” he said with grim certainty. “It has to be him. He talked her into staying in London.”

“A Frenchman?”

“You wouldn’t know it to meet him. He’s a portrait painter who was a frequent guest at my house. Not one I would have invited, but my wife and her friends are wild for his talent.”

“And he’s still alive?” Gabriel asked, his blue eyes taunting.

Sebastien forced a smile. Amazing how they had been apart for years and yet their minds wandered in the same devious ways. “The duchess has commissioned him to paint her children for Wellington’s Christmas homecoming.”

“Ah.” Gabriel’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps he’ll
have to finish his painting in the Tower. We cannot disappoint the grand duke.”

Sebastien felt a jolt of fury. Bellisant. The portrait of Eleanor. To view one’s wife through another man’s eyes, to see her coveted and used. How could he summon mercy for the traitor? He could not. He would do what the Crown expected of him, and if there was a personal element of revenge on his part—what of it? He would be justified in seeing the coward brought down.

The duke had never sent him on missions of kindness.

“A painter,” Gabriel mused. “What a perfect cover. And he made friends with your wife at the same time.”

“That will be enough, Gabriel.”

“He didn’t paint her picture, did he? No. You wouldn’t have let that sort of nonsense go on.”

“I’m letting your mouth go on,” Sebastien retorted.

Gabriel wiped his cheek with his coat sleeve. “Do we ride together, or should I go ahead to London?”

“We’ll go together, then separate. Find Heath.” Sebastien pulled his coat up around his neck. “I’ll have to change anyway and make arrangements for Eleanor’s cousin to take her from here. At least come inside and have cake and ale before we go.”

“I’ll see to my horse’s needs,” Gabriel said, grinning. “You see to your wife. And, Sebastien—”

Sebastien pivoted with an impatient look, backing away from his brother. “What?”

“In this weather and that garb, you might consider going by flying carpet. Of course the wind would blow off your turban. Still, all things being equal, I think it might be a blessing.”

Eleanor couldn’t decide whether the roast pheasant was off, or the beastly music of the wandering minstrels had given her a sick headache. What ever the cause, she excused herself from the noisy revels and slipped from the hall, her veils battened down. Sir Perceval had just arrived to read fortunes. Will trailed her dutifully to the door, munching on a chicken leg.

“When was the last time you saw my husband?” she asked in a whisper.

“I spotted him in the passage screens a half hour ago. He appeared to be leaving the keep.”

She looked back into the throng of costumed guests lining up to have their fortunes told. “You don’t have to walk me upstairs. I’ll wait in my room until Sebastien returns. Sir Perceval looks as if he could use a guard, though.”

“Sebastien asked me to see you to safety.” Which he did, looking doubtful when she dismissed him outside the door of her room. “Lock up after me.”

“Thank you, Will.” She hesitated. He seemed always to be such a lost soul. “I could have never done what—well, this past year would have been uneventful without your help. Perhaps you have already guessed, but the duchess has a reward planned for your services.”

He nodded wistfully. “It’s a shame it all has to end. And, Eleanor, I’m sorry if I was not the most efficient of partners. Sometimes I got carried away. You never really needed me. I think—well, I’ve always needed you. Good night.”

She bolted the door, listening to his footsteps recede. How sensitive he had always been, an only child who from her earliest memories had enjoyed putting on costumes, staging plays, inventing characters to befriend.

She turned.

The chamber seemed dark and gloomy without Sebastien. A damp wind penetrated the shutters.

She lit her unmagical lamp and put on the warm pelisse Mary had insisted she bring. Sebastien’s coat, the one he’d worn on the beach, was gone. Her cloak was still wet. She rubbed her hands together, wondering why he had vanished so mysteriously. If that unnamed mischief maker had lured him off again, she would be upset that he hadn’t at least told her.

She curled up on the chair where his coat had lain. She knew he could take care of himself, and she had no desire to wander either the castle corridors or the windswept cove in search of him. Of course, if he did not return within a reasonable period, she would ask Will and a footman or two to help her find him.

A sharp cramp in the pit of her stomach distracted her. Damnation. Of all the times for her courses to come. She would have to change, or better
yet go to bed with a book and her missing husband to rub her back.

She shifted to her left side, slipping her hands beneath the pelisse for warmth. The lamp flickered. She placed her hand absently over her belly. Was this her usual discomfort, or something different? Her last flow had been four … five weeks ago?

She looked up at the lamp, afraid to hope. Five weeks. Perhaps even longer. She smoothed the pelisse over her body. She felt some forgotten object in the pocket—no, what ever it was had been lightly sewn into the satin lining. She plucked the few loose stitches apart.

Not another letter? She thought the handwriting looked familiar.

She leaned toward the light, chuckling in realization. A message from dear-hearted Mary, written on Eleanor’s own foolscap. Straightaway she recognized the poor penmanship from shopping requests Eleanor had dictated to her during tea. No doubt Mary wanted to remind her to take that foul-tasting cordial. How could she be cross when her maid only meant well?

But all these ink smudges and blotches, not like her tidy lady’s maid. Could they have been tears?

She swore. The rest of the letter was smeared, unreadable.

A rapping at the door startled her. She swallowed the bad taste at the back of her throat. “Who is it?”

“It’s Will again.”

“This is not a convenient moment.”

“I can’t hear you properly. Let me inside.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to leave you. And sometimes Sebastien scares me. I’d think he’d as soon toss me off a cliff as acknowledge we’re cousins-in-law.”

“Listen to me, Will. Find Sebastien. Find him.”

“What?”

“There is danger. I’ll explain afterward. Fetch him, please.”

“All right. Danger, you say. Oh, God. Don’t leave the room.”

Mary, in whom she had confided and who had confided in her. Mary, who knew every secret her mistress kept, the faithful servant who had wept
when Eleanor miscarried, the one who had sat beside her bed without sleep or complaint.

She refolded the paper, rising from the chair. The chamber had grown so chilly she felt goose pimples rising on her arms.

Eleanor. Eleanor Antigone, take a hold of yourself, girl
. She had not thought of her father in ages.
Shock
, she heard him stating in his matter-of-fact voice.
We did everything we could to save your mother. She had a weak constitution. Perhaps she was too pure for this world. We shall need each other now, Eleanor
.

This impure world. Rats and cats, duchesses and dukes. Who would want to bring a child into this evil? Who would name their daughter Antigone? She dug through her traveling trunk, pressed a clumsy finger to the latch of the hidden compartment.

Letters that could change England’s destiny. She would have to break her promise to the duchess. Was Will, too, part of the plot? Unimaginable. For what purpose would he play a part? To gain the duchess’s trust, knowledge of her family’s whereabouts? For fame? Not Will.

But he was an actor. One who’d sworn to make his mark in history.

She read the letter that Sebastien had just stolen. It contained several references to settling an old score, a promise of revenge that would be dealt in due time.

A scorned woman seeking to punish the duchess. A disgruntled politician with a long-smoldering vendetta against the duke. Thwarted ambition. Twisted desire.

Not a game, after all.

Wellington understood the risks. So did his wife, whose disdain for social functions derived from more primal motives than her critics understood.

The duchess’s sons. What better revenge was there for a rival to take on another woman than through the children she had borne with the man they had both loved?

The lamp light burned low. She stared across the room, wondering vaguely how long the wretched storm would last until she realized that it wasn’t thunder that she heard.

It was Sebastien demanding entrance at the door. Thank God. Playing at intrigue had been wonderful while it lasted, right up until this moment. She flew from her chair to answer him.

“Open the door, Eleanor,” he said in a low voice. “Will said something was wrong.”

She released her breath and lifted the heavy bolt. Her muscles shivered in relief when she saw him. “Where have you been?”

“On the drawbridge with my brother Gabriel.” He pulled off his turban, glanced at the traveling trunk lying on the floor. “I’m returning to London. Will you promise me not—”

“You were right. There is a plot.”

“Bellisant,” he said without glancing at her. “Where are my boots? And where the hell is Will now? He was supposed to follow me up here. My brother is riding with me.”

“Calm down, Sebastien. It is not Bellisant.”

He shoved his feet into the boots she brought to the chair, his eyes glittering, his mouth white at the corners. “Do not defend a traitor to my face,” he bit out. “I’ve no patience for pretty artists and the ladies who adore them.”