How a Lady Weds a Rogue (29 page)
Raven,
When the trial of the
Queen’s alleged infidelity comes to a close shortly (in failure of the
proposed bill, as all hope it will), she intends to remove from England. She
has discreetly inquired as to whom she can depend upon to protect her from
the King if he seeks to harm her further in this manner. Since you charmed
the Ministers in Vienna, you have remained in their thoughts; those loyal to
her recommend you. The King discovered this and—desiring you to remain in
his service rather than hers—wishes to reward you for your long tenure in
the Club. Our director recommends knighthood.
Congratulations, Sir
Raven. Do join me for dinner this evening at the club.
Peregrine
Yale,
The duke is dead,
suffocation in his bed by the old servant woman.
D.E.
S
huffling into his drawing room with the weary tread of a much older man, the Baron of Carlyle peered at Wyn’s calling card. “To what do I owe this visit, sir?”
Wyn bowed. “I regret that it is not a social call, my lord.”
Carlyle looked more carefully at him now. “You wrote me a letter offering for my daughter. Now I recall.” He nodded. “Excellent property, yours. Enviable income. But as I replied, where I wish Diantha to marry has no bearing on where she will actually do so, much to my regret, but there it is. I’m afraid I cannot help you convince her. She has a mind of her own, as do all my daughters.” He shook his head with a regretful air.
“I am not here to ask assistance in convincing your daughter to accept my suit, my lord.” He was more than happy to accomplish that task himself. Given time, and encouragement that left her begging and breathless, she would have him. And if Tracy Lucas even so much as peeped in protest, Wyn would favor him with a meaningful stare down the barrel of his pistol. He was through doing the bidding of other men. His future, and Diantha’s, was his alone to command.
The baron shook his head. “Don’t break your heart over her, Mr. Yale. For all she looks very pretty in a ball gown now, my fourth daughter is still a rambunctious girl. A spruced up fellow like you will be much better off with a wife who knows how to go about like a lady.”
“Thank you for that advice, sir.” He couldn’t disagree more. Diantha it was and Diantha it would be forever for him. She rendered the mere idea of control laughable, and he wanted that. He didn’t want her subdued, her spirit cowed as when he left her at Lady Emily’s. He wanted her plunging into danger head first, making him shout and rescue her and make love to her in stables as often as possible. He’d been a fool to push her away and an even greater fool in his anger and fear for her not to have told her the entire truth last night. He would not make that mistake again. “I have come to speak with you on another matter. Your wife.”
Carlyle’s brow pleated.
“Lady Carlyle has been in London and has contacted your stepson. She requested of him funds to finance a high-end brothel.”
The baron’s face went ashen. “In London?”
“France. It gives me no pleasure to bring you these tidings, my lord. But for your stepdaughter’s sake, I thought you should know.”
Carlyle passed a distracted hand over his face then moved to the sideboard. “Claret, Mr. Yale?”
“No, thank you. I must be going.” To find a lady with lapis eyes and make her the most convincing offer of marriage a man could manage. Only the smallest sliver of doubt bothered him. “But first, my lord, might you share with me a word about Mr. Highbottom? I understand that he has hopes for Miss Lucas’s hand.”
“Who?” Carlyle’s brow twisted.
“Mr. Hinkle Highbottom.”
“Hinkle and Highbottom? What hopes would they have concerning my daughter’s marriage?”
“They?”
“Alfred Hinkle and Oswald Highbottom.” Carlyle moved to a table laden with books and took up a pair of thick volumes. “Two of the finest archeological minds this century, although I don’t suppose young fellows like you bother with such things.”
Wyn’s heart beat unevenly. “If you will, my lord, is this Mr. Highbottom—”
“Professor Highbottom. Master at Christ Church for over forty years now.”
Wyn could not help but stare rather blankly. “Is Miss Lucas acquainted with the professor?”
“Since she was a sprig of a girl. Highbottom was dedicated to his scholarship. Never had a family of his own, of course. But he took a quick liking to Diantha when she first came to live at Glenhaven Hall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Used to dandle her on his knee until rheumatism got the best of him.”
“Then, Professor Highbottom has no claim upon your daughter’s hand, nor she an interest in wedding him?”
“I said I don’t have control over whom my daughter chooses to wed.” Carlyle frowned. “But if she were to betroth herself to a man sixty years her senior I would make it my business to halt the alliance at once. Now, sir, I haven’t any idea how—”
“Milord!” A footman stood in the doorway.
“What is it, Bernard? Can’t you see I am occupied here?”
“Lady Savege’s footman insisted I give this to you without delay, milord.” He hurried forward, extending an envelope.
Carlyle waved the servant from the room and opened the letter, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles. “Forgive me, Mr. Yale, but if my—” His eyes widened. He scrabbled with the spectacles and got them hooked over his ears.
“My lord.” Wyn bowed, a little dizzy and with a pressing desire to find a blue-eyed lady and kiss her until she admitted every lie she’d ever uttered to him. “I will leave you to your business.”
“Good Lord,” Carlyle whispered. “You see, sir,” he said more forcefully, yanking off his spectacles and jabbing them at the letter. “You are better off without the girl. Troublesome, foolish . . .” He sputtered, but his eyes were watery and he allowed Wyn to take the page from his fingers. Carlyle lowered his brow into his palm. “I told Tracy and Serena that if they brought her to town this would happen. I advised leaving her in Devon where everyone knows her and she cannot throw herself into serious scrapes. Now . . .” He shook his head, his shoulders drooping. “Heedless chit. She’ll come to grief upon the road. Then she’ll end up just like . . . just like her mother.”
Wyn strode for the door. “Not as long as I’m alive.”
“M
iss Finch-Freeworth, I have little doubt that you know my purpose in calling upon you today.”
The young lady sitting across the tea table from him blinked expressive hazel eyes, cast a quick glance at the maid sitting on the other side of the parlor and shook her head.
Wyn quieted his voice. “You must tell me. Where has Miss Lucas gone this time?”
Again, the silent shake of the head.
Wyn tried to unclench his teeth sufficient to speak. “You do not know, or you will not tell me?”
She dropped her gaze to her lap.
“I know that you were in her confidence before she embarked upon her last journey,” he said. “I know all about her last journey, in fact. Everything about it.”
Her head snapped up and her eyes widened. “She did not tell me that. She . . . She—”
“She is very fond of withholding truths, but you needn’t mimic that inconvenient vice, Miss Finch-Freeworth. Were you with her before she left Lord Savege’s house today?”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “And her maid.”
“Tell me where she went, I pray you.”
“I cannot,” she said upon a hard breath. “I vowed I would tell no one, upon pain of the end of our friendship. And I very much wish to cherish her as my dearest friend for the remainder of my life.”
“Madam, forgive me for bluntness, but if you do not divulge to me her whereabouts you may soon no longer have a friend to cherish. The road is dangerous for a gently bred female alone, and I cannot search every Mail Coach that departed London today in order to protect her from that danger, can I? You must tell me which direction she took.”
“Mr. Yale, if you know her character as you are suggesting, then you know that wherever she goes, Diantha makes friends. She will find people to help her on this journey. No doubt she already has.”
Journey?
Dear God
. He leaned forward and gripped his knees to prevent himself from grabbing the girl and shaking sense into her. “Tell me only her destination, then.”
“I cannot. But I can tell you that she did not go unattended.”
“Another of your loyal maids?” he ground out.
She had sufficient modesty to blush. “Diantha’s own maid from the country arrived in town today. She is a very peculiar woman, really. But she bustled about, muttering about having to wait too long stranded in the country to see how matters proceeded because ‘that man’ had not sent her a single word in days. I suppose she meant Lord Carlyle. In any case, she knew precisely what was best for Diantha, packing her traveling garments and what have you. So you needn’t worry. I believe Mrs. Polley will care for Diantha perfectly well.”
For the first time in an hour Wyn could draw more than half a breath. As long as the old girl remained awake, Diantha would be safe. But when Mrs. Polley dropped off to sleep . . .
“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I know not how to further encourage you to share with me Miss Lucas’s plan. If harm should come to her, I would not forgive myself.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “She said you feel responsible for her, and she doesn’t wish you to. That is why she left. She does not want to ruin your life.”
God, no
. He’d been ten times a fool, mistake after mistake after mistake with her. But he would find her and never make another mistake as long as he lived, so help him God. He would be perfect again, but only for her. Every day, every moment.
“Miss Lucas is a remarkable person, from her kindness to others to her reckless plans . . .” He leaned forward. “ . . . to her determination to marry Mr. H.”
Miss Finch-Freeworth gaped. “She told you about Mr. H?”
“Yes. But until today I was unaware of a crucial facet of his existence that now I cannot but conclude makes him ineligible for her as a husband.”
She drew several long breaths. She was a pretty girl, made prettier still by the gleam of intelligence in her eyes, precisely what he depended upon now.
She nodded decisively. “Yes.”
His heart thumped hard. “Yes?”
“Yes, Mr. H is imaginary.” She nodded again as though casting off some inner struggle. “Her mother— Do you know about her mother?”
“Some.”
“Lady Carlyle was very cruel to Diantha, always telling her she would not attract a husband due to her open spirits and unbiddable nature. She had my friend thoroughly convinced that she was deficient in character and therefore unmarriageable, so much so that when Miss Yarley at the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies—who knows about these matters—tried to assure Diantha she would indeed someday marry a fine man, Diantha laughed at her. Laughed! Then she invented Mr. H.”
“She invented him.”
“Mr. Yale, you are staring. But you know, Mr. H is really much better than many real men. He has excellent manners and is well dressed but not too fashionable. He possesses a comfortable competence, enough to support a wife and several children, and his house is spacious and nicely furnished though not ostentatious. He drives a well-matched pair, hunts only occasionally, and he likes to read aloud at night by the fire. So he is quite the ideal husband.”
Wyn’s chest was remarkably tight. He should be convincing her to divulge Diantha’s plan, but he could not resist. “How—How does he treat her?”
“He is very gentlemanlike and enormously kind to her. But honestly, I’ve always thought him something of a dullard, and I think Diantha does too. Also, he is not handsome.”
Wyn’s brows went up.
She nodded. “You would think if a girl invented a suitor she would make him marvelously handsome, wouldn’t you? Mr. H is tall, and he still has all of his hair. But you see, he has this mole problem.”
“He has a mole?”
“Rather, moles. Big dark knobby brown ones, all about his neck and a few on his face.” She touched a fingertip beside her lips, then by her brow and the side of her nose. Her voice quieted. “You see?”
Throat closed, Wyn could only nod.
“It was her mother who . . .”
He gestured her on.
Her lips were tight but she did not look up now. “Her mother did not only tell her that she was lacking in character.” She paused. “She told her—often—that if she were beautiful she might be able to manipulate a man into accepting her, despite her troublesome ways. And . . .”
“And?”
“Every day Lady Carlyle applied a lotion to my friend’s skin, as though begrudgingly, suggesting that perhaps it could improve Diantha’s appearance sufficient to entrap a man in marriage before he came to know her well enough to avoid such a thing.” Her jaw seemed to lock. “Nearly two years ago this pot of lotion emptied, and Diantha asked the housekeeper where she might purchase another. But do you know what? It turned out that Lady Carlyle had made the lotion herself. It was pig fat laced with perfume.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “
Grease
, Mr. Yale. Her own
mother
did this to her, because . . . because . . .”
He struggled to steady his breath. “Because she could not control her.”
Miss Finch-Freeworth folded her hands in her lap. “Diantha is not a ninnyhammer, Mr. Yale.”
“No.”
“Mr. H is a code name.”
“I understand.”
“For her long-held conviction that she will never be good enough for any man to wish to marry her.”
“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I do not want to control her.”
Never again
. “I want only the best for her. I want everything for her.”
Her ginger lashes flickered. “Do you?”
“If Miss Lucas wishes to pursue her journey, I promise not to hinder her. But you must allow me to give her the opportunity to choose otherwise.”
She seemed to study him carefully. Then she nodded.
