The Rogue Prince (15 page)

She did not seem to be enjoying the music, and Tom hoped it was Kimbridge's presence that caused her unease. She'd been rash in agreeing to accompany the man to the park, obviously piqued by her afternoon at Delamere. He received her message quite clearly.

He did not think she meant anything by it, beyond the frustration they'd both experienced earlier in the day. He'd wanted her badly. But he'd accomplished what he'd needed—getting Shefford to the estate without a direct invitation. Of his own accord, Shefford had traveled to Delamere House, and had posed his astounding wager.

Tom and Nate hadn't had to do anything but
appear reluctant and slightly naïve. It was all part of the plan.

As Foveaux was not. But causing the commandant some pain was an opportunity Tom could not ignore.

He still felt the man's scrutiny again, and was aware that Foveaux was not the only one observing him. Tom and his men were a puzzle to many, which was exactly the way Thomas wanted to keep it. It was the reason they'd devised foreign-sounding surnames for themselves, and concocted their absurd explanation for the way they'd learned English. They wanted nothing to cue anyone to their true backgrounds.

The farce had to go on as planned, though Tom found himself putting Maggie's part in all of it to the back of his mind. He didn't know exactly how every one of his machinations would unwind, only that he had more than enough threads in play to succeed.

Or fail, spectacularly.

If all went as planned, Tom would eventually pull those threads, each one separately, or all together, and destroy the marquess. The horse race was only the final thread, the one that would drag down Shefford and all his friends, for Tom wouldn't be satisfied until the bastard's good name and all his friendships were destroyed.

In the meantime, they had to keep the charade going. Edward Ochoa was scheduled to meet with the British foreign ministry office the following day, ostensibly negotiating trade treaties. Nate was
meeting with Lords Liverpool and Tenterden to establish governmental ties, while Saret had instituted negotiations to buy the bank in which Shefford owned shares. Thatcham's Bank was going to fail at a crucial moment. It did not matter how much money Tom lost in the process. There was always more. Substantially more.

So far, Tom could not have asked for better results. Even his encounter with Commandant Foveaux had provided some degree of satisfaction. The man had been required to bow and pay homage to Thomas Thorne, one of his former convicts. Nothing could have been more fitting.

Tom would have Mark Saret do some digging into Foveaux's finances, just as he'd done with Shefford. Taking away his home and his personal fortune was the only strategy Tom could think of to destroy the old bastard. He was not aware of anything he could do that would result in the man being stripped of his rank or his attachment to the New South Wales Corps.

But Tom intended to give it his full consideration, right after he made sure Maggie understood that Kimbridge was not even vaguely suitable.

She moved slightly, and Thomas saw that Kimbridge had shifted, spreading his legs wide to allow his thigh to press against hers. She did not seem to enjoy that slight contact, in spite of her agreement to ride with him on the morrow. She was trapped between them, and Tom was pleased to note that, while she tried to remain perfectly neutral, she tilted slightly in his direction.

 

The musicale could not end soon enough. Mr. Kimbridge might be dressed as a well-heeled gentleman, and he might be flush in his pockets. But he smelled like Old Rudy Mitchner, a Blackmore villager who spent far too much time in the public house. They both reeked of alcohol. And he had no sense of decorum, sprawling so that his legs splayed out unattractively and encroached upon her space.

It was all she could do to keep from turning to Thomas and pressing her nose into his clean-smelling chest. Kimbridge was unbearable, and Maggie knew she could not possibly accompany him on his afternoon ride. She intended to inform him of a “forgotten” previous engagement before leaving the Sawbrooke House that evening.

Thomas's thigh also pressed against hers, but Maggie's reaction to it was the complete opposite of her response to Kimbridge. And yet she was quite clear on how foolish it would be to pursue it. She recognized that she was not the kind of woman to engage in an affair, even if it was with the most striking, most mysterious man she had ever encountered.

Whatever his reason for foregoing their planned assignation, their separation had given her a chance to breathe, to reconsider what she was about.

Nor would she be used by Shefford. Whatever his wagers might be, they had nothing to do with her. She was going to take care of her own concerns and make two drawings a week, for as long as it took to get her family out of debt.

She noticed General Foveaux's direct gaze, and saw that it was leveled at Thomas. The man seemed to be just as puzzled by Thomas as she was, and it occurred to Maggie that it might be interesting to make a drawing with the general and Thomas as subjects together. It was clear that Foveaux believed he'd met Thomas before. But it couldn't have been in Sabedoria, for no Englishman had ever visited there. Perhaps he and Thomas had had contact somewhere near Botany Bay, where General Foveaux mentioned he'd been stationed for several years.

Or perhaps not. Thomas had denied knowing the general, and Maggie could think of no reason why he would lie.

When the concert was finally done, Victoria leaned forward and spoke quietly to Maggie, and the two of them excused themselves. As everyone else in the room rose from their seats, she and Victoria headed to the ladies' retiring room. Victoria said nothing as they walked, but Maggie could practically feel her bursting with questions.

And Maggie had no idea how to answer them. At least Victoria was willing to wait for a private moment before asking what she wanted to know—about Thomas, of course.

“You'll come to Ranfield Court at the end of the season, too, Maggie,” she said as they left the music room.

“What are you plotting, Victoria?”

“Plotting?” she asked innocently.

“The man won't—he can't possibly—stay in England.”

“Who says a paramour must be permanent?”

And Maggie had worried about shocking Victoria. “I cannot believe you are suggesting such a thing.”

Vic locked arms with her and took a conspiratorial tone. “He's clearly interested in you.”

Maggie looked at her with surprise. “Vic—”

“And you're a widow…”

They entered the retiring room, and since there were several other ladies present, Victoria had no chance to pursue the subject that had clearly taken her fancy. They went about their business, chatting about their children, and were ready to leave when the elderly dowager Countess of Dinsmore detained Maggie. Since she was grandmother to the earl whose estates bordered Blackmore Manor, Maggie had no choice but to exchange niceties with the old harridan.

Lady Dinsmore tottered unsteadily, barely able to stand, and Maggie looked around for whoever had accompanied her. Seeing no one, she took it upon herself to look after the dowager until someone could be found.

“Please take a seat, Lady Dinsmore,” she said, then turned to her friend. “Go on, Victoria. Ranfield will be waiting for you, and perhaps you can locate Lady Dinsmore's family for her.” The last thing she wanted was to remain sequestered there with the countess, but she saw no alternative.

Victoria was reluctant to leave, but she also saw that there was no choice.

“I always liked you, Lady Blackmore,” said the wrinkled old dowager when Victoria was gone. The rest of the ladies cleared out right behind her, as if they were afraid they might get stuck having to talk to the old crone. “Couldn't abide that milksop husband of yours, though, from the time he was in short pants.”

A surge of surprise shot through Maggie at such an outrageous remark and she felt more than a twinge of indignation, in spite of what she knew of Julian's character. It was not for anyone else to say what her husband's shortcomings might have been.

“Such a little cheat, even as a child,” the woman added brazenly. “Why, I forbade my late son from inviting him to my grandson's birthday.”

Maggie stood abruptly. “Lady Dinsmore, it's not fitting to speak in such a way of the dead.”

“Rubbish. You can't have been happy with him. Sit down.”

“No, thank you, my lady,” Maggie countered, horrified. “I—”

“You'll want the genuine article next time,” the woman said, smacking Maggie's wrist lightly with her fan for emphasis. “A man with some backbone about him. Some fortitude and no dearth of bolloc—”

A young woman bustled into the room, interrupting Lady Dinsmore just in time. “There you are, Aunt Philomena!”

Maggie felt as though she'd been slapped. Learning about Julian's recklessness from Victoria was
bad enough, but this…It was the scene Victoria had feared—the reason she'd forewarned Maggie about Julian's failings.

“I'm not finished, Florence,” Lady Dinsmore protested as her niece tried to get her to stand.

“Oh yes. Yes, you are.” Quite obviously chagrined, Florence turned to Maggie as she helped her aunt up. “I am dreadfully sorry for whatever my aunt might have—”

“Nonsense!” Lady Dinsmore's voice rose, attracting the attention of the ladies who had just entered the room. “I am forthright and honest, that's all.”

“I would say there's quite a bit more to it than that. Come along now,” said Florence. “My most abject apologies, Lady Blackmore.”

Feeling more than a little distressed, Maggie exited ahead of them and slipped down a quiet corridor in the opposite direction of the soiree, where she could regain her poise before returning to the music room.

She let herself into a deeply shadowed room with a wall of mullioned windows. Taking a deep breath, she pressed one hand to the bare skin of her chest, right where the hollowness felt the worst. Julian's betrayals were bad enough. The fact that Shefford and Beatrice had probably known of his failings at the time of their marriage galled her. They'd encouraged the match in spite of Julian's poor character.

Lady Dinsmore hadn't liked Julian even as a child. She'd called him a cheat.

The woman had been right. And Maggie was angry, so very angry now. Julian had cheated his wife and children of everything that mattered—his love and affection, his fidelity and reliability. She was furious, not just with Julian, but with Shefford, who'd foisted him on her. With Beatrice, who'd accepted everything Shefford had said about Julian, and with her sisters, all of whom were older and far more experienced, but none of whom had cared enough to raise any objections.

Maggie had been a naïve little wife, trying to please her family, yet Julian had never attempted to be more than just an adequate husband. He'd shown no particular interest in her, even on the occasions when he bedded her. And though he'd said he wanted another child after Lily was born, Maggie suspected he'd only cared about siring a second son. The Spare, as was expected of him.

She let out a shuddering breath as she recognized the broader scope of her disastrous marriage. Not only had Julian been an idler of the worst kind, her mother had encouraged her to wed him, merely because he'd been in possession of a title. Worse, neither her mother or sisters had cared about the kind of life she would be sentenced to, married to a fraud like Julian Danvers.

She took a moment to calm herself, then swallowed hard, smoothed down her skirts and started for the door. She pulled it open and collided with Robert Kimbridge, who stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Lady Blackmore. I wondered where you'd gone. Been looking for you.” He had the same lanky build and narrow shoulders as Julian. His brows were as pale as his hair, making them almost invisible. His nose was long and somewhat hooked at the end, though at least his chin was passable. But as she did not care to see it any closer, she sidestepped as he approached.

“I would have a word with you, my lady.”

“This isn't quite proper, Mr. Kimbridge,” she admonished, “and you must know it.”

“Propriety is not strictly necessary for what I am about to say to you.”

Maggie moved to the other side of a chair. “Then you can have nothing to say, because I do not intend to listen.”

“You are the one who invited me to sit with you, my dear lady.” He stalked her, circling around the chair, and forcing Maggie to move to yet another piece of furniture to use as a barrier between them.

“Sitting is one thing…”

Kimbridge stayed between her and the door, and she began to feel a bit worried, afraid that she may have led him on. They were far from the rest of the party, and it was unlikely anyone would come looking for her. Perhaps—

“Lady Ranfield will be right back,” Maggie tried.

“No, she won't. I saw the two of you leave the music room, but only she returned.” He moved suddenly then, and grabbed Maggie's arm at the elbow, pulling her off balance.

“Unhand me, sir,” she said, pushing away from him.

“My dear Lady Blackmore, you should know that even widows—
especially
widows—are not allowed to tease and tempt a man, and then refuse him.”

She tried to wrench her arm away. “Sitting beside you was certainly neither, Mr. Kimbridge. You had to sit somewhere,” she said harshly. “Now, let go.”

Instead of releasing her, he sidled closer, holding tightly. “I never really noticed your lovely eyes before, Margaret.”

She felt her pulse pounding in her throat as he lifted his free hand and feathered the backs of his fingers over her cheek.

He allowed his gaze to drift down below her neck. “And I never saw you in anything that displayed your…attributes…quite so well.”

His hand glided lower, and when he stroked the upper curve of her breast, Maggie slapped him. “Do not touch me again, sir!”