To Wed a Scandalous Spy (19 page)

He turned slowly. Head up, face expressionless, he nodded to the group. "Finster. Barrow. I would appreciate you remembering there is a lady present."

The central figure snorted. He was a large man, young but already showing the signs of too much rich food and port. With a sneer in Willa's direction, he looked at his fellows.

"Can't be much of a lady if she'd be seen with Reardon, eh?" The snide laughter rose, attracting the attention of passersby.

"Too bloody right, Finster." One of the group stepped out to one side, blocking their exit that way.

Willa glanced behind them. The alleyway between the shops could be an escape route, but only if it wasn't obstructed.

This was getting dangerous. Willa didn't know these men, but she knew that when animals formed a pack, they dared things they would never do individually.

She stepped in front of Nathaniel. He put a hand on her upper arm to move her aside, but she walked right away from him, right up to face the man named Finster.

"I am a lady, but I don't expect you to believe my say-so. Perhaps you should kiss me to find out." The jinx had never let her down yet.

"Willa!"

Finster gave an evil grin and stepped closer.

"Oh, don't worry, Nathaniel." She twisted around to smile at him—and the point of Myrtle's borrowed umbrella caught Finster directly in the groin.

Willa turned back quickly—and caught him in the nose with the carved swan's head handle while he was bent over in pain.

With a wheezy little sound, Finster slipped to his knees, clutching his groin ignominiously, unable even to tend to the blood pouring from his nose.

"Oh dear." Honest pity was in her voice. "I should have warned you. Unfortunate things tend to happen to men who get too close to me."

Abruptly she was pulled backward. Nathaniel wrapped his hand around her arm and moved quickly to their carriage. After tossing her in, he stopped to look back down the walk.

Willa craned her head for a look as well. Finster still knelt, keening a high note, while his supporters gathered around him. Abruptly he vomited. At that point, even his friends deserted him and he was left with his coachman, who gingerly lifted him to his feet.

Willa looked at Nathaniel. "If you don't mind, I am feeling a bit tired. Shall we go back to the house?"

Nathaniel gazed up at her. His face was tight. "I'm sorry. I hoped—"

"Don't be sorry. I had a marvelous time."

His head came up with a jerk. "You did?"

"Of course. A day with you is worth many minutes with the pathetic Finsters of the world."

The sharp look left Nathaniel's eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, then removed his hat and clenched his fingers in his hair.

Willa loved it when he did that. With his hair mussed, he looked so very boyish, so… reachable.

"Finster isn't feeling pathetic, Willa. He is feeling superior. Very superior."

Thinking of where they had left the poor fellow, Willa wasn't any too sure.

"Shall we go home, Nathaniel?"

"I cannot accompany you now." He took her hand in his and kissed it quickly. "I shall see you at dinner." Then he shut the carriage door and stepped back, calling for the driver to take her back to Reardon House.

Without him.

Regardless of looking the goose, she thrust her head out to watch him grow smaller as the rattling carriage gained speed on the street.

Nathaniel watched Willa's carriage disappear in the traffic. As far as he could tell, she also watched him until they were out of sight.

With watching the carriage no longer a viable excuse for putting off the inevitable, Nathaniel turned to saunter down the street. He was Lord Treason, he coached himself. He was arrogant and unrepentant, just as Society had painted him. He refused to take himself off to voluntary exile in the West Indies like a good traitor should, like Sir Foster had done, in fact.

No, the thing that truly riled London about Lord Treason was that he simply continued to be wealthy and privileged and right under their bloody noses.

Nathaniel found himself taking the route to an establishment he had not seen for months, not since the night he had bowed to the necessity of taking the yoke of disgrace.

As he approached it, the stout young doorman glanced at him, blinked, then stared. Wild indecision crossed the fellow's face as he blinked rapidly at Nathaniel. Should he allow the infamous lord in or not?

Nathaniel decided to put the poor bloke out of his misery. He leaned close and whispered, "I'm here to see the Gentleman."

«
^
»

Back in the luxurious withdrawing room of Reardon House, Willa contemplated the pattern of the carpet for the hundredth time. Daphne wasn't an easy person to talk to, but Willa fought down her own tendency to fidget from boredom and made pretty conversation with the girl.

Myrtle had already given up the battle and sat bent over her cane, snoring.

"I've a gown ready, and the guests are all in town, and Basil is pressing me so." Daphne cast a stiff smile in Willa's direction. "But Father Randolph—that is what I have called him since I was a child—Father Randolph is so very ill. It quite sorrows my heart to watch him lie there day after day." She managed to make a shrug look delicate. Willa admired her skill. When she shrugged, it resembled custard jiggling in a bowl.

Daphne continued. "Mother Victoria and I have been planning the ball for weeks."

Myrtle raised her head. "Ball? With Randolph so ill? To have a ball here that he cannot even attend?" Myrtle blinked in shock.

Willa agreed with Myrtle. To hold a ball in the house of a dying man was entirely inappropriate. Willa suspected that Daphne's purpose was not so much that she could not wait to host the ball but that she dared not wait too long. If Nathaniel's father was indeed dying, as Lily had sadly claimed, then the family would soon enter mourning, and even Basil and Daphne would not defy convention so drastically as to hold a ball then, not for a year or more.

Victoria entered the withdrawing room with a swish of skirts. "Miss Trent, do sit up straight. You look like a crouching gargoyle sitting there. Examine Daphne's posture, if you please." She turned from Willa to smile at Daphne. "Darling, do come see the lovely floral settings I've ordered. Mr. LaMont has found just the thing."

Daphne rose gracefully to her feet with a faint smile in Willa's direction. "Aunt Myrtle objects to moving up the ball, Mother Victoria."

Victoria shot the older woman a withering glance. "Well, fortunately, it is not for Myrtle to decide a thing." Without waiting for a reply, Victoria motioned Daphne through the door and then swept out behind her.

"Praying mantis," Willa murmured, "
Mantis religiosa
."

"What was that? I've no Latin at all anymore," complained Myrtle.

Willa shook her head and smiled. "Nothing. A little game I play sometimes. I compare people to animals. 'Tis silly, I know."

Myrtle shook her head. "Oh, not at all. I'm fascinated. Go on."

"Well, the mantis is a very elegant insect, quite lovely really, but a voracious predator."

"That's Victoria for you," crowed Myrtle. "Never satisfied!" She leaned closer. "What am I?"

Willa blushed. Now she'd done it. "Well, when I first met you, I thought you were rather like a jay."

"A jay?" Myrtle blinked. "Those bossy little birds? Then what do you think now?"

"Now…" Willa shrugged. "I am positive you are rather like a jay."

Myrtle stared at her for a long moment, lips parted. Then a sharp bark of creaky laughter escaped her. She wagged her finger at Willa as she wheezed on and on. Finally, she drew a deep breath. "You're a sharp one, you are!" she gasped. She patted herself gently on the breastbone. "Oh dear, I hope I didn't shake something loose." She blinked brightly at Willa. "Tell me, what is Daphne?"

Here Willa felt less sure. There was something about Daphne… Was anyone ever so completely agreeable?

"I don't know her well yet," Willa temporized. "Tell me about her."

Myrtle's eyes narrowed. "Daphne? Oh, I liked her well enough once. I thought she was a bit dull, but I didn't hold it against her." Myrtle sighed. "I suppose I've simply never forgiven her for breaking it off with Thaniel when he needed her the most."

Willa hesitated. "Has Nathaniel known her long?"

"Oh yes. Daphne has always been here. Her father is Thaniel's neighbor at Reardon, and the three of them, Thaniel, Basil, and Daphne, all grew up together. Since Daphne had no mother, Sir Danville asked Victoria to see to her feminine rearing."

"She and Nathaniel were betrothed from a young age?"

"Not officially, although Thaniel never stood a chance once Daphne decided upon him."

"Yet you say she broke it off, not him."

"Well, yes. And then turned her sights on Basil. Rather coarse of Daphne, in my opinion. Bad enough to have broken it off with Thaniel. I suppose one could hardly blame her, but…" She looked uncomfortable.

"Do not fret, dear. Nathaniel told me everything. I know all about his so-called disgrace." Willa gave her a reassuring smile, then changed the subject to her shopping trip. "Wait until I tell you about Mr. Finster…"

Nathaniel took a chair in the quieter portion of the main room of the Liar's Club and signaled a serving boy for a brandy. It was too bloody early to be drinking, but Lord Treason wouldn't likely care about such niceties.

His drink came quickly and he tossed the lad a coin without so much as a glance. Oddly enough, playing sullen and unrepentant did not make him stand out among the other guests.

Of course, the Liar's Club did tend to attract a sullen element, at least outwardly. The place was a gambling hell, a slightly left-of-respectable home away from home for those interested in good liquor, superior tobacco, and the occasional naughty revue.

There weren't many men of his rank in sight. Mostly younger sons—"spares," as they were known in the upper classes—with their cronies and hangers-on. Most would never inherit, of course. Those elder brothers would go and breed their own heirs.

Nathaniel didn't have much sympathy for the spares, however. Like Basil, they could live out their lives on family wealth and expectations without ever having to trouble themselves with actual responsibility.

Still, the situation did tend to breed dissatisfaction. While there were several places Nathaniel could make a public appearance that might get back to Sir Foster, the Liar's Club was as good a place to start as any.

In addition, it had the rosy appeal of being a lucrative front for the Royal Four's personal band of thieves and spy operatives.

He'd only meant it for camouflage, so the level of brandy in Nathaniel's glass had not lowered by the time the serving boy returned.

The lad bowed. "My lord, your private dining room is ready, as you requested."

The only request Nathaniel had made since arriving was to see the Gentleman. Nodding, he rose and followed the boy—one of the Academy's new trainees, no doubt—to one of the doors set into the far wall of the main room.

It really was a private dining room, he saw without surprise. An intimate, masculine setting of dark green papered walls and mellow oak paneling. There was only one door, the one he'd used himself, yet at the table was seated the imposing figure of Dalton Montmorency, Lord Etheridge, the spymaster of the Liar's Club and former Cobra.

"That's a nice trick," Nathaniel said casually.

Etheridge didn't smile. "What can the Liars do for you, Cobra?" he said tonelessly.

Nathaniel settled into one of the chairs with a sigh. "Ease off, Dalton. I'm not here for the Liars. I require your assistance in another matter."

Etheridge only narrowed his eyes. "If this has something to do with Clara—"

"Clara? For pity's sake, Dalton, aren't you ever going to forgive me for kidnapping your wife?"

Etheridge folded his arms over his broad chest. "Kidnapping… imprisoning her on your lap…
kissing
..."

"One damned kiss! One lousy little peck!"

Etheridge raised a brow. "And things went downhill from there."

Nathaniel held up both hands in defeat. "Fine. I see I've wasted my time." He stood. "Thanks for the brandy."

Etheridge blew out a long breath, then relaxed his intimidating pose. "Oh, very well! Sit down, Cobra. Tell me what you need."

Nathaniel sat. "I need an invitation. Perhaps more than one." He leaned back. "Lord Treason is reentering Society, and I'd like it to be as public as possible. You have ties to people who can be persuaded to invite me to social events."

"Kitty Knight, Clara's niece, and her husband are holding an end-of-season ball tomorrow night." Etheridge hesitated. "I heard you are now betrothed. Will you be bringing your fiancée?"

"I will."

"Are you sure that is a good idea?"

Nathaniel smiled slightly. "No. I am also sure I could not stop her."

"Very well. I think I can arrange that invitation."

"Thank you. It is much appreciated."

"God, man, must you be so stiff? You're like a poker every time you enter this place!"

Nathaniel only stiffened further. "This club is not my favorite of places."

Etheridge shook his head. "It is time you let go of the past, Nathaniel," he said gently. "I happen to know that it will only hold you back." Etheridge softened further, compassion chasing across his features. "Speaking of, how is the Old Man?"

Hearing his father, who had once held Etheridge's place as spymaster, addressed by his Liar nickname made Nathaniel's chest twist with mingled nostalgia and bitterness. Randolph had been Liar first, father second. And now, not father at all.

"He isn't allowed visitors. He's too heavily medicated to be trusted with the
information he has in his head. The pain his heart gives him can only be eased
by poppy syrup. You know how easy it is for a mind to wander under the influence. He might speak to someone, thinking it was safe, and the gossip would be across the city in a heartbeat."

Etheridge frowned. "Are you sure he is not in danger of compromising us?"