Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  “His children…” Whit repeated, and remembered the strange mission he and Alex had been assigned nearly two years ago. Alex had been given the task of wooing Sophie in the hopes of catching her and her cousin in the act of spying for the French. They’d been only marginally successful in that regard, and it’d been a damn odd way to go about the business.

  “Were you responsible for Sophie and Alex meeting?” he asked.

  “Yes, and I should like to point out that although this particular mission hasn’t gone quite as planned, at least you haven’t found it necessary to fight off a pack of would-be assassins.” William perked up a bit. “I believe I might be improving.”

  Whit ignored his mother’s derisive snort. “Improving in what, exactly? What has any of this to do with Mirabelle, or me? Neither of us are related to Rockeforte by blood.”

  “No,” William agreed. “But you were his children all the same.”

  “He loved you,” Lady Thurston said quietly. “Though you were too small to remember well, he loved each of you as if you were his own. In some ways, he was more of a father to you than your own.”

  Because he did remember, Whit only nodded and turned to William. “You thought to bring Mirabelle and me together.”

  “That was my idea,” Lady Thurston admitted. “I had hoped…no, I knew, from the very start, that the two of you were meant to be. It was fate.”

  Whit allowed that statement to sink in before answering. “Mother, I love you, but that is the single most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”

  “Not at all,” William argued. “I saw it as well, clear as day. Well, once she pointed it out to me. I’d never seen a girl more suited to you.”

  Whit happened to share the opinion, but he couldn’t stop from asking William, “Why?”

  “Because, my boy, she bothered you.”

  “She bothered…that’s your qualification?”

  William smiled in fond memory. “Should have seen your face the first time she came to Haldon. I’ve never seen a boy of thirteen look so utterly confounded, nor so angry about it.”

  “Mirabelle is the only person you have ever lost your head over, Whit,” his mother said gently.

  “Yes, and look what it’s cost her.” Angry with himself, with them, with the whole ugly affair, he gave in to the need to move. He strode to the firelace to glower at the flames.

  Lady Thurston watched him, a line of concern forming across her brow. “Mirabelle’s injuries are not of your doing. The fault lies with her uncle and Mr. Hartsinger, first. William and me, second.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Whit murmured with a shake of his head before looking to his mother. “You knew of the counterfeiting operation?”

  She winced. “I did, though I hadn’t thought it particularly dangerous for Mirabelle. She was protected, and she’d been attending her uncle’s parties for years. I thought it an excellent opportunity for you to see that the time she spent there was unpleasant.”

  “You knew?”

  “Only that she was unhappy there,” she was quick to explain. “But that alone was hardly argument enough to convince you to attend one of the parties. Particularly in light of the past the two of you share. I did not realize that she was in physical jeopardy.” Her voice faltered. “Do you think I would have allowed her to go otherwise?”

  William leaned over to pat soothingly at her hand. “After the duke died, I had Lindberg charm his way into an invitation through one of the other guests. He’s kept an eye on her during the parties. His reports indicated a notable…lack of manners, shall we say, among the other guests. But he felt confident in his ability to protect her.”

  “He was wrong.”

  “He managed the job for considerable amount of time,” William argued.

  “Neither here nor there,” Whit said, shaking his head. “What of Christian?”

  “Ah. I sent him a little under four years ago. He’d been party to a particularly sensitive mission and needed to remain out of sight for a bit. I sent him to the baron’s, preferring to err on the side of caution where both he and Mirabelle were concerned…though it would appear I failed in that.”

  “We’ll argue who’s at fault later,” Whit replied, though he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He knew exactly whose responsibility it had been to protect Mirabelle—his. “Explain the counterfeiting. The baron claims to know nothing of the plate.”

  “I had Alex plant the plate.”

  Whit blinked. “You…what? What the devil for?”

  “So you could find it,” William answered without a hint of shame at planting evidence.

  “What if he’d been innocent?” he demanded.

  “Then I wouldn’t have planted it.”

  Whit ground his teeth at that bit of circular logic. “You were certain of his guilt.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t certain how careful the baron might be in hiding the proof of that guilt, and with Mirabelle in the house, time was of the essence. I hadn’t thought her in any real danger, but erred on the side—”

  “William.”

  “Right. You were to spend a day, perhaps two, searching before finding the evidence. Long enough to see what sort of man the baron is and, if necessary, to insist Mirabelle return permanently to Haldon.”

  “She wouldn’t accept the invitation from anyone but you,” his mother added. “I should know, as I tried.”

  Whit stared at her. “Did it never occur to you, to just tell me what sort of man the baron was?”

  “You knew as much as we did, Whit,” she replied softly. “The baron’s propensity for drunkenness has never been a secret.”

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  She was right. There had always been whispers of Epperly’s fondness for drink. But overindulgent fops were more common in the ton than handkerchiefs. He’d thought, when he’d bothered himself at all over the matter, that Mirabelle’s uncle was just another useless and essentially harmless wastrel. Like his father.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “Why now? Mirabelle and I have been at odds for years.”

  Lady Thurston sighed. “I had very much hoped that the two of you would find your way to each other naturally, but you were taking too long about it, and time was running out.”

  “Running out for what?”

  “There is less than two years left before Mirabelle receives her inheritance,” she elaborated. “She plans to purchase a house of her own with the funds. She’ll no longer live at Haldon, where the two of you would be so often in each other’s way.”

  “She could have visited,” Whit pointed out, though the point was moot, now that Eppersly had stolen the money.

  “After so much time spent being a guest, I suspect she would have preferred we come to her more often than not.” She tossed him a doubtful look. “And I don’t believe for a moment that you would have joined us. Knowing as much, I tried first to see if a forced truce would work.”

  “It was working.”

  “Yes, and the mission to the baron’s was to finalize matters.”

  He laughed without humor and turned to William. “My mission to uncover a printing plate you’d made and planted yourself.”

  “I didn’t make it,” William argued.

  “Your father did,” Lady Thurston informed him. “More than ten years ago.”

  Whit held up a hand for silence, and wondered that it wasn’t in a fist, or full of the hair off his head. This conversation was going to drive him mad. “You,” he snapped at William, “told me, not two minutes ago, that you planted that plate. And now you,” he said turning to Lady Thurston, “tell me my own father is responsible for forging it?”

  “It was meant to be a prank,” his mother elaborated.

  “A prank,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “Yes. Your father and Eppersly thought it up—over a bottle of port, no doubt—and imagined it would be a fine joke to play on their friends. They hired an engraver of little talent who’d look the
other way for a few extra coins, and they ordered the ink from the same sort of man.”

  “They bought the paper in a London shop,” he guessed.

  “Actually, if I remember correctly, they took the paper from my writing secretaire, and used it to print a number of notes.”

  He thought of the bank note William had shown him that first day in his study, and the stack of identical notes from the baron’s bureau. “That’s why the note was such a poor counterfeit. They didn’t see the need to bother with—”

  “It’s an excessive amount of bother for a simple joke, in my opinion,” Lady Thurston cut in with a huff. “But yes, as they’d never meant for anyone other than their friends to see the notes, they didn’t trouble themselves to make them perfect.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found them out and put a stop to it. Your father put away the plate, and the baron agreed to put away his share of the notes they had already printed. That was the end of it, for a time.”

  “Until one of the notes surfaced this past month,” William added. “Your mother had told me of the intended joke long ago. I’d seen the printing plate and a sample of the counterfeit bills. I knew where it came from. I suspect Eppersly is telling the truth. He attempted to pass off a few of the bills to Hartsinger, who caught on to the trick and blackmailed the baron into giving him more of the bills to circulate. I imagine he’s passed them on to friends out of the country. Might have been able to continue the ruse a bit longer if Eppersly hadn’t tried using one in Benton.”

  “But rather than put a quick end to it with a quiet raid, you planned this mission.”

  “Two birds with one stone,” William replied.

  “When William suggested the possibility,” Lady Thurston added. “I went to the attic and hunted up the plate.”

  “The attic,” Whit grumbled. “Of course.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Were you caught searching?” Lady Thurston asked. “Is that how Mirabelle came to be injured?”

  “No.” Realizing it was his turn to answer a few questions, Whit stepped away from the fire and took a seat across from them. He told them what he learned from Lindberg’s report.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Lady Thurston breathed when he had finished retelling the events of the evening. “What was she doing in his study? Do you suppose she knew of the contract?”

  Whit shook his head. “I don’t know what she was doing there, though I doubt she knew of her uncle’s intent to send her off to an asylum. We’ll have to ask her.”

  A soft rap at the door by a footman kept Lady Thurston or William from responding. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Browning is asking for you, my lady.”

  “Go ahead,” Whit encouraged. “I’d like a few moments with William at any rate.”

  Whit waited until she’d left before speaking. “You sent McAlistair. Why?”

  William shook his head. “I hadn’t expected him to be of any real use. Figured he would just skulk about the grounds a bit.”

  “Then why give him the orders to go?”

  “As I said earlier, I preferred to err on the side of caution. With the two of you searching the house, the possibility of danger to Mirabelle increased. I wanted to be certain she was protected. Have a few champions, as it were.”

  “How many champions did she need?” He held up a hand before William could answer.

  He knew how many she’d needed. One. Him. And he hadn’t been there.

  He’d failed.

  “Damn it.” He dragged a tired hand down his face. “You were right, and it was best that he was there.” He smiled ruefully. “He wasn’t at all happy about it.”

  William merely snorted. “Past time the man came out of hiding, and it was as good a way as any to ease him back into the world of the living.”

  “Difficult world for a man who deals in death. Does my mother know what he was?”

  “Not unless you told her.”

  Whit shook his head. “No. When he came to stay on the grounds, I told her only that he was a soldier.”

  “Ah.” William brushed at his pant legs and stood. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m in dire need of a drink, and then I believe it’s time for me to be going. I’ll just—”

  “You’ve a bit left to do yet,” Whit cut in with a hard glance. “We’ll be going over this again.”

  William slowly resumed his seat. “Again?”

  “Again. And a third and fourth time if I feel it’s necessary. Then you’re going to go upstairs and explain it all to Mirabelle as many times as it takes to satisfy her.”

  “Bloody hell,” William muttered and sat back down. “I’m the bloody head of the bloody War Department. That bloody well ought to count for something.”

  “I wouldn’t give a damn if you were the bloody king,” Whit retorted. “Mirabelle is upstairs, hurt, frightened, and—”

  “Ha! It worked,” William said suddenly. His scowl bloomed into a satisfied smile. “The mission was a success, wasn’t it? You’re in love with her.”

  Whit shifted in his seat before he could stop himself. “I’ll not lend credence to this ridiculous farce—”

  “No need, I can see it on your face. And you’re squirming in your chair. You’re bothered again.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort,” Whit argued, and resisted the urge to shift again when William leaned forward to pat him once on the knee.

  “Try not to worry yourself over it. Love can be a cruel mistress, it’s true. But like all fancy women, if you treat her well, she’ll reward you with the most delightful surprises.”

  After William was finally permitted to leave the room, Whit considered getting foxed with the idea that if he was going to be just as useless as his father, he might as well be just as drunk to boot. But he didn’t pour the drink. He just stood at the sideboard in his study, staring at the bottle, wavering between talking himself into it and talking himself out.

  “Go on and have one, Whit.” Alex’s voice came from behind him. “I’d say the occasion more than warrants it.”

  “You knew of this.” He spun around and started forward, more than ready to tear his oldest friend limb from limb.

  Alex held a hand up. “I knew of, and I participated in, William’s matchmaking scheme. Nothing more.”

  Whit punched him anyway.

  “Bloody hell!” Alex’s head snapped back with the blow, but he didn’t fall. “What the devil was that for?”

  Whit pointed at him. “For attempting to manage my life, and Mirabelle’s as well.”

  Alex wriggled his jaw experimentally and threw him an ugly look. “I didn’t hit you when William played Sophie and I for fools, did I?”

  “No, but I didn’t get to knowingly participate in that,” Whit returned sharply. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been enjoying yourself immensely these last two weeks.”

  Whit refused to feel guilty. If a man couldn’t take a facer now and then in the name of friendship, what good was he?

  Alex appeared to be of the same mind. He gave his jaw one last rub with the back of his hand before extending it to Whit.

  “Fair enough,” he grumbled “I should point out, however, that the person most deserving of a broken jaw is William, not I.”

  “To hear it told, your father holds the greater share of blame.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Alex moved around him to pour two snifters of brandy. “How is Mirabelle?”

  Whit shook his head at the proffered drink. “The physician reported that—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the physician’s report.” He looked at Whit pointedly. “But how is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Unable to sit, he walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. “I’ll speak to her after my mother and William have had their say.”

  “It’ll be a wait.”

  And because it would be, and because he recognized Whit’s mood, Alex made himself comfortable in his c
hair. He couldn’t stop his friend from brooding in silence, but he could damn well make certain he didn’t brood alone.

  Twenty-seven

  His heart was pounding.

  Whit walked down the hall toward Mirabelle’s room with the realization that his hour-long brooding session had accomplished nothing more than to make him nervous. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t been nervous the last time he’d seen her—being ushered away by the women. But then, he’d been too worried and angry to be anything else.

  Now the anger and the worry had drained, leaving only the nerves. There w ere questions still to be asked, and he was fairly certain the answers would be painful.

  Lizzy answered his knock and by unspoken agreement, left him and Mirabelle alone.

  Mirabelle watched him with wary eyes as he moved to stand at the end of the bed.

  “Have you come to lecture me?” she asked in a tired voice. “Because if you have, I’d just as soon you wait until tomorrow. I’ve already received an earful from your mother.”

  “I haven’t come to lecture you, but I would like you to tell me what happened if you’re feeling up to it.”

  She sighed but nodded. “Fair enough.”

  She waited until Whit took a seat next to the bed, then elaborated on what had occurred—on her idea to pay Eppersly to release her early from his house, the subsequent fight, and her forced carriage ride.

  “The contract is real, Whit. It—”

  “I know,” he cut in. “McAlistair and Lindberg found it in the study.”

  “It wasn’t there when we searched.”

  “No, it was dated the day after.”

  She paled even further and her eyes grew round. “Someone else from St. Brigit’s won’t come for me, will they? They can’t use the contract to—”

  “No, sweetheart.” He stepped around the bed to grip her trembling hand. “I promise, no. It’s done now.”

  Her throat move in a swallow. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I personally saw to it that the contract went to ash in a fireplace, and because by this time tomorrow, Hartsinger and your uncle will be on their way…elsewhere. William will see to it. I promise.”

  “Oh.” She let out a long breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “All right. That’s all right then.”