“Yes, they are.” At least he hoped to God they were. It occurred to him that other than a few samples taken from the ends of bolts by Blink, he’d never actually set eyes on them. They’d been wrapped in protective cloth when Sarala’s people had loaded them into wagons.
“I will consult with my companions,” Yun said after a moment. “Their authority is equal to mine in this. If you are attempting to mislead me, be aware that we all know of your sister and your brothers, your niece, and your woman.” He angled his chin toward the far end of the room.
Charlemagne clenched his jaw. “I’m not misleading you. When shall we meet next?”
“You think to keep the silks?”
“At the moment I’m keeping them only to prolong Blink’s life until you and your companions make a decision.”
“On Tuesday morning, then, at ten o’clock.”
“At eleven o’clock, at the west end of the pond in St. James’s Park.” It was fairly open there, so he would be able to see anything coming, and there would be enough people about that someone would notice slashing swords if the negotiations went poorly.
“You still do not trust me,” Yun said with a slight smile.
“I trust you as much as you trust me. And Yun, if any member of my family receives so much as a scratch, if so much as a pebble is thrown through a window, I will take a torch to the silks and risk the consequences.”
“We understand one another, I think.”
With a bow Yun turned and left, the second soldier joining him. Where the third man was, Charlemagne had no idea, but the prickle at the back of his neck told him that Yun hadn’t been lying; the fellow was close by somewhere.
“You hit him?” Sebastian grunted, coming up to join him. “That’s how you negotiate with an armed kidnapper?”
“I warned him not to call me a thief.” Charlemagne shrugged, moving to meet Sarala and her father as they came forward. “I think we came to an understanding, after that.”
“It was marvelous to watch,” Sarala breathed, taking his arm. “I could see the advantage pass from him to you just by his stance. Incredibly well done. Is it all settled?”
“Not yet, but we’re closer.” Despite his generally confident and independent nature, his insides warmed at the compliment from someone who knew the rules of the negotiation game nearly as well as he did. The combination of tension and admiration started heat low in his stomach.
“What’s the next step?” she asked, still grinning at him.
“Yes, does one of them get to pummel you, now?” Melbourne put in, from his tone still wary. He would have remembered that there were three swordsmen, even if the Carlisles hadn’t.
“Yun—that’s the fellow’s name—is going to discuss with the other two what an appropriate compensation for the insult to Emperor Jiaqing’s honor might be. We’re to review my options on Tuesday.”
“That’s all very civilized, though how you became the British ambassador to China, I don’t know. I doubt the government will vote to pay out anything to save Blink’s head.”
“Someone’s insulted the emperor, whether that was Blink’s intention or not. I would imagine the larger the gesture of apology, the happier Jiaqing will feel,” he returned, heading them toward the museum’s main doors. “I reckon it will come down to something from Prinny—a nice, official letter and a gift, hopefully.” He glanced at his angry, concerned brother. “You could manage that if necessary, couldn’t you?”
“I imagine so. If you’ve turned this into an international squabble, though, you’ve put more lives than just yours and Blink’s at risk, Shay. You do realize that, I hope?”
“I realize it.” By putting himself at the forefront he’d also arranged to make himself the main and first target of any conflicts or reprisals. That had been intentional, and both he and Yun—and Melbourne—knew it. And so the game would continue—as if he didn’t have enough on his plate simply convincing Sarala that marrying him wouldn’t be such an awful thing to have happen.
Chapter 13
“Is everyone dead?” Lady Hanover wailed from the couch in the upstairs sitting room. “Melbourne’s been killed, hasn’t he? Oh, one of those Chinese savages scalped him, didn’t they?”
“The Chinese don’t scalp people, dear,” the marquis answered. “They cut off hands or heads for theft.”
“Oh, heavens! I’m going to faint! Help me, Sarala!”
Sarala exchanged a pained, amused look with her father and knelt to take her mother’s hands. At least she had her name back, now. “No one’s dead, Mama,” she said soothingly.
She’d been surprised to find the marchioness alone in the sitting room; half of London must know by now that a Griffin had become engaged to her daughter. And Lady Hanover had sent correspondence to that same end. The matchmaking mamas must surely be on their way to Carlisle House.
“Thank heavens Melbourne is safe. You gave me such a scare, Howard.”
“Apologies, sweetling.”
Her mother insisted on remaining obsessed with the duke despite the fact that Sarala was betrothed to his brother. Whatever came of this, Charlemagne did not belong in Melbourne’s shadow. “You should have seen it, Mama,” she said. “Shay was brilliant, and the negotiations are going quite well.”
“Then where are they? The Griffins? We have our own negotiations to conclude. Howard, you mustn’t allow them to bully you into accepting anything less than our fair portion.”
The marquis pulled the slip of paper Sarala had given him earlier from his coat pocket. “Don’t fret, my dear. Everything will be sorted out. In the meantime, I have Lord Charlemagne’s note for the silks Sarala sold to him. Four thousand pounds. Not a bit shabby, that. Well done, Sarala.”
“Thank you.” She hadn’t mentioned that she could have gotten twice that, and she never would mention it. That had been a private argument, just between Shay and her.
“Four thousand pounds? But from what you said, my husband, those silks belong to the emperor of China. Surely we could have gotten more if we’d sold them directly back to him.”
The marquis tucked the note away again. “Thank you, no. That is one business transaction I am pleased only to observe from a safe distance. And your suggestion would have been a bit unscrupulous, wouldn’t you say? Selling stolen property back to the rightful owner?”
“I would think the emperor of China wouldn’t notice the expense.”
Sarala wasn’t so certain of that. Unlike her father, she would have preferred to have been close enough at least to overhear all of the negotiation, but at the very next opportunity she meant to have Shay recite the entire conversation for her. The way he’d looked—strong, confident, and very handsome—she’d had to physically hold herself back from kissing him right there in the middle of the Egyptian room at the British Museum.
That would have spelled the doom of their plans to nullify the betrothal. Even so, she still wanted to kiss him, to feel his warm hands on her naked skin, to—
“—even listening to me, Sarala?”
“Apologies, Mama. What were you saying?”
“I said we must have an engagement ball. Do you think Melbourne would host? I don’t think there’s been a soiree held at Griffin House in over three years. Wouldn’t that be a coup if one were to be held there for you?”
“Mama, there hasn’t been a soiree held there in that time because the duke’s wife died three years ago. I am not going to ask them to hold a party on my behalf. The engagement was only to protect my reputation, anyway. For all I know, Charlemagne might change his mind. And I would be glad of it. However much you wanted me to marry a Griffin, this is…cheating.”
That was the crux of it, she realized; yes, she was attracted to Shay, but even if there hadn’t been extenuating circumstances, she had no desire to be married because of an accident. She and Charlemagne both preferred to deal honestly, and under these circumstances she had no idea what his honest feelings were or what he might actually have intended.
Certainly he’d kissed other ladies before her—and she didn’t want to be known simply as the one who’d been able to trap him. That would be unbearable.
The marchioness pulled her hands free and stood to pace. “You are speaking absolute nonsense, child. And that is why we must reach an agreement as soon as possible—so neither of you can change your minds.”
“That’s horrid!”
“It’s the way things are.” Someone knocked at the front door, and she heard Blankman pull it open. “That will be Lady Allendale,” her mother continued. “We need to begin planning the wedding.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Sarala said, standing.
“Sarala, you need to begin showing more enthusiasm, or the Griffins will think you’re not appreciative.”
Sarala took a deep breath. That was too much. Not that a union with the Griffin family wouldn’t on the surface be beneficial to her own family, but this was an ongoing negotiation. Showing humble appreciation at this point would put them in a defensive position. That was pure logic.
“My lady, Lady Allendale and Lady Mary Doorley have arrived, inquiring if you are available to see them,” the butler said, approaching from the doorway, a salver and calling cards in one hand.
“Yes, show them in. And send in some tea, Blankman.”
“Right away, my lady.”
“I have some correspondence,” Sarala said, hurrying for the opposite door. Her father trotted directly on her heels.
“Very well, then. Do go,” Lady Hanover said with a dismissive wave. “We’re only beginning to plan the festivities, and I hardly want you about if you’re going to scowl at everything we say.”
Not taking the time to answer, Sarala made for the back stairs and her bedchamber beyond. Once inside, she picked up the book she’d been reading on the Roman conquest of Britain. Slowly, though, she lowered the weighty thing to her lap.
She should feel appreciative. Ha. HA. What she felt was trapped, cornered into something she hadn’t intended because of something she hadn’t been able to resist. If only Shay Griffin hadn’t danced with her that night.
But he had, and she remembered quite clearly that it had been the first time since she’d left India that she’d enjoyed where she was and what she was doing. Even when she’d misjudged him, thought he was merely arrogant, tricking the information out of him had been delightful. Knowing now how very intelligent he was made the memory of that moment even more satisfying.
Delightful. That was every moment with Shay, even when they were arguing—especially when they were arguing. Arguing meant kisses and desire and heat.
Someone scratched at her door. “My lady?” Jenny’s voice came.
“Enter.”
Her maid walked into the room, a piece of paper in her hand and a wide smile on her face. “Blankman said this just arrived for you.”
Sarala took it. “Thank you. What are you smiling at? You look like the cat who found the cream.”
“You and Lord Charlemagne, my lady. Everything was in such an uproar yesterday, but I wanted to wish you well.”
“Thank you, Jenny, but it was just a misunderstanding. Shay will explain it to his brother, and then I’ll explain it to Mama and Papa, and we’ll go on as we did before.”
“So you don’t wish to marry him?”
“That was not my intention.” She unfolded the missive, and a heavy gold coin fell into her palm. Furrowing her brow, she lifted it closer. In surprisingly clear relief the profile of Emperor Hadrian gazed out over his empire. A Roman coin, and one nearly seventeen hundred years old. Only one person would send her such a fine-quality artifact. Her eyes skipped down to the signature line. Shay. Her heart gave an unsettled roll. “Would you fetch me some peppermint tea?” she asked. She wanted to be alone as she read the note.
Jenny dipped a curtsy. “Right away, Lady Sarala.”
Sarala sank into the chair beneath the window as the maid departed. Charlemagne had a dark, sure hand—he knew what he meant to write, and he didn’t hesitate about it. She smoothed the paper along her skirt and lifted it again.
“Dearest Sarala,” she read, “I saw this in one of my display cabinets, and thought of you—not that you’re ancient, nor do you bear a resemblance to Hadrian.”
She snorted, quickly covering her mouth to muffle the sound. Considering how full of events the day had been, it surprised her that he’d thought of her, much less that he’d thought to send her a gift.
“I intend to be lurking in your garden at three o’clock,” the note continued. “I would like to see you there, if you’re able to slip away. Regards, Shay.”
A breath of excitement ran through her at the thought of seeing him, of talking to him again so soon. He’d remembered that she liked Roman history. Sarala grinned, examining the coin again. Remarkable—and she wasn’t certain whether she meant the coin, or the gift giver. Nothing could come of this; she wouldn’t disgrace her family or his—but perhaps after this mess was finished, she could keep him as a friend.
Friends. Did friends kiss as he’d kissed her? Would their relationship be a romantic one? In the middle of London with such a well-known and powerful personage as Shay, she couldn’t imagine they could simply be lovers—not without her reputation being torn into tatters. And once either of them was married to someone else…
Sarala shook herself. Putting the cart in front of the horse was one thing, but she didn’t even have a cart. What she did have, however, was a secret rendezvous in an hour with a man she very much respected and admired. And wanted. Smiling, she rose to place Hadrian’s coin inside the small, glass-topped box where she kept her more interesting treasures. It was a pity she couldn’t put Charlemagne in there, to simply take him out when she wanted to chat or feel a man’s hands on her bare skin.
Her door opened again. “Here’s your tea, my lady,” Jenny said. “And Lady Hanover has requested your presence downstairs.”
Damnation. “Did she say why?”
“Something about selecting the wedding party, my lady.”
The wedding party. Charlemagne needed to convince his brother to risk the stir that calling off the engagement might cause; the longer they let her mother loose upon London planning a wedding, the worse off everyone would be afterward.
“Where are you off to?”
Charlemagne glanced toward the door of his bedchamber as Zachary slipped into the room. With a stifled sigh he finished pulling on his gray jacket. “I’m going for a ride.”
“I’ll join you.”
“I don’t want you to join me. I want some peace and quiet. You are the antithesis of both.”
Zach leaned one haunch against the dressing table. “You’re a bit testy, aren’t you?”
“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the afternoon—too late for luncheon, and too early for dinner.”
“I came to see my soon-to-be-married brother.” Zachary grimaced. “Actually I came to see Melbourne, but he’s in a fouler mood than you are. And I thought he was angry when I said I wanted to marry Caroline.”
Charlemagne began an insult, but there didn’t seem to be much of a point. Instead he sat on the dressing chair. “He was angry because he thought you’d been tricked into doing something unwise.”
“That does sound familiar, doesn’t it?”
“You mean for me?” Shay returned. “Everyone seems to assume that I made a mistake, and yet no one’s asked for my opinion.”
“Most likely because you’ve never hesitated to express it before.”
“I’m getting married. That’s my opinion.”
Zachary looked at him for a minute. “That’s not an opinion; correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe it to be a fact. And you can hardly blame us for being concerned. If you’re being a gentleman, there are probably ways around this.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Shay asked, though he had a fairly good idea.
“You have to know what Seb thinks—that S
arah overwhelmed you with her talk of being alone and friendless in Lon—”
“Sarala,” Charlemagne corrected. “And she didn’t overwhelm me with anything.” Actually she had, but not with lust or whatever it was that Zachary had been going to suggest. The woman herself overwhelmed him. Her accent, her eyes, her hair, her skin—all that began it, but what finished him off was her intelligence, her borderline cynicism that made him look at his own England through a foreigner’s eyes, her sense of humor, the way her mind worked.
“That’s what Caro said.”
Charlemagne shook himself. “What?”
“Yes, I can see that you’re completely unaffected by the chit,” his brother stated dryly. “My wife is of the opinion that you two are so logical and straightforward that once you were caught kissing, you couldn’t imagine a way around it.”
“How romantic we are.”
“You’re the one who compromised a chit into marriage. Not me. And you told Seb you were negotiating a business transaction. Forgive me if that talk doesn’t make my knees weak.”
“Your mind is weak.”
“At least I have some romance in my bones. You have pencil lead. And ink for blood.”
Charlemagne actually did find Zachary’s commentary interesting. Obviously Sarala had seen their kissing as a ploy on his part to gain the advantage in a business negotiation. So did his entire family, apparently. Ink for blood. Did Sarala not see him as he saw her, then? Did she not imagine them, bodies entwined, while she cried out in pleasure?
Standing, he clapped his brother on the back. “Thank you, Zach. You’ve made several things very clear.”
“I have?” Zachary rose, as well. “Of course I have. That’s why I came. What are you going to do, then? Tell Melbourne you’re begging off? Let the chit escape unscathed?”
“No. I’m going to make her fall in love with me, and then I’m going to marry her.”
At fifteen minutes before three o’clock Charlemagne left Jaunty at a friend’s stable and walked the last street to Carlisle House. A few weeks ago, before he’d met Sarala, he would have spent the afternoon inspecting the silk shipment and making certain they could be delivered on Tuesday as required. And now, from the moment his actions had forced Sebastian into announcing a wedding he’d been able to think of little but marrying Lady Sarala Anne Carlisle. He wanted to see her again.
Something Sinful Page 19
