“How did you manage to escape?”
“I’m not certain that I did,” she said slowly. “It might be only a reprieve.”
“Didn’t you get the letter?”
“No.” She broke away, shaking her head in bitterness. “There were two of them. I was caught.”
“By the guards?” he asked, glancing back down the street.
“No, by—”
The murmur of male voices carried from some unseen doorway. He gripped her hand again and propelled her down the street. Her boot heel caught on a cobble. He steadied her, swearing to himself, or at her. She only knew she could breathe again and that his hand felt warm and reassuring.
Will was pacing beside the carriage, a fashionable figure in his camel wool cape and high beaver hat. His blond-red hair appeared disheveled, however, and Eleanor detected the scent of brandy on his breath as she approached him.
“Your husband,” he said, with a fearful glance in Sebastien’s direction, “is a veritable monster. I thought he—he was going to—”
Sebastien stepped between them. “Chatter like a chambermaid at home. Your job is to drive.”
Will nodded meekly and scrambled up onto the driver’s box. A moment later Eleanor found herself all but stuffed into the carriage opposite her brooding husband, who sat back slowly as the pair of grays took off at a racing pace.
For an eternity he regarded her, then said, “Do you wish to explain what happened?”
“Audrey Watson caught me red-handed, and let me go.”
He frowned, absently rubbing his face. “Why?”
“I think—I believe she might have some understanding of why I am doing this.”
“Pray that she will enlighten me,” he bit out. “Why, Eleanor? Why did you start this?”
She turned from his forbidding scowl.
“I asked you a question, madam.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I enjoy it.”
“You enjoy stealing in and out of bedchambers, risking disgrace?”
“It was a way to pass the time.”
“Does Mrs. Watson know who you are?” he inquired after a pause.
“Not yet.”
“You’ve met her before?” he asked in surprise.
“We both attended a royal academy auction last summer to view Bellisant’s watercolor exhibition.”
He threw up his hands. “Of course.”
Eleanor shrank down against the squabs. Sebastien’s well-deserved disapproval stung. It would only be a matter of time before Audrey Watson placed her. The duchess would suffer a double humiliation, not only by having her husband’s alleged indiscretions exposed, but by the most popular half-world hostess in society.
“I lost my favorite pistol,” she muttered.
“A small price to pay for your freedom. I was ready to storm the house to bring you out.”
“That would have caused a scene,” she said with a reluctant smile.
He grunted. “It would have been nothing compared to what I’d have done had anything happened to you.”
She sighed. It wasn’t fair that all the blue in the world should be concentrated in one man’s eyes. Or that the concern in his voice dissipated every cold and resentful feeling she’d hidden behind to protect herself from falling in love with him again.
And it wasn’t fair that for years she would have sworn he avoided looking at her when now his stare cut straight to her core.
“Why take these risks?”
He moved onto the seat beside her.
He was breaking her down with his concern.
She wanted to cry. “For the reward, of course.”
“Which is?” He frowned. “Is it monetary? Did the duchess offer you wealth?”
“Not exactly. You do realize that the duke will return to England one day and become an important political figure?”
“It is assumed.”
“There are benefits to being attached to those in power,” she said slowly. “Benefits promised to one’s family.”
He shook his head. “Then this is not just make-believe over tea? The duchess has promised to reward you?”
“Yes. And you, as well as any children we might conceive. Is that the answer you wanted?”
“I’m not sure, but at least it is one I can understand.” His hard chin brushed her cheek. “Promise me that you will not put yourself in danger again. I know you to be a woman of her word.”
And yet he still had not been honest with her. Would he ever admit that he was not acting under the duke’s orders?
She twirled her fingers into the crisp hair at his nape. “I do keep my word,” she said softly.
He reached up to grasp her hand. “Are you done with this dangerous affair?”
She looked up into his piercing gaze. After her close call on Bruton Street, she had to admit that danger had lost some of its appeal. Or perhaps she had all the danger she could ever crave sitting right beside her.
“Well?” he said, his mouth close to hers.
“Not tonight. I have to think.”
“Then think of this.” He laced his fingers in hers. “There will be children for us,” he said.
“But not the one we lost.”
“I’m sorry for that, Eleanor.”
“I know.”
“Our children cannot have the Mayfair Masquer for their mother.”
“Probably not,” she murmured.
He looked down, shaking his head.
This, he thought in frustration, had been the threat to their marriage all along. Not Bellisant or any other young buck, but a monster of her own making. One larger than life. One who did not even exist but against whose fictional acclaim he must compete.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t let me lose you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Sebastien brought tea and the morning paper to his wife’s bed the following morning. Her maid, Mary, shook her head in mute reproach when she intercepted him on his way back up the stairs.
Her gaze lowered to the paper tucked under his arm. “The mistress usually likes the tray set by her door after an evening abroad.”
Which he supposed was Mary’s way of reminding him that she knew more of Eleanor’s habits than her husband did. “I’ll manage,” he said, winking at her.
She smiled back without enthusiasm. Sebastien had to grin. She really hadn’t warmed to him. “Would you like me to have a tray sent up for you, my lord?”
Probably one that offered mercury-laden biscuits and hemlock tea.
“No, but thank you.”
“Lord Boscastle—”
“Yes, Mary?”
“Forgive my impertinence, but her ladyship does not care to be awakened this early in the day.”
“That I remember,” he said wryly. “Leave her temper to me.”
Indeed, when he carried the tray into the room and gently touched his wife on the shoulder, she sat up with a disoriented shout that caused him to reconsider the maid’s warning. Eleanor had never been a sunny morning girl. He knew that from the start. Pity he hadn’t known what a late-night firecracker she would become.
He sat the tray down on the bedside table, whistling cheerfully. He couldn’t pretend he was not delighted that she would finally be all his again.
“I need to talk with you,” he said before her drowsy beauty could distract him.
She stared blankly at the window as if she’d just risen from the dead.
“Later. Tomorrow. Next month. My thoughts are afog.”
“Have a cup of tea first, darling. This cannot wait.”
He stood at the window, fiddling with the curtains while giving her time to rouse. An entire pot of tea later, he heard the paper he had laid upon the bed rustle, a sharp gasp, and then silence.
He wondered what another man would do in his place. He did not know what it said for his character, but he’d rather be the husband of a woman who held London in thrall than one who
had been cuckolded.
“Oh, Sebastien. This is awful.”
He made a soothing sound in his throat. She was staring aghast at the print that depicted the latest of the Masquer’s exploits.
“You brought me this to gloat,” she accused him, wide awake now.
“Untrue,” he said.
“Did you read it?”
“‘What does he seek?’” he quoted, moving out of the late-morning light.
“‘A few crumbs of love and the attention of the most beautiful ladies in London,’” Eleanor read on. “‘Two Bow Street Runners were summoned to a notorious Bruton Street brothel at two o’clock in the morning. The proprietress gave evidence that she had caught and confronted the man whose appearances in numerous bedchambers has caused an uproar around the city these past three months.’” Eleanor groaned, quoting Mrs. Watson’s report. “‘I convinced the Mayfair Masquer to unmask.’”
Sebastien sat down on the bed.
“‘And when he did—’”
“‘—he revealed himself to be one of the most hideously scarred gentlemen it has ever been my misfortune to behold.’” He read over her shoulder, savoring the intimate contact. “‘Upon gently questioning his motives, he confessed that he was a Cornishman who had been disfigured in a mining accident. His only pleasure, this pitiful creature confided, is to pay secret visits to beautiful women who would shun him were his disfigurement revealed. His crime is a love of beauty and lonely desire.’”
“What a fable,” Eleanor said with a little frown. “I’ve never set foot in Cornwall.”
He was enticed by the scent of her tousled hair. “Would you like to spend a week in Penzance? We can walk along the beach together. I’d enjoy that.”
She turned slightly at the shoulder, still for several heartbeats. “Did you see this picture of the Masquer?”
He laughed. “One could hardly miss it.”
And they both stared down in grave contemplation at the caricature of a short, hawk-nosed gentleman who had not only removed his mask but also pulled down his trousers to bare his buttocks in a celestially rude gesture.
“He’s got a bit of a cheek,” Sebastien said unhelpfully.
“Did she have to make him out to be so unattractive?” she asked, biting her lip.
“Those of us who truly know him would tend to appreciate the diversionary tactic.”
“I can’t very well insist she revise her evidence.”
He said, after another pensive silence, “At least it lays all his romantic pretensions to rest.”
She sighed. “To be honest, I find his past more compelling than I did when—it didn’t exist.”
He wouldn’t win. Surely he should ignore the devil on his shoulder that urged him to argue the point.
“But his element of intrigue is gone,” he said. “He’s more an object of sympathy now than a dashing figure.”
“Poor Masquer,” Eleanor murmured, smoothing her hand over the cartoon of her fallen self. “I had no idea he was so tragically scarred. I’m quite moved by his story.”
“Perhaps,” Sebastien said, wresting the paper from her hands, “we should place our attention on giving him a happy ending.”
“I haven’t failed, after all,” she said, her spirits apparently rallying.
He gave her a look meant to quelch her resurging confidence. “You cannot do this again.”
“I agree.”
He lifted the tray from the bed and put it on the floor. “Ah. Shall we inform the duchess together?”
“If she sees this, which she will, I’m not certain I shall be able to show my face to her again.”
“Not after this picture shows—”
He laid his head back onto the pillow; she leaned back against his chest. He knew she had evaded a commitment. And that he’d have to resort to more persuasive means to secure her word.
He waited a few moments to make his move, only to realize she had beaten him to the start line.
“I do have to disagree on your previous remark,” she said, her fingers straying down his thigh.
She might be playing him, but still he savored the moment, the closeness that he was learning led to indescribable sex. His body heated. He smiled inwardly, wondering which of them would prove the more persuasive.
“The Masquer’s romantic pretensions have not been laid to rest,” she ventured at his lack of response.
“To hell with it,” he said, and pulled her between his thighs.
A knock at the door resounded through the chamber. Mary’s frantic voice brought husband and wife off the bed and onto their feet.
“Lord Boscastle! My lady! I would never disturb you under other circumstances, but the duchess has sent her page to the door. It seems she is in high dudgeon. She demands to see both of you at four o’clock.”
And then, as if she hadn’t made the urgency of this request perfectly clear, she added, “In formal afternoon attire.”
Eleanor did not need the mystical insight of Sir Perceval to understand what Sebastien had left unsaid about last night’s fiasco. He knew she had blundered. But it was what he didn’t know that worried her. She would shrivel up in shame if he found out that Mrs. Watson had been on the verge of seducing her. And even though the woman had apparently done her a good turn, she remembered that Audrey had mentioned a price. One did not become a demimonde hostess without an instinct for marketing.
Instinct.
When had Eleanor ever done anything except on instinct? Look where it had landed her. She was so upset that she practically vaulted over Sebastien like a steeplechaser to drive their curricle to their interview with the duchess.
He was clenching his teeth as she guided the horses past a crowd of urchins who stood watching a fight on the corner. It was that sort of day in London, the air unbreathable with soot and pent-up passions. If she slowed down, she knew she would see house-wives and tradesmen studying the posters of the Mayfair Masquer that had been pasted up overnight.
Anonymous No Longer!
From the corner of her eye she saw Sebastien studying a large copy of the cartoon that showed the Masquer exposing his bum.
She could elude the entire city of London, she could trick the police, but not the man sitting beside her. “You needn’t look so pleased about this.”
“I’m not.” He shook his head. “I’m just trying to hang on to my molars. It’s not as if I enjoy seeing my wife’s posterior on every corner and tavern window in town.”
“That’s not my—well, mine.”
He glanced down. “There isn’t any resemblance.”
“Mrs. Watson must be having a good laugh at my expense.”
“Possibly. But at least her description won’t lead anyone to your door.” He folded his arms. “I heard the footmen telling each other that the Prince of Wales has challenged the Masquer to give himself up and seek political sanctuary.”
“At the Royal Pavilion in Brighton?” she asked. “With Carême doing the cooking?”
“His offer was not meant to be a private holiday,” he said. “But it does indicate he understands the threat the Masquer faces from his admirers as well as the threat his existence poses to the rest of London.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
“It appears that his unmasking has sparked a wicked trend in Town.”
“Breaking into ladies’ bedchambers?” she asked in consternation.
“No. Pulling down a stranger’s pantaloons and making a run for it.”
She drove a little faster, a little more recklessly. “I hope the duchess doesn’t hear that disturbing piece of news.”
“She’d have to be walled in the family vault for it not to reach her,” he said with infuriating certainty. “We can only hope she understands it was a bit of exaggeration.”
“It was ever so much more than a bit of exaggeration!” She veered toward a group of pedestrians, who made a run for the pavement. “I did not take anything off except my mask.”<
br />
“Did Audrey take anything off?” he asked casually.
“What a mind you have,” she muttered.
He studied her from the side of his eye. “Well, she is a courtesan. And—”
She raised her brow. He stopped. She said, “Oh, do go on, he who owns a floating brothel, but has never frequented one.”
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “Darling, it’s only that I have a curious mind. And the Masquer did take off his clothes, or so the story goes—”
“The story is an utter fabrication—”
“—according to the newspapers,” he amended. “Good heavens, you do not think me a total dolt to believe everything I read.”
“I—What are you doing?”
She drew back sharply on the reins as a pair of street beggars in plaid coats dove for the handful of shillings he had tossed into the street. She bumped down hard on the seat.
“You seem flustered,” he said in a concerned voice.
“You are an oracle of perception.”
He smiled. “Why don’t you allow me to take the reins?”
She glanced up as a dark shape appeared in the sky. An enormous raven flew overhead, then settled spread-winged on a church spire. A messenger of impending evil, Sir Perceval and Mary would say, although Eleanor’s father would only laugh in scorn at such a superstition.
How could a bird predict the future? he would ask her in his grumbly voice. Doesn’t a predator have to eat? She recalled Sir Perceval’s last prediction, of a large family and a happy marriage. Naturally she wished to see these hopes realized. Still, one could not believe in signs of good fortune without acknowledging the bad omens, too.
Sebastien swore, startling her. He placed his hand firmly upon her wrist. “Eleanor, I must insist.” He did look rather white, now that she took a moment to examine him. “You are quite inattentive. Allow me to drive.”
“As you like. I didn’t realize that city driving unnerved you.”
“It doesn’t,” he said through his teeth, as if she hadn’t nearly bowled over a snake charmer at the curb and prompted a hackney driver to hurl curses back in their direction. “In fact, I could use some practice myself. An apple cart led by a lone donkey on a Norman lane isn’t quite the same as navigating the streets of London.”
A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Page 16
