For some time after Heath left, Sebastien sat and listened to the water lapping against the boat. At first his mind raced. He would give the letters to his wife immediately, and she would not read them. Should he?
An assassination plot.
Why here? It didn’t make sense. But that only indicated he had missed something. One had to be more vigilant. It would help to know against whom.
Would Eleanor complain if he crept off to frequent clubs and public houses? A smile settled on his lips. Not his wife. She would only fret if he kept his work a secret from her again.
Chapter Twenty-five
Eleanor wore an off-the-shoulder figured silk gown at supper and a strand of pearls. She had allowed Mary to arrange her hair in a knot with a few curls that fell in studied negligence at her nape.
“That’s better,” Mary said in satisfaction.
Eleanor had even dusted herself with a beautifying powder that promised to plump up her cheeks and décolletage.
She decided she had delayed the inevitable long enough. It was time to act like a wife and permit her handsome husband to be the only man of the house, as it were. Unfortunately he was so lost in thought that she might have been wearing a tablecloth and dusted in soot for all he seemed to notice. He had been in the most absentminded mood since returning home from his walk with Teg.
He looked … not himself.
He kept glancing at the clock on the fireplace mantel, and not at her. She tapped her spoon lightly against the salt cellar. He didn’t notice.
She dropped the spoon. He glanced at the table, then looked at the door. “How was your meeting with whomever you met?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “Fine.”
“Was it really?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds interesting,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows to prompt him.
He shrugged vaguely. “Oh, you know how these things are.”
“No. I don’t. Would you like to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About your meeting, dearest.”
“I already told you. It was fine.”
“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “Any other wife would suspect you were up to no good.”
His eyes flashed with humor. “Speaking as a wife who is usually up to no good herself.”
“I am reforming,” she said in an offended voice.
He lifted his brow. “Oh?”
“Can’t you see?”
“What am I supposed to see?”
She rose from the table and approached his seat. He sat back and waited, slowly lifting his gaze to hers. Her heart hammered in her chest.
His eyes gleamed in the candlelight with an emotion she had not seen in a long time. Neither doubt nor fear, but something that stirred her nerves.
Passion of a design other than amorous. Purpose. That was it.
And what ever had sparked this energy made him irresistible. She stopped behind his chair, twining her arms around his neck.
“You have ignored me all evening,” she whispered in his ear. “If I am being forced into retirement, I insist I am at least informed of your adventures. What happened?”
He turned his head. “I wouldn’t call it an adventure.”
“It had to be more exciting than having Mary take hot tongs to your hair and—”
“It hasn’t even been a whole day,” he said with a dark smile. “You haven’t retired with grace.”
“—and you didn’t even notice.”
“Notice?”
“My hair. The curls that fall just so to captivate a husband’s attention.”
He studied her for several moments. “You look very lovely, but then you always do.”
“What happened when you went out?” she demanded. “Please, Sebastien. I know something is going on.”
“I met my cousin at the wharf. Heath Boscastle.”
“I take it this wasn’t a family reunion.”
“He works with a man named Colonel Hartwell of the—”
“I know who Hartwell is.” She sank down into the empty chair beside his, staring at him in dread. “He didn’t ask you to take another assignment? He did. And it’s dangerous, which is why you’re bristling with excitement, you selfish thing. How could you keep this from me?”
He blinked. “I’m not bristling. And I’m not keeping anything from you yet. This is a different sort of assignment.”
“Are you allowed to tell me?”
“Yes. As long as you don’t—”
Some sort of commotion arose from the street. People cheering and banging what sounded like pots and pans. Raised voices resounded from the entrance hall as a footman hurried to the door to investigate. Eleanor and Sebastien glanced toward the window simultaneously at the clatter of coach wheels that rattled past the house.
“What is that row, Burton?” Sebastien called in annoyance.
The footman appeared at the door. “I’m not sure, my lord,” he replied in bewilderment. “There seems to be a mob gathering at the square.”
Sebastien made to rise. Eleanor grasped hold of his hand. “Never mind the mob. What did your cousin want from you?”
“Vigilance. Someone in the city is plotting to kill Wellington.”
“My lady, the duchess?” she asked, her voice low with worry.
He frowned. “The Duke of Wellington.”
“But he isn’t here.”
“He will be at Christmas.”
She felt a chill. “What a ghastly notion. The children would be with him. They could be harmed.”
“It might come to nothing,” he said quietly.
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”
“I am merely to keep my ears and eyes open. You, well, I’ll ask you to do the same, but from a distance.”
“Would you like to wall me in the West Wing?”
“I wouldn’t mind. Now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. Impractical though. Perhaps you could simply be attentive during your daily activities. Listen to gossip. You know, mine the resources of those street girls who like to play spy.”
She put her hand to her throat. “You’re right. I did hear something about a plot at the market last week.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The butcher’s wife planned to do in a pullet for one of her customer’s dinners.”
“Excellent work,” he said dryly. His gaze flickered over her. She had the sense that it was the first time all evening that he’d truly seen her. “Have you done something different to your hair?”
For a moment she could have cheerfully murdered him.
“I—” He faltered. “And that dress—the pearls—were you—”
“Trying to seduce you?”
His eyes glittered in sudden understanding. “Is it too late to take you up on that offer?” he asked with a de cadent smile.
Her heart thumped in anticipation. She decided she’d ask Mary to buy more beautifying powder. And tomorrow she would agree to go shopping with her old boarding-school friend, Lady Phoebe Haywood, whose invitations to tea, balloon ascensions, and other meaningless pastimes she had rudely ignored.
Tomorrow she truly meant to become a wife in every sense of the word.
Even if tonight she wasn’t a lady at all.
Chapter Twenty-six
They rose from the table at the same moment. Sebastien could not have testified in a court of law whether she reached for him first or he pulled her against him. He’d been preoccupied for hours, but now that he realized she had been angling for his attention, he was entirely hers.
“You can leave the pearls on,” he said, kissing her on the mouth, then the throat, and her prettily dusted décolletage. “But everything else—”
Another chorus of cheers and light explosions erupted from the street. Sebastien let go of her and rushed into the hall. His entire house hold stood in the doorway staring at the swell of people marching toward the pub. Firecrackers shot up into the sky
from the square garden.
“What is it?” Eleanor whispered over his shoulder, vying for a view.
“I don’t know. Some sort of celebration. Stay here a minute while I find out.”
“But I’m—good gracious. I think that’s Will stuck behind those carts. I hope he hasn’t been injured.”
He turned and gave her a distracted kiss on the cheek. “Give Will my regards and ask him to come back tomorrow.”
“Ask him yourself. He’s almost here.”
He glanced down the street and saw Will running toward them. A line of carriage lights burned in the mist like the eyes of a dozen banshees. The waiting horses whickered uneasily.
“Get inside the house!” Will shouted. “They’re going insane!”
“There must be some sort of important person passing through,” Eleanor observed. “I wonder who it is.”
“I’ll find out,” Sebastien said.
“But we—”
“And I’ll be right back. I need to know what is going on.”
More flickering lights shifted in the fog. He ran past Will on the pavement and muttered, “Both of you, go inside. And behave yourselves.”
“You don’t need to ask me twice,” Will retorted.
Sebastien hurried toward the square to investigate what ever mischief was afoot. If he hadn’t promised Heath Boscastle that he would stay on the alert, he would have thought twice about leaving the house again.
He might even have thought long enough to realize that his dearly beloved was the cause of the uproar raging across Town.
* * *
Will handed his coat to the maid and a crumpled edition of the evening news to Eleanor. “Do you think that I should go with him?” he asked, turning back to the door.
She cast a concerned look into the street. “No. He’ll be fine. And you aren’t supposed to come here at all hours anymore. I’m making an effort to reform.”
They looked at each other for several moments. Suddenly her conscience stung her. She knew her cousin had thought Sebastien would never come home to stay, and now he had not only returned but had displaced Will. She blamed herself for encouraging him to visit at all hours.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Reforming isn’t easy on me, either.”
He grinned back at her. “You might have no choice. Read the news.”
Her frown deepening, she walked toward the wall sconce for better light and scanned the paper, skimming over the usual heartening rumors of riots, sedition, and Prinny’s excesses, to a subject closer to home. A little too close, it seemed.
So many people have volunteered to patrol May-fair after midnight that the police have resorted to drawing names at the station from a high-crowned hat for the honour. Several gentlemen have turned themselves in, professing guilt. The lock-up rooms are overflowing with impostors.
The Bow Street Office has stated it might become necessary to conduct a door-to-door search for the Masquer’s own protection.
She lowered the paper. “Well, at least the police can’t start searching tonight with what ever celebration is in progress.”
Will paused. “Don’t you understand?”
The blood drained from her face. “You mean that the mob—”
“Yes. They are celebrating the Masquer. And staging their own hunt for him.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Eleanor practically dragged Sebastien through the doorway into the hall when he returned an hour later. He was relieved to find her as he’d left her. And also that her cousin had gone home. He wasn’t in a mood for Will’s hysterics.
He glanced into the darkened corridors, then back at the door. Everything appeared to be in order—except for the small arsenal of brickbats, walking sticks, and parasols stacked against the hallstand.
His brows rose.
“Are we preparing to walk in bad weather or build a nursery?” he asked, unfastening his cloak.
“You didn’t see the swarm of people?”
“Of course I did.”
“They were hunting for the Masquer, Sebastien.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We have a problem on our hands.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, following at his heels. “I cannot leave the house alone.”
“Yes, you can.” He hesitated. “But the Masquer can’t.”
She gave him a baleful look. “Nor can he handle an impassioned mob should his identity be discovered.”
“Isn’t it a good thing I’m here to take care of you?”
“I’m not convinced that even you could hold back that crowd.” She waved a newspaper under his nose. “Read this. The police are—”
“Yes. I’ve heard. It’s all the people in the street can talk about.” He drew her against him, enfolding her in his arms. “You have caused quite a scandal, my love.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Secrets have a way of entangling us.”
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t they?”
He felt potent, protective, capable of solving all her problems. “I have got everything under control,” he said consolingly. “I also have a plan.” He smiled, glancing past her. “And fortunately I don’t think it involves parasols.”
“What is it?”
“We’re leaving London.”
She escaped his embrace, looking subdued. “What about the masquerade at Castle Eaton?”
“We attend, under my supervision. And then we shall retire to the country like any other well-bred couple. No one will question our sudden departure at this time of year. In fact, it would seem odd if we stayed here.”
She stared down at the newspaper she was still holding.
“What do you say, Eleanor?”
“You’re right.”
Five minutes later they were upstairs packing their belongings for a winter sojourn in Sussex.
Trousers, his and hers, were heaped upon the chairs, the stool, and even the escritoire. He walked into the dressing closet and spotted the bottle that the apothecary’s boy had delivered that day. With his earlier focus on a possible assassination plot, he had forgotten. Dear God. Was she sick?
“What is this bottle of foul-looking stuff that came for you today?” he called to her from the depths of the closet.
“My elixir, you mean?”
He returned to their room. “I wasn’t prying. But if anything is wrong, I think I ought to know.” He looked at her. “But if there isn’t—I, well, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want anything to be wrong with you.” Plots and mobs he could handle.
She had already undressed and slipped into a lawn nightrail. Before she’d tightened the drawstrings, he removed his outer garments and put on his black dressing robe. For all their uninhibited behavior in bed, he and Eleanor were too essentially English to engage in naked conversation during a crisis.
“When I lost our baby,” she said, with a directness that seemed unmerciful at first, “I could not imagine that I should want another. And, of course, conception seemed unlikely without you home. But now—well, I’m taking a tonic.” There was no plea for his pity in her voice; nor did he detect any blame.
“A tonic? For …?” he inquired after an awkward pause.
“Do not be thick, Sebastien. It is to enhance my fertility.”
“Is it safe?”
“It seems to be.” She bit her bottom lip. “Half the time I only pretend to take it to please Mary. But there should be no reason why we cannot have another child.”
“I care more that I have you.”
She nodded, and he thought that she finally believed him. Now if he could convince her to trust him in other ways, everything would be fine.
She settled into one of the two wing chairs at the window, glancing amusedly around the room. “Where did we bury the evening post that Mary brought up?”
She looked well, he reassured himself. She had the energy of ten soldiers. And he desired her enough for a dozen men. Did either of
them need a tonic when they had each other?
“There it is,” she said in relief. “On the desk. Let’s have a gander.”
He sat opposite her, leafing with feigned enthusiasm through the letters that had been hidden under his shirts. “Shall I read them to you?”
“I’m not an invalid all of a sudden,” she said with a chuckle, curling into her chair.
“Perhaps the country will do you good.”
“Bore me silly, you should say.”
“There will be other entertainments,” he said meaningfully.
She blushed.
“You’re as bad as the duchess’s boys.”
“Perhaps I should take you captive.”
“You already have.”
“No. It’s the other way around.”
He cleared his throat, breaking an elaborate seal. “Here we go. An invitation to a Christmas ball in Kent.”
“From?”
“My cousin the Marquess of Sedgecroft and his wife.” He shook his head ruefully. “My mother was afraid of my father’s family, I think.”
“Perhaps it’s time to mend the family divide.”
“I don’t need anybody else,” he said. “Only you and …”
“Our dog?”
“I wasn’t thinking of Teg.”
“Well, he is family.”
He laughed. “At least he’s my friend again.”
“Yes.” She sighed in resignation. “You’ve won us all back over.”
“Except for Mary. And Will is scared of me.”
“Open the other letter,” she urged him. “A Christmas ball has possibilities. Plum pudding and pantomimes.”
He did, his brow lifting slightly. “It appears to be another invitation. Aren’t we the sought-after couple?”
She leaned forward. The scent of her hair enticed him. He stopped, everything, but her, suddenly forgotten. “Come closer,” he invited in a dangerous voice. “I won’t bite hard.”
“But you do bite,” she whispered, her dark eyes amused.
“So do you,” he retorted.
Her smile tightened his heart. “Continue reading.”
A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Page 19
