A Wicked Lord at the Wedding

by Jillian Hunter

  Luckily she caught him in the gallery outside her door, and not on the way in.

  “Open sesame,” she trilled at the top of her voice, gesturing at the closed door with her conch shell.

  He did not turn to acknowledge the flirtatious invitation to enter her bedroom. He had one of her old letters tucked inside his costume. For all she knew he’d been admiring the crossbow collection mounted upon the hallway wall.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  She lowered her conch with a coy smile. “There might be treasure in my cave.” She gave him a little wink. “Treasure that I only share with certain guests.”

  He edged around her. “Where there’s treasure, there is usually trouble.”

  “I’ve heard,” she said, thwarting his passage, “that where there’s trouble, there’s usually a Boscastle in the vicinity.” She examined his costume closely. “Or would you rather I call you Ali Baba Boscastle?”

  He grimaced. “That’s quite all right.” This was what came from wearing clothes that Will had borrowed from the theater. “To be frank, you have the wrong tale. As well as the wrong male.”

  She laid her hand on one of his gold arm gauntlets. “A sultan?”

  “His son-in-law, returning home.” What a preposterous conversation. “I’m Aladdin.”

  “Didn’t Aladdin have his own harem?” she asked in a throaty voice.

  “I don’t believe so,” he said politely, plucking her fingers from his becircled biceps. “However, I certainly don’t.” It was all he could do to keep his only woman from writing her own entertainments.

  “Everyone gets lost in the castle at midnight,” she whispered, giving him a nudge. “The servants extinguish all the torches, and we have to find one another.”

  “How frightfully exciting.”

  He decided right then that he and Eleanor would be locked inside their room by eleven. At daybreak they would be on the road back to London to send the staff off to Sussex, and if it rained hard, they’d make a detour and stay for another day or so on the coast.

  “I know all the hiding places in the castle,” the countess continued, not one to take a hint. “Would you like for me to find you if you get lost?”

  “I think my wife has already done that, Lady Eaton, but your offer is immensely kind.”

  “You haven’t heard yet what else I’m willing to offer.”

  “That might be best left to the imagination.” Suddenly he wondered if she was the one who had tried to meet him on the beach.

  She studied him in sour amusement. “I thought that you and your wife had been estranged for years. Surely you’re aware that she has been seen in the company of other men at other masquerades. I saw her myself at the Aldephia with a most handsome portrait painter.”

  “Oh, yes, Sir What’s—”

  “Nathan Bellisant. He’s not as interesting as you. I don’t think he wanted to paint me. He liked your wife, though. Followed her around like a lost puppy.”

  He touched his right hand to his forehead and sketched a low bow. “I assure you that she is very much my devoted wife, as I shall remain a faithful husband.”

  At least the latter part of that statement would never be disproved.

  As far as Eleanor’s devotion, she had proven that too, which didn’t mean he could take her for granted again, nor leave her alone for the duration of even one more party.

  And when he saw her coming from their room at the opposite side of the gallery, he could not escape Lady Eaton fast enough. There were guests going up and down the staircase, admiring one another’s disguises.

  None of them looked as enchanting as the tall genie with an unlit lamp and peeved expression on her face.

  He saw Eleanor look past him to where he and Lady Eaton had been standing. When she glanced back up at him rather testily, he patted the letter he had hidden under his vest.

  “That’s it,” he said, sotto voce, as they met. “We’re finished. Shall we go home?”

  She looked over his lean, spare frame. “You’re missing something—your dagger. I hope you didn’t drop it in that brassy woman’s bedchamber.”

  “Of course I didn’t. Do you want to read the letter I found?”

  “No.” Her eyes held his.

  She adjusted the scarf that was stitched to her bodice. “Please put it in a very safe place.” She ran her fingers up his arm to the gauntlet that encircled his hard muscles. “I might have to put you in a safe place, too. I noticed that Lady Eaton found a way to stand at your side during our tour of the dungeon last night.”

  He leaned into her. “I didn’t notice,” he said. “But then I was preoccupied staring daggers at the gentlemen who were staring at my wife, and if they do so again, I’ll put them in their place.”

  “Daggers.” She drew her hand from the gauntlet with a wistful sigh. “Hurry up and find yours. Will is insisting I accompany him on a tour of the torture chamber. He doesn’t want to go without me.”

  “I know how he feels.”

  “Are you afraid of the dark, too?”

  He grinned. “Not if you’re with me.”

  When he returned alone to their room to hide the letter, he heard the faint clamor of bells ringing from the beach. The storm had worsened. He glanced out through an arched window at the fishing boats bobbing at sea. The sailors had ignored the warning to come ashore.

  These plots usually blow over before they amount to anything.

  Have you read them?

  He felt a tug of curiosity. Eleanor had chosen to keep her promise. But he hadn’t promised the duchess as much. Furthermore, he had pledged to serve the duke. And keeping an eye open meant examining everything that came one’s way. Even old letters.

  He hadn’t been assigned to covert activities for nothing.

  He unfolded the letter and studied the feminine scrawl. Dear, dear. For a countess, Lady Viola Hutchinson did employ rather foul language and—Eleanor was afraid of bonfires? She’d had an ancestress burned as a witch? He hadn’t known that. Had they even spent a November together before? There wouldn’t be any fires lit in the village in this rain. Good thing they were wearing light costumes tonight. They’d roast otherwise in the great hall. He glanced down again.

  I have met the most intriguing man named Lord Barry Summers. He was a member of the War Office who lost his position due to that bastard Wellesley’s influence. I do believe he hates that ambitious bugger as much as I do. He laughed when I confessed I wished a plague upon Arthur’s wife. He promised that if I waited and satisfied his desires he would satisfy my need for vengeance. Not that any of this will interest you, dangling an old earl on your finger.

  He stopped. Wellesley had become the Duke of Wellington. The recipient of this letter was the lascivious Lady Eaton, who’d snapped up her old earl. He’d no idea what had happened to this Lord Barry Summers. It was a name to remember.

  He put the letter away when he heard a knock at the door. He hoped it was Eleanor and prayed it wasn’t Venus. It turned out to be a castle footman with another message, this time from a man claiming to be a family relation. The gentleman requested that Sebastien meet him on the drawbridge.

  “Is this another prank?” he asked bluntly.

  “I don’t think so, my lord,” the footman answered. “Would you like me to accompany you just in case?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll go alone.” Which meant he wouldn’t involve Eleanor.

  But if it was a relative, it could only be Heath. Who else knew Sebastien was attending a party at the castle? What could be important enough for him to ride from Town in the rain?

  The plot against Wellington. A woman scorned and a cabinet member with a long-standing grudge. He felt a quickening, anticipation, the chance to be back in the game. He wasn’t sure, of course, that there was a connection. But it was a start, as Eleanor had said, and his instinct said it was a good one.

  “Please let Lady Boscastle know that I’ll be delayed a few more minutes,” he instructed the footman befo
re he closed the door.

  He took the time to find his coat and throw it on over his costume. A secret agent did not need to be parading around as Aladdin. He wished that Eleanor had read the letters she had found, but perhaps now it didn’t matter. He would simply explain the contents of this last one to Heath. That way his wife would not have breaking a promise on her conscience.

  He hurried down the spiral staircase, managing to dodge the guests who had strayed from the festivities. He would have to return to London if he was asked. He strode through the muddied bailey, beneath the portcullis, a man who’d run through worse than rain to prove himself.

  Eleanor would understand, a woman who had proven her own loyalties in England and to him in some rather startling ways. As she had once pointed out, their children would benefit from their parents’ penchant for intrigue—medals, titles, positions at court or in foreign lands.

  Ambitious, he and his wife.

  If Heath Boscastle had come all the way from London to enlist Sebastien’s help, she would understand why he had to accept. His problem would be persuading her she could not accompany him.

  To his surprise, the cloaked man standing on the drawbridge was not Heath, but his own younger brother Gabriel. He felt a pang of fondness, remembering the wicked hell they had raised when he and Gabriel were growing up. He had not only taught Gabriel how to shoot a solitary acorn from a tree, but also how to entice a barmaid into sneaking a handsome boy an ale in the stableyard. Indeed, there was no one like an older brother to introduce a sibling to sin.

  Well, so much for his ambitions. “You,” he said, clasping his brother’s arm. “You were supposed to be Heath.”

  Gabriel eyed Sebastien’s silk turban in amusement. “I won’t ask who you’re supposed to be. Heath sent me, actually.”

  Sebastien glanced down the drawbridge to the sea, his anticipation sharpening. “Why?”

  “Because I can ride faster than he could in the rain.”

  “No one can ride faster than you.”

  “A skill I honed so I wouldn’t be blamed for what my three elder brothers had done. I was usually left to look the guilty party.”

  “Boys in trouble learn to be fast.”

  It was the second time in years they’d faced each other. Sebastien had come to his younger brother’s rescue last September in London when he’d been ambushed in an alley. Gabriel had not contacted him since, although Sebastien had hoped he might.

  Still, for the previous decade they had pursued different paths. Sebastien had chosen his career with hopes of glory, a military promotion. Gabriel had fallen into heroism.

  Gabriel glanced up at the raised portcullis. He might be wondering whether the iron gate would drop and forever divide them. He drew a harsh breath. Obviously he had ridden hard to bring this message.

  “The conspirator has been traced to someone who frequents your house,” he said. “Heath thought you ought to know and respond accordingly.”

  “My house?” His brow knotted. “When?”

  “Over the past year.” Gabriel wiped a wet streak of rain from his face. “The link to the plot was only discovered last night. Do you have any suspicions?”

  Sebastien’s heart pounded. The wind howled across the cliffs and castle battlements. A man’s house was his castle, the fortress in which he guarded everything he cherished. But if that man left his castle undefended, whether he ranked as a duke or baron, he should expect that an enemy would try to find a way inside.

  Who had visited his house while he was away?

  The bailey had become a sea of churning mud and confusion. The castle standards fluttered in the wind, their direction elusive. Rain slammed against his back and blew into his brother’s face.

  Whoever had befriended Eleanor would presumably have used her to gain access to the duchess. Her grace trusted few people with true friendship, and while those she did received special favor, she also associated with a certain questionable element. Questionable, at least, in Sebastien’s biased opinion.

  “Nathan Bellisant,” he said with grim certainty. “It has to be him. He talked her into staying in London.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “You wouldn’t know it to meet him. He’s a portrait painter who was a frequent guest at my house. Not one I would have invited, but my wife and her friends are wild for his talent.”

  “And he’s still alive?” Gabriel asked, his blue eyes taunting.

  Sebastien forced a smile. Amazing how they had been apart for years and yet their minds wandered in the same devious ways. “The duchess has commissioned him to paint her children for Wellington’s Christmas homecoming.”

  “Ah.” Gabriel’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps he’ll have to finish his painting in the Tower. We cannot disappoint the grand duke.”

  Sebastien felt a jolt of fury. Bellisant. The portrait of Eleanor. To view one’s wife through another man’s eyes, to see her coveted and used. How could he summon mercy for the traitor? He could not. He would do what the Crown expected of him, and if there was a personal element of revenge on his part—what of it? He would be justified in seeing the coward brought down.

  The duke had never sent him on missions of kindness.

  “A painter,” Gabriel mused. “What a perfect cover. And he made friends with your wife at the same time.”

  “That will be enough, Gabriel.”

  “He didn’t paint her picture, did he? No. You wouldn’t have let that sort of nonsense go on.”

  “I’m letting your mouth go on,” Sebastien retorted.

  Gabriel wiped his cheek with his coat sleeve. “Do we ride together, or should I go ahead to London?”

  “We’ll go together, then separate. Find Heath.” Sebastien pulled his coat up around his neck. “I’ll have to change anyway and make arrangements for Eleanor’s cousin to take her from here. At least come inside and have cake and ale before we go.”

  “I’ll see to my horse’s needs,” Gabriel said, grinning. “You see to your wife. And, Sebastien—”

  Sebastien pivoted with an impatient look, backing away from his brother. “What?”

  “In this weather and that garb, you might consider going by flying carpet. Of course the wind would blow off your turban. Still, all things being equal, I think it might be a blessing.”

  Eleanor couldn’t decide whether the roast pheasant was off, or the beastly music of the wandering minstrels had given her a sick headache. What ever the cause, she excused herself from the noisy revels and slipped from the hall, her veils battened down. Sir Perceval had just arrived to read fortunes. Will trailed her dutifully to the door, munching on a chicken leg.

  “When was the last time you saw my husband?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I spotted him in the passage screens a half hour ago. He appeared to be leaving the keep.”

  She looked back into the throng of costumed guests lining up to have their fortunes told. “You don’t have to walk me upstairs. I’ll wait in my room until Sebastien returns. Sir Perceval looks as if he could use a guard, though.”

  “Sebastien asked me to see you to safety.” Which he did, looking doubtful when she dismissed him outside the door of her room. “Lock up after me.”

  “Thank you, Will.” She hesitated. He seemed always to be such a lost soul. “I could have never done what—well, this past year would have been uneventful without your help. Perhaps you have already guessed, but the duchess has a reward planned for your services.”

  He nodded wistfully. “It’s a shame it all has to end. And, Eleanor, I’m sorry if I was not the most efficient of partners. Sometimes I got carried away. You never really needed me. I think—well, I’ve always needed you. Good night.”

  She bolted the door, listening to his footsteps recede. How sensitive he had always been, an only child who from her earliest memories had enjoyed putting on costumes, staging plays, inventing characters to befriend.

  She turned.

  The chamber seemed dark and gloomy without Seb
astien. A damp wind penetrated the shutters.

  She lit her unmagical lamp and put on the warm pelisse Mary had insisted she bring. Sebastien’s coat, the one he’d worn on the beach, was gone. Her cloak was still wet. She rubbed her hands together, wondering why he had vanished so mysteriously. If that unnamed mischief maker had lured him off again, she would be upset that he hadn’t at least told her.

  She curled up on the chair where his coat had lain. She knew he could take care of himself, and she had no desire to wander either the castle corridors or the windswept cove in search of him. Of course, if he did not return within a reasonable period, she would ask Will and a footman or two to help her find him.

  A sharp cramp in the pit of her stomach distracted her. Damnation. Of all the times for her courses to come. She would have to change, or better yet go to bed with a book and her missing husband to rub her back.

  She shifted to her left side, slipping her hands beneath the pelisse for warmth. The lamp flickered. She placed her hand absently over her belly. Was this her usual discomfort, or something different? Her last flow had been four … five weeks ago?

  She looked up at the lamp, afraid to hope. Five weeks. Perhaps even longer. She smoothed the pelisse over her body. She felt some forgotten object in the pocket—no, what ever it was had been lightly sewn into the satin lining. She plucked the few loose stitches apart.

  Not another letter? She thought the handwriting looked familiar.

  She leaned toward the light, chuckling in realization. A message from dear-hearted Mary, written on Eleanor’s own foolscap. Straightaway she recognized the poor penmanship from shopping requests Eleanor had dictated to her during tea. No doubt Mary wanted to remind her to take that foul-tasting cordial. How could she be cross when her maid only meant well?

  But all these ink smudges and blotches, not like her tidy lady’s maid. Could they have been tears?

  Madam,

  I know you will never forgive me. But I hope that a woman who has lost a child will understand what another has done to save one. I have betrayed you and the duchess. I never knew that her precious children were at risk. I only meant to make a few pounds. God forgive me, but I have sold personal information about you and Her grace to persons I now realize mean the duchess and her family harm.