A Wicked Lord at the Wedding

by Jillian Hunter

  And now you and his lordship may be in danger.

  She swore. The rest of the letter was smeared, unreadable.

  A rapping at the door startled her. She swallowed the bad taste at the back of her throat. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Will again.”

  “This is not a convenient moment.”

  “I can’t hear you properly. Let me inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t supposed to leave you. And sometimes Sebastien scares me. I’d think he’d as soon toss me off a cliff as acknowledge we’re cousins-in-law.”

  “Listen to me, Will. Find Sebastien. Find him.”

  “What?”

  “There is danger. I’ll explain afterward. Fetch him, please.”

  “All right. Danger, you say. Oh, God. Don’t leave the room.”

  Mary, in whom she had confided and who had confided in her. Mary, who knew every secret her mistress kept, the faithful servant who had wept when Eleanor miscarried, the one who had sat beside her bed without sleep or complaint.

  She refolded the paper, rising from the chair. The chamber had grown so chilly she felt goose pimples rising on her arms.

  Eleanor. Eleanor Antigone, take a hold of yourself, girl. She had not thought of her father in ages. Shock, she heard him stating in his matter-of-fact voice. We did everything we could to save your mother. She had a weak constitution. Perhaps she was too pure for this world. We shall need each other now, Eleanor.

  This impure world. Rats and cats, duchesses and dukes. Who would want to bring a child into this evil? Who would name their daughter Antigone? She dug through her traveling trunk, pressed a clumsy finger to the latch of the hidden compartment.

  Letters that could change England’s destiny. She would have to break her promise to the duchess. Was Will, too, part of the plot? Unimaginable. For what purpose would he play a part? To gain the duchess’s trust, knowledge of her family’s whereabouts? For fame? Not Will.

  But he was an actor. One who’d sworn to make his mark in history.

  She read the letter that Sebastien had just stolen. It contained several references to settling an old score, a promise of revenge that would be dealt in due time.

  A scorned woman seeking to punish the duchess. A disgruntled politician with a long-smoldering vendetta against the duke. Thwarted ambition. Twisted desire.

  Not a game, after all.

  Wellington understood the risks. So did his wife, whose disdain for social functions derived from more primal motives than her critics understood.

  The duchess’s sons. What better revenge was there for a rival to take on another woman than through the children she had borne with the man they had both loved?

  The lamp light burned low. She stared across the room, wondering vaguely how long the wretched storm would last until she realized that it wasn’t thunder that she heard.

  It was Sebastien demanding entrance at the door. Thank God. Playing at intrigue had been wonderful while it lasted, right up until this moment. She flew from her chair to answer him.

  “Open the door, Eleanor,” he said in a low voice. “Will said something was wrong.”

  She released her breath and lifted the heavy bolt. Her muscles shivered in relief when she saw him. “Where have you been?”

  “On the drawbridge with my brother Gabriel.” He pulled off his turban, glanced at the traveling trunk lying on the floor. “I’m returning to London. Will you promise me not—”

  “You were right. There is a plot.”

  “Bellisant,” he said without glancing at her. “Where are my boots? And where the hell is Will now? He was supposed to follow me up here. My brother is riding with me.”

  “Calm down, Sebastien. It is not Bellisant.”

  He shoved his feet into the boots she brought to the chair, his eyes glittering, his mouth white at the corners. “Do not defend a traitor to my face,” he bit out. “I’ve no patience for pretty artists and the ladies who adore them.”

  “Neither do I. He’s a talented man.”

  “Eleanor, I warn you—”

  She folded her arms across her midsection, Mary’s letter still clutched in her hand. “Is it jealousy that accuses him or logic?” she asked coolly, although the faintest doubt flickered inside her.

  He threw her a disgusted look. “Is it desire that comes to his defense or truth?”

  “It is truth.” She shook her head. “I do not believe anyone except Sir Perceval could have predicted this.”

  “You have been misled,” he said without inflection. “Why do you think Bellisant wanted the duchess to stay in London?”

  “He has no wits for a conspiracy.”

  He came to his feet, impassive, unflinching, a god of vengeance, until she held out the letter that she could not bear to look at again.

  “It is not Bellisant,” she said again, her voice shaking. “It’s Mary. Oh, Sebastien, I have been misled.”

  He glanced down, blinking, her implacable lord. “How do you know?”

  She swallowed. “She’s written a confession. She betrayed me for money to give to her son. I trusted her implicitly, and she sold information that would be used—”

  “—to assassinate the duke or abduct the duchess,” he concluded slowly.

  She drew away. Their eyes locked in mutual respect. “No. Neither. It’s little Arthur and Charles. I don’t know if they’re to be ransomed, or worse.”

  He took the letter from her, shaking his head as he scanned it. “And you are convinced that Bellisant is not involved?” he asked gravely. “Think. He is an intimate visitor to their home as well as to ours.”

  “He might as well be a boy himself. If I am wrong, then I do not understand human nature.”

  He slid his hand down her arm. She had never felt closer to him than at this moment. “But you understand why I suspect him?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I will show him no mercy if he is involved.”

  “Nor should you,” she said. “They are children. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

  He nodded tersely. “My brother and I are riding straight to London. Do not ask to come.”

  “I wouldn’t go even if you insisted,” she replied, giving him a reluctant smile.

  He studied her in concern. “Please tell you are not keeping an illness from me. Or is this at last a healthy common sense?”

  She bit her lip. “Neither, my lord. Your child is making its presence known in a rather uncomfortable manner. As much as I love both you and the duchess, there is no power on earth that will persuade me to risk a rushed journey.”

  He went still. She wondered if he understood what she had said until he held her away from him and a grin of unguarded joy broke across his face. “A girl or boy?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know. Ask Sir Perceval.”

  He lowered his head. “Now I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Just come back soon.” She clasped his hand. “Come back.”

  He nodded, turning from her in resolve.

  She reached out to brush off the rain that glistened like teardrops down the back of his coat. She pretended not to notice as he covertly tucked two pistols into his belt alongside his dagger. Not the London gentleman he had appeared to be, but an officer and agent who would let nothing interfere with duty. She followed him to the door, her heart tight with worry.

  He took pause. “Try to be good, Eleanor.”

  “Only if you return soon. I’ll get into mischief if you’re not back to keep me occupied.”

  But she knew now the only thing that could separate them this time was the unthinkable. He would help hunt down the conspirators, chase them across the Channel if necessary. He had no choice.

  A knot of emotion constricted her throat as he drew on a pair of gauntlet leather gloves, his brow furrowed in thought. “There is no one reliable at the Sussex house. The servants will be distressed over what Mary has done. Perhaps I’ll ask Heath to send
one of my cousins back to fetch you.”

  “Will could take me to his mother’s house in Dover,” she said decisively. “I would stay there until you come back. It isn’t far. The road is decent, and neither I nor your child should be jostled overmuch.”

  “I love you,” he said, kissing her briefly before he opened the door. “Both of you.”

  She remained in her room for only a handful of minutes. Waiting for him to return was unbearable. She was almost glad to soon be in the midst of a frivolous masquerade to take her mind off what could happen, although she feared that if one more hand tugged at her veils, she would strangle the perpetrator on the spot.

  And where had Will disappeared to? He knew there was trouble brewing. It was unlike him not to get involved. Was he off somewhere in the castle entertaining a private party? She had been keeping watch for him when she noticed Sir Perceval gesturing at her from one of the great hall’s passageways. She rose from the table where she had been halfheartedly engaged in conversation. She crossed the hall and exited the passage to discover Sir Perceval in great agitation. He motioned her covertly toward him.

  “What is it?” she whispered, very much suspecting that he’d made one false prediction too many, and was now paying the price. As the Masquer, she knew well that a man who did not live up to his name could get himself in thick trouble with the ladies.

  “I cannot find your cousin,” he said worriedly.

  “Neither can I,” she said slowly, her apprehension rising. Will wasn’t the sort of person to vanish without a trace. “Where did you see him last?”

  He motioned vaguely. “In the torture chamber, my lady.”

  She stared past him into the torchlit corridor. Lord Eaton had illuminated the stone stairs leading down into the oubliettes with skull-shaped silver sconces. A macabre touch, she thought.

  “Why would Will go to the torture chamber?” she wondered aloud, her attention transfixed on the shadow that she had noticed upon the wall.

  It was not hers.

  Nor did it belong to Sir Perceval.

  It was, however, one she knew well. In puzzled silence she looked up at the man who stood in the recessed alcove adjacent to the dungeon stairs. His gauntlet-clad hand lifted in a furtive gesture. She felt a rush of anticipation arise from the very soles of her feet.

  “He might have gone there to prepare for tonight’s entertainment,” Sir Perceval said behind her.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, revolving slowly to regard him.

  He shook his grizzled head. “Lady Boscastle,” he said in a condescending voice as he produced a flintlock pistol from the depths of his blue robes. “I am flattered that you and that foolish duchess ever did believe me. Please continue down the stairs to join your cousin.”

  She swallowed a surge of anger. “I will personally carve you up to feed to the crows if you have hurt Will.”

  He reared back slightly at this unladylike threat, but his reaction wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the stark panic on his face when he heard Sebastien speak over his shoulder.

  “I would not challenge her talent, Sir Perceval. You see, I’ve witnessed her dexterity with a scalpel. The lady has nerves of iron. Quite impressive.”

  “Dear Sebastien,” she murmured. “How good of you to say so. I am moved.”

  “Then move out of my way, sweetheart.”

  “For God’s sake,” Sir Perceval said in scorn. “She’s only a woman.”

  “That’s what you think,” Sebastien said with a laugh.

  She descended a step, her heartbeat quickening as Sebastien forced Sir Perceval to the wall with the tip of his dagger.

  “She doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood, either, a trait I find oddly endearing.”

  Her gaze lifted to his hard face. His eyes held hers in a fierce intimacy that sent her heart racing all over again. She managed a smile. “You never told me that,” she said.

  “I don’t think I appreciated your unique abilities enough,” he replied.

  And before she could respond, he turned swiftly and grasped Sir Perceval by the wrist. The pistol clattered down the stairs into the darkness.

  “Will is nursing a concussion in Lord Eaton’s room,” he said without looking at her. “You might wish to visit him. I’d prefer you leave me to deal with the traitor.”

  She knew better now than to argue. “Anything you ask.”

  “I shall take you up on that promise later.”

  “And you’ll be too late,” Sir Perceval said, then fell silent as the tip of the dagger touched his throat.

  “Please go, Eleanor,” Sebastien said in a voice of quiet authority that made her skin prickle.

  She climbed up around him, then hesitated. “Who shall I send to you?”

  He gave a nod in the direction of the passageway. Eleanor stared up in surprise. How long had that handsome black-haired man been standing there? What was it about his chiseled profile that compelled and felt disconcertingly familiar?

  She did not recognize this man and yet she did. The raven-haired stranger stepped forth and bowed, his blue eyes assessing her in hooded amusement. For an alarming instant she thought she might be suffering from a delusion. Did Sebastien have an evil twin?

  “My brother Gabriel,” Sebastien said, walking Sir Perceval down the remaining steps. “He will see you upstairs.”

  “The resemblance is—”

  “Unfortunate.” Gabriel straightened with a charming grin. “I have to ride with Sebastien back to London. Now that I have made your acquaintance, I do understand why he is loathe to leave.”

  She laughed, welcoming the release. She could not decide whether the pair of them looked more like demons or avenging angels. But this charming rogue would be her child’s uncle. All of a sudden she realized that a large family loomed in her future. The Boscastles ruled London.

  Sir Perceval gave an indignant grunt of objection as Sebastien nudged him rather urgently down the steps. Soon after, the clank of an iron door echoed through the underchambers. She stole a glimpse at her husband’s hard, beautiful face. His smile restored her spirits.

  She would forgive him for interfering in her work. And she fully expected that he would apologize for calling the duchess’s mission a “teacup” affair. She would not gloat, however. Sebastien had earned her deepest respect for employing his devious mind to put together what she had not even realized was a puzzle.

  The cat, and the rat who’d chased her, had worked well together. It was almost a pity that they would be retiring from service to devote themselves to the next generation.

  Well, that was as it should be.

  Thus, closing that chapter on her life, she took Sir Gabriel Boscastle’s arm in gratitude and left Sebastien to what ever dark acts he might be required to perform.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  In her drawing room, the Duchess of Wellington took a light breakfast of kippers on toast and sifted through a slew of trivial correspondences. A creature of the night, Sir Nathan had consented to come at an early hour to capture the boys in their best light.

  To Kitty that meant wielding all methods of bribery in her mother’s arsenal to coax her beloved hellions into washing behind their ears and not dirtying their crisp Irish linen shirts. The nursemaid had awakened the children at the crack of dawn. She and the duchess hoped they would soon be tired enough to sit. While Kitty relished the energy of her sons, she understood Sir Nathan’s frustration. How did one distill their boyish energy into a portrait that would be regarded in flattering terms by posterity?

  She stared out the window into the garden where Sir Nathan had asked the boys to pose. An odd choice, she reflected, considering the uncertain November weather. Yet her eyes misted with tears as he walked the children to the garden wall. In a few years her sons would attend Eton. She could not abide an empty home. She would adopt more children and her husband could serve as ambassador on the moon should he desire. He would find other entertainments to keep him from family duties. />
  And she would have her memories, a portrait to remind her of these precious years.

  “Your grace,” her secretary Loveridge said rather breathlessly from the door.

  She sighed, wishing she could go an hour without interruption. And, goodness, what were the boys doing with that rope ladder on the wall? Charles would ruin another pair of twilled woolen trousers climbing. Why did Sir Nathan stand there encouraging their misconduct?

  “Your grace.”

  She whirled in impatience at Loveridge’s anxious tone. “What is it now?”

  He bowed, his wig askew, as he presented to her a letter on a footed silver salver.

  Urgent.

  The duke, she thought, her heart in her throat. Even in a world at peace, her husband walked among enemies. Resentful Bonapartists, the occasional lunatic, old adversaries masquerading as friends. The price of leadership. She should have been a country wife married to a plodding squire.

  She fought a wave of lightheadedness.

  “Don’t tell the boys yet,” she said as she reached for the letter.

  “No, your grace,” Loveridge said with tears in his eyes.

  If the news were dire, let them be immortalized by Sir Nathan on the last day of innocence they would ever know.

  While the two Boscastle brothers pounded north toward London, a branch of messengers carried warnings to every conceivable port and customhouse in England that might be employed for escape or concealment. Humble clerks and widows, as well as ferrymen and shipmasters loyal to the grand duke, tumbled from their beds and went on the alert.

  Sebastien galloped alongside Gabriel’s black Andalusian, impressed by his younger brother’s skill in the saddle. Two fresh horses awaited them in a coaching inn at Sevenoaks. A pint of small beer later, they cantered over the dark village green, joined at the abbey ruins by four red-coated outriders. Another detachment headed toward the moonlit coast road and Lord Eaton’s castle. Sebastien felt easier knowing Eleanor would be under guard until he returned to her.