A Wicked Lord at the Wedding

by Jillian Hunter

  By the time he and Gabriel rode into London, church bells pealed and shutters opened onto a gray, misty day. Sweeps and milkmaids jostled between carts, grateful that last night’s storm had passed and they could take home a few pennies.

  A secret cadre comprised of former British officers had been called out on their way to cabinet meetings or coffee houses. More than one valet had hurriedly knotted a neckcloth or left a chin unshaven as his master received a message marked Urgent.

  The House Patrol scoured the city outskirts, the mews and the museums, pistols and cutlasses worn beneath their blue coats. Watchmen scrutinized the streets from their huts, forgoing the usual luxury of stolen naps. Turnpike keepers questioned travelers who aroused suspicion. Tavern owners and their wives watched for customers who begged a trundle for two young boys.

  A chain of vigilance had been formed not only by the elite but also by the iron links of ordinary English citizens, some hoping for reward, some merely desirous of protecting the Duke of Wellington’s sons.

  Sir Nathan Bellisant wondered as he did at every point in a portrait why he had become an artist. Yet how else could a man of his unstable nature make a living? Could he have survived as a bank clerk? A spice merchant? A farmer who tilled from dawn to dusk? He had not slept for two days. This work tormented him. Still, he knew his doubts would abate after—if—he had rested and produced the definitive sketch of his young subjects that eluded him.

  He doubted it would happen today. He had lost his concentration. Or rather his concentration had followed Arthur and Charles to their amusing game at the bottom of the garden. He glanced up at the rope ladder hanging over the wall.

  “How did that get up there?” he demanded, his own childish imagination piqued.

  Charles shrugged. “It just came. Can we climb it?”

  Arthur, the duke’s heir, yanked his brother by his jacket sleeve. “It’s a trap. They’ve come to get us. Prepare to fight, men.”

  Nathan narrowed his eyes. “Who are we fighting? Are we outnumbered?”

  Arthur turned to assess him with a look advanced far beyond his eight years. Nathan could have wept. There was the image he needed to capture. The veiled arrogance, the intelligence, the thirst for adventure—all imprinted on Arthur’s unformed features.

  But suddenly, as he turned to his sketching easel, the garden swarmed with Coldstream Guards. The red-jacketed guardsmen converged on the two children who stood in joyful terror at the wall.

  The duchess ran out into the garden, her face as white as ash. Disbelieving, Nathan watched—well, what the blazes was he watching? A regimental parade through the house toward the park? A political celebration no one had thought to mention?

  A victorious shout rang through the air. “You saved us, Boscastle!” Charles declared at the top of his voice, hefted onto the shoulders of a guardsman. “We were all but done for until you brought reinforcements!”

  Nathan pivoted slowly, shaking his head in abject surrender. He stared at the dark figure advancing on him with a pair of pistols raised. He made no move to defend himself. He hadn’t dreamt that a man could be arrested for being infatuated with another man’s wife.

  Boscastle clearly wanted blood. Nathan was going to die just like his father.

  “I give up,” he said, lifting his charcoal-stained hands into the air. “Shoot me now. I’m innocent, by the way. Not that it matters. And you didn’t need a battalion to arrest me. My paintings are hardly a threat to home security.”

  “Get inside the house,” Sebastien said, stepping around the sketches that the guards had trampled into the grass. “And for your own protection don’t come out again until you are told.”

  “You mean—you aren’t going to shoot me?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Well, thank God, but—you don’t mind not stomping all over those sketches again, do you?”

  Government spies caught the rest of the conspirators who’d plotted to abduct the duke’s sons that same day. Two had been waiting to spirit the boys away in a fashionable coach on Hyde Park Corner, accompanied by an attractive woman posing as a governess. She later confessed that her name was Viola Hutchinson and that she’d been in love with Wellington years ago. Three other members of the conspiracy surrendered on Queenhithe Dock. Four were arrested by the Coldstream Guards outside Apsley House.

  Ashamed of her unwitting part in the plot, Mary Sturges complied with the quiet-spoken Crown agents who came to the town house to question her. She admitted the plotters had first approached her at market and later bought information from her. Only recently had she learned that Sir Perceval was part of the conspiracy, and it was he who had threatened her and explained the gravity of what would be done. She broke down when Sebastien arrived, and begged his forgiveness. She swore that she loved her mistress, and no, no, the cordial had not been poisoned.

  The Mayfair Masquer was never mentioned.

  Lord Barry Summers, the instigator of the thwarted abduction, was taken into custody in an inn near Falmouth that evening. He might have escaped to France had an astute serving girl not overheard him reminding his wife to burn his documents.

  The girl tipped off the good-looking officers on patrol downstairs in the taproom.

  The village hailed her as a heroine. Libations were on the house.

  By bedtime the duchess had taken a tipple or two herself and restored her house hold to its comforting routine. The boys had been allowed an extra hour of play before retiring, and two portions of almond cream pudding for dessert.

  They claimed it had been the best day of their lives.

  Sebastien slept at his cousin Heath’s town house before setting off alone in the dark before sunrise the next day. Heath had his hands full with the Home Office. Gabriel galloped back to his wife.

  Sebastien found Eleanor anxious but safe in Castle Eaton under the care of his cousin Lord Devon Boscastle and his wife Jocelyn. Most of the other guests had departed.

  After being told of the failed abduction, the lords and ladies who had remained at the party found themselves suddenly eager to return home and spend time with their own children.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Sebastien strode across the castle’s great hall to the bench where Eleanor sat engaged in an animated conversation with his younger Boscastle cousin, Lord Devon, and Devon’s wife. His heart quickened as Eleanor glanced up and noticed him. His cloak and boots bore heavy mud stains. He had not shaved and had but washed in cold rain water before entering the keep.

  She rose slowly, her smile both a balm and an enticement. Numerous servants flittered about the hall, tending the fire, bringing refreshments. He would have preferred that they were alone, but the lack of privacy did not stop him from taking her in his arms. Nor would he deny himself a long, passionate kiss. His grip tightened around her waist.

  He needed to hold her, to reassure himself that she had remained safe while he had been gone. And that this time, nothing had happened to their child.

  Her smile told him enough.

  He kissed her again for good measure and for making him a father. He couldn’t atone for the last time. But he would be with her through this.

  “There are people watching us,” she whispered in breathless happiness against his mouth.

  His eyes glittered wolfishly. “I noticed. And I don’t care. Do you know how good you feel?”

  She slipped her hand inside his coat, her fingertips exploring his chest, his muscular flanks. “No wounds?” she asked in an undertone.

  “Sore muscles from hard riding.” He captured her face in his hands. “Nothing that a bath and a few days in bed won’t fix.”

  Her mouth curled in a knowing smile. “As a physician’s daughter, I think that is splendid advice.”

  A meaningful cough intruded their reunion. Sebastien suddenly realized that he had not even acknowledged his younger cousin Devon for rushing to the rescue. He grinned at the tall lanky Boscastle who stood behind Eleanor, his blue eyes devilish
and friendly.

  Devon had been a rambunctious boy when they’d last met. The playful cousin. He looked every bit as full of mischief now. Sebastien gripped his arm. He was glad Devon hadn’t changed. “How can I repay you?”

  “I’d be insulted if you tried.” Devon stared at him in respect. “I heard your efforts met with success. Well bloody done.”

  There followed the common ritual of manly shoulder slapping and another round of thanking each other until Devon’s wife, Jocelyn, arose from the bench to join them. She wore a plum woolen gown, and her dark golden hair in a bejeweled knot on her nape. After Devon had introduced her to Sebastien, she took Eleanor aside.

  “From what I understand, the Boscastle family hasn’t seen your husband in years.”

  Eleanor smiled wistfully as the men walked toward the table to continue their conversation. “Until recently, neither had I.”

  The two ladies stood observing their husbands quaffing cider and catching up on family news. The servants brought in platters of fresh bread and two roasted turkeys. Lord Eaton, his wife, and his two older sisters appeared for the meal. Eleanor and Jocelyn soon joined them. Eleanor’s appetite had grown enormously in the past two days.

  An air of festivity enlivened the chilly evening. Good had triumphed over evil. That villain Sir Perceval, who had been a linchpin in the plot, had sat at this same table. Now the hero of the hour, Sebastien Boscastle, sat in their midst, deflecting the praise heaped on him with modest shrugs. Most of his truly dangerous assignments had been carried out in secret. So he stared at his pregnant wife and waited for the subject to change—regretting when it did. To her.

  Or rather, to her secret identity.

  “I’m of a mind not to return to London at all after this,” one of Lord Eaton’s sisters remarked.

  Lord Eaton frowned at her, rubbing his beard. “No one is going to abduct you, Prudence.”

  “Well, what about the Masquer?”

  Her bespectacled sister gave a snort. “He goes after the beauties. And he’s never hurt anyone.”

  “If I woke up to see him standing at the foot of the bed with his scarred face, I believe my heart would give out, although if he begged my understanding—”

  “I don’t think anyone understands that poor monster,” Jocelyn murmured.

  “And you do?” Devon asked, laughing in amusement.

  She lowered her custard tart. “I would merely like the chance to be alone with him for a brief time.”

  He frowned at that. “What for?”

  “Just to tell him that beauty does not count for everything. And that if he removes his mask and reveals his true nature, he will find someone who loves him despite his flaws.”

  Devon made a rude noise in his throat. “Unless he really is a monster underneath, and then what would you do? You wouldn’t offer a beast your affection.”

  “I would hope to tame him,” Jocelyn said with a defiant grin. “Besides, you were wearing a mask when I fell in love with you.”

  “Well, I don’t consider myself tamed.”

  She laughed. “Then I’ve done a good job.”

  He glanced at Eleanor. “What would you do if the Masquer appeared in your bedroom one night?”

  “I should offer him solace,” she said slyly.

  “Solace?” Devon glanced from her to his wife as if they both had windmills in their heads. “I’d shoot the blighter in the bollocks.”

  Jocelyn’s lips curled. “Nobody shot you when you were the Kissing Bandit.”

  “But that was a joke, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps the Masquer was having us on all along,” Jocelyn said, smiling pensively. “Somehow I suspect the strange fellow wasn’t who he seemed to be.”

  Sebastien took a drink of cider. Eleanor bowed her head, hoping the guilty twinkle in her eye wouldn’t give her away. She sensed that she could trust the Boscastles with her secret.

  But not yet. For now the Masquer and his motives would remain a mystery.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The ton agreed that the Little Season had ended with enough gossip to tide them over until next year. An abduction plot had failed. The waggish Masquer had vanished into the autumn mists, and while no one knew what scandals would hibernate over winter, everyone hoped the entertaining rascal would return. An editorial in the Times asserted that having been unmasked, however, he might have lost his impetus.

  To which Sebastien muttered, “And about time, too.”

  Frankly Eleanor doubted the unfortunate fellow would ever appear again in his former guise.

  She could barely squeeze into her comfortable gowns. She hated to admit it, but the costumes hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe would never be worn so dashingly again, if at all. At the rate her modest curves were expanding, even the carriage doors would have to be let out.

  Her winter wardrobe was due to arrive any day. She hoped that Madame Devine designed with comfort in mind, as well as romantic appeal. And that the seams could be altered to accommodate her pregnant figure. For now, she would suffer for appearances’ sake and not fasten her corset all the way.

  On this, the first evening of December, she and Sebastien had dined en famille at the Kentish home of the Marquess and Marchioness of Sedgecroft. Sebastien had recounted Heath’s warning that the London Boscastles could overwhelm those quieter beings unaccustomed to their charisma. Thus advised, a woman not as demure as she appeared, Eleanor passed through the crested gates of the estate with her guard raised, and her appetite piqued.

  Two days later, fortified by the culinary offerings of three French chefs and the warmth of a family who embraced her to their collective bosom, she walked contently up the stairs of her husband’s modest country manor in Sussex.

  “Well,” Sebastien said, unraveling his neckcloth in their musty, unaired bedchamber. “That was my side of the family.” He glanced down meaningfully at the bump that barely showed beneath her cloak. He caressed it at least a dozen times a day. “Let’s see what the cauldron produces next.”

  She sighed a trifle sadly. The house seemed so empty and cold. “I had always thought Mary would be here for my lying-in. What will happen to her?”

  He took her hands, kissing her tapered fingertips. “Nothing dire, I promise. She betrayed you personally. She had no knowledge of the conspiracy. Her conscience, I would guess, will be punishment enough. Heath has asked for leniency.”

  She lifted her brow as he knelt to remove her shoes. “The Duchess has written to inform me that you’re to be made a viscount. You must have known. Why didn’t you announce it over supper last night? Your cousins would have celebrated the event.”

  “I thought titles didn’t impress you.”

  “That was before I realized that a child would change everything.”

  “Having grown up with three brothers, I think that is an understatement.” He tucked her shoes neatly under the bed. She thought again how well they balanced each other. “What else impresses you?” he asked.

  She padded to the windows. He hung his coat up in the wardrobe. “Let me think,” she said. “Husbands who come to one’s rescue at the last moment.”

  His Hessian boots hit the floor, to be lined up beneath the desk. “Excellent. Do continue.”

  She pursed her lips as he removed his waistcoat and unbuttoned his lawn shirt. “Husbands who are passionate. And who hang up their clothes.”

  His neckcloth joined his other garments. “Yes. I thought I should assert my place.”

  “Faithful husbands,” she said with a smile.

  “Are there any other kind?” he asked in a velvet voice.

  She glanced around.

  He stood shirtless before her, a wicked baron, soon to become a viscount, one whose well-muscled beauty quite took her breath away. “And—oh dear, what were we—”

  Her gaze moved past him, lifting from his tempting attributes to stare at the portrait on the wall. “That’s Bellisant’s painting of me,” she exclaimed. “How did it end u
p here?”

  “I had it sent ahead as a surprise,” he said, leaning his arm against the mantel to admire it.

  “I thought you didn’t like his work.”

  “The subject of this particular piece intrigues me. And reminds me of a promise I have made.” He smiled up briefly at the painted lady who stared across the room in artistic detachment. And then he walked forward to give his full attention to her earthly embodiment.

  Her pulses beat erratically. “A new promise or an old one?”

  “A little of both. On one hand, I have promised to place my family above all else.” His hands encircled her waist, drawing her against him. “On the other, I have promised the lady in that portrait that I shall remember she is a person never to be taken for granted. Or left alone for any unreasonable period of time.”

  She turned into his arms. “I fear I should envy her then. You seem to have fallen in love with a shadow lady who does not exist.”

  He closed his eyes. “If either of us wear another mask, let it only be to confound the world, not each other.”

  “Agreed,” she whispered.

  He caught her chin with his thumb, lifting her face to steal the first of endless kisses in the night. Shivers melted her spine. If the child inside her had softened her body and rendered her more vulnerable, Sebastien had grown all the stronger. She sought the closeness of his arms around her at every chance. It was true they had both wandered astray since their wedding day. Certainly a budding family would impose limits on their dangerous pursuits.

  Three heartbeats now.

  And the Boscastle line, in all its passion and infamy, continued.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thank-you from my heart to everyone at Ballantine Books, for all the hard work and behind-the-scenes brilliance that deserves recognition.