Her aunt grumbled. “Very well. But I will give you five minutes, and five minutes only. You know that girl is not—”
“I’m aware,” Daisy interrupted curtly, lest her inebriated aunt let any family secrets slip from her lips before her lady’s maid. “I’ll return posthaste. It’s all very proper, Aunt.”
Aunt Caroline’s mouth tightened into a knot of disapproval. “Be quick about it, then.”
Daisy didn’t tarry a second longer before alighting from the carriage with her lady’s maid following in her wake. She sincerely hoped that Bridget was on duty today, for she hadn’t enough time to send word.
Inside the milliner’s, the scene was familiar—a bevy of hats on display, all the first stare of fashion. The shop was a fine one, and Bridget held a senior position, though Daisy would have preferred she’d listened to reason and come to stay with her and Aunt Caroline. Bridget, of course, had been equally stubborn in her refusal and vehement in her dislike of Daisy.
But Daisy was nothing if not determined, and so she continued to pay visits to the milliner’s as often as she could to see the half sister she’d always known existed an ocean away but had never met until her arrival in London. As a lonely girl, Daisy had dreamt of meeting the older sister born out of wedlock, conceived during the early years of her parents’ marriage. To her father, Bridget was a sign of shame. To Daisy, she was family. Daisy had sought her out immediately, but she had not met with the welcoming she’d hoped.
Time, she reminded herself. Her sister required some time to warm to her. Daisy knew Bridget’s early years in Ireland had not been easy. Her mother had died when she was but a girl, and she’d come to London to eke out her existence. While Daisy’s life had not been easy either, she had nevertheless known wealth and privilege.
Madame Villiers herself was on the floor today, her mahogany curls artfully arranged, a fashionable fringe of bangs cut across her high forehead. “How may I help you, mademoiselle?”
Daisy smiled. “I would like ten of your newest creations, if you please, Madame, delivered immediately to my address. I trust your impeccable sense of fashion implicitly.”
Madame Villiers’s eyes lit up. “But of course, Mademoiselle Vanreid. We will give nothing but the best, les meilleurs chapeaux. Our designs rival Parisian fashion plates.”
“I’ve changed my mind, Madame,” Daisy said in a voice loud enough to carry to her fellow patrons milling about. “I’d like fifteen of your best.”
The woman smiled, resembling nothing so much as a satisfied feline. Her creations, though sought after, were dear. An order of fifteen hats was worth a handsome sum.
“Naturellement. We will be more than happy to send fifteen of our finest to the celebrated heiress Mademoiselle Vanreid, whom all of London admires. We are trés honored.”
Perfect. Fortunately for Daisy, Madame Villiers didn’t require much flattery to resort to bombast. In a much quieter voice, she said for the milliner’s ears alone, “And, of course, if Miss O’Malley is on duty, I would appreciate a word.”
“Ah, oui,” said Madame in an equally subdued pitch. “I believe you’ll find Miss O’Malley at her usual post, working with the feathers.”
“Merci,” Daisy said, sotto voce, before instructing her lady’s maid to await her in the main shop. Her half sister needed her, and Daisy owed her so much. She had been raised in a life of privilege and plenty while Bridget had suffered. She had vowed to see that her sister was always provided for, and a union with the duke could call that promise into question.
It was something she hadn’t considered in her selfish desire to gain her own freedom from an insupportable marriage with Breckly. But she wouldn’t forget her sister, nor would she turn her back upon her. So much depended upon her now. The weight of it all threatened to consume her.
She retained hope that Trent possessed a softer side, an understanding. He had sworn to protect her against her father’s wrath, hadn’t he? However, it almost seemed too good to be true, the prospect of freedom from tyranny and violence.
Nevertheless, it hung there, a lure tenuously within her faltering grasp. Hers if she but took it.
Daisy slipped discreetly into the room that Madame Villiers had indicated. Within, her half sister was alone. Bridget, toiling over the proper placement of an ostrich feather, paused at her entrance. Despite her raven hair and the fact that she’d had a different mother, Bridget’s features closely resembled Daisy’s own. They were three years apart in age and worlds apart in every other way save appearance.
She pinned Daisy with a forbidding frown now. “And what are you doing here, Miss High-and-Mighty heiress?”
When the Duke of Carlisle held a private party at his Belgravia address, he put elite dens of vice to shame. Sebastian took in the decadence before him with a jaundiced eye. Some of the most powerful men in the ton thronged the ballroom, twirling with the crème de la crème of London Cyprians. Champagne flowed aplenty. The ladies were painted and scantily clad, the men already deep in their cups. And damn if he didn’t smell the cloying scent of opium in the air.
The opium likely emerged from one of the surrounding chambers where the duke kept rooms devoted to sin. On his slow perambulation, Sebastian had noted a chamber where a nude woman acted as a serving platter for charcuterie, a shrouded, low-lit room with pillows on the floor, and yet another where couples were coming and going in various stages of dishabille.
Sybarite fêtes such as these were what Carlisle deemed “hiding in plain sight,” one of the best means of achieving communication and maintaining his façade without arousing suspicion. If all the polite world thought him a dissolute rakehell, none would be inclined to question the company he kept. For his part, Sebastian adopted the same voluptuary lifestyle, sans the hedonistic all-night parties.
Unlike Carlisle, he required sleep.
He accepted a flute of champagne from a servant bearing a gilded tray and pretended to take a long gulp. In truth, he needed a clear head tonight, for the last of their plans would be laid in motion. And he would sure as hell need a clear head on the morrow when he faced the matrimonial equivalent of the gallows.
For as much as his body reacted to the notion of Miss Daisy Vanreid becoming his wife, his mind couldn’t help but feel the exact opposite. He’d learned long ago that his body was weak. His mind was stronger. He could harness his inconvenient attraction to her into a more focused energy—pursuing the plotters at large before they injured or murdered hundreds of innocent civilians.
Feigning another sip of his champagne, he stole a discreet look at his pocket watch. Thank God. The appointed time had come. Careful to blend with the boisterous revelers, he slipped from the ballroom and decamped for the secret portal hidden in the elaborate Rococo wood panels gracing the great hall beyond. He made certain he was alone before locating the mechanism behind a scroll that allowed the door to open inward.
Carlisle already awaited him within as the panel clicked closed at his back. The hidden room was kept intentionally sparse lest a servant ever inadvertently discover its existence: a desk, two chairs, a lamp, decanter, and tumblers. It resembled nothing more than a place where an aggrieved man might have escaped from his harridan wife for a peaceful drink.
Except Carlisle didn’t have a wife, and the sole purpose of the hidden chamber was of a far more clandestine nature. It had been through the last two dukes, and would be carried on should Carlisle ever bear a son. The League swore oaths that extended to their progeny. With the title came the burden. And before that, a lifetime of preparation.
The duke was seated, a tumbler of whisky at hand. “You met with her?”
No greeting. No pretense of friendship. But Sebastian was accustomed to Carlisle by now. “I did,” he confirmed, striding across the small room and folding his body into one of the uncomfortable wing chairs facing his superior in command. “According to the aunt and the girl both, it is unlikely Vanreid will alter his course of a union between Miss Vanreid and Breckly. I’l
l be meeting her clandestinely tomorrow afternoon and we’ll wed immediately. But are you utterly sure it’s necessary for me to marry the girl?”
Carlisle remained impassive. The man had no conscience, of that much Sebastian was certain. Very likely no soul either. “The marriage is a necessity, so do what you must. We need a reason to keep close to her and to Vanreid, McGuire, and the rest of the plotters. Arresting them now will only undermine our efforts, and as it stands, we haven’t enough against them to keep them in prison for long. We need more information.”
“Information you expect me to acquire,” Sebastian finished for him.
Carlisle inclined his head. “You’ve done well entrenching yourself in the life of a scoundrel. After you marry the girl, you’ll approach Vanreid about a dowry, making it seem as if you ruined her intentionally so that you could benefit from the union. Press him for information about his firearms factory and the illegal arms trade he’s engaging in here.”
The ruse seemed dashed transparent. “You expect him to confess he’s engaging in the illicit selling of weapons on the streets of London to a man who compromised his only daughter and ruined the match he intended for her? Forgive me, but that seems deuced unlikely.”
“Greed is never unlikely, particularly not with Vanreid’s sort,” Carlisle said. “I understand your aversion to this mission, but you cannot allow that to stand in the way of what must be done. As unpalatable as such an arrangement may be, we are fighting a unique battle. We’ve men in civilian clothes, blending in with ordinary folk on the streets, intending to kill innocents. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. If we can put Vanreid in prison for the illegal firearms, it stands to reason that we can bargain with him for a great deal more information. The names of all the plotters could be within our grasp.”
Damn. There would be no eleventh hour reprieve for him at all, it seemed. “I will be granted an annulment without any repercussions? I don’t take my familial duty lightly. One day, I’ll need an heir.”
He would not—could not—sacrifice the future of the duchy to a forced marriage with anyone, let alone someone as inscrutable as Daisy Vanreid. A woman who could be plotting against his country and its people.
The duke inclined his head. “Your service to the Crown will be rewarded. I have every suspicion that this operation will end in Miss Vanreid’s arrest, which will only aid your cause.”
A chill of foreboding traveled mercilessly down his spine. No matter how much he distrusted her, the thought of Daisy imprisoned made his chest feel tight. “Her arrest?”
“Yes.” The duke’s expression hardened to rival marble. “I have several eyes on her. This afternoon, she met with an Irish shop girl who is believed to be connected to the plots. The girl has been seen meeting several suspected Fenians here in London.”
Jesus. He allowed the information to sift through his brain. Of course, he wasn’t at all shocked to learn that Carlisle had other operatives following Miss Vanreid. Sebastian was tasked solely with trailing her at social events and learning as much as he could about her habits and associations, all of which he had loyally done. But evidence—true evidence—of her complicity in any dynamite campaign seemed implausible at best.
“Miss Vanreid has not presented any indication of guilt to me,” he said stiffly. An odd surge of something streaked through him. Defensiveness? On behalf of a woman he scarcely knew? How bloody absurd.
And yet, there it was, lurking like an unwanted guest. Undeniable.
Carlisle raised a brow, his expression resembling nothing so much as a vulture who’d scented carrion. “If you’ve developed a weakness for the chit, perhaps it would be best to send another man in your place tomorrow. Briarly would do just as well, I should think.”
Damn it to hell. Briarly was a callous son-of-a-whore, League member or no, and the thought of him supplanting Sebastian on the morrow didn’t sit well. Not at all. The man had allowed six people to burn to death inside a merchant’s building in Cheapside and had nearly killed Sebastian in the process. The fire had gutted the premises, resulting in a spectacle so severe that even the Prince of Wales had visited the charred ruins the next day. The general public would never know the true story of what had happened, but Sebastian would never forget. Since that day forward, he had never again tolerated Briarly’s presence. And Carlisle knew it.
“She’s a lady, Carlisle. You can’t just marry her off to whomever you like.”
“She’s a pawn, and you’d be wise to remember that.” The duke’s voice was frigid as Wenham Lake ice. “Moreover, she may be dangerous. Don’t let a pretty face and a luscious pair of bubbies distract you from your main aim, Trent. I saw the way you pawed at her last night, and I know you want her, but you cannot have her. She’s poison to you. Lives are at stake. I repeat: if you cannot carry out your mission, I’ll pull you off the assignment. Briarly is more than qualified. The incident in Cheapside couldn’t have been avoided, and his record remains sterling in the eyes of the League.”
Sebastian clenched his jaw. Sterling, Briarly sure as hell was not. But he didn’t need to be taken to task or reminded of the risks they all took in the name of keeping England safe from the bloodthirsty miscreants who sought to despoil it. Nor did he appreciate being rebuked and threatened, even if part of him inwardly admitted it was deserved. He was a good spy, damn it, one of the best.
What was it about Daisy Vanreid that afflicted his mind? It wasn’t her undeniable beauty, for he’d seen and bedded his share of lovely women. Nor was it her fortune, for he possessed a formidable sum himself thanks to his father’s service to the Crown and generations of temperate investments. It wasn’t his unwanted attraction to her. Other women had made his cock hard before her. Others would after her.
What the devil was it, then? Self-disgust warred with irritation. “I haven’t given her tits a second thought,” he lied with an icy hauteur that matched Carlisle’s. He had touched them, by God, has kissed the creamy swells he’d bared in the moonlight. And they’d been softer than silk. The sort of temptation he could ill afford. The sort of temptation that thundered through his veins with a potency far more alluring than any drug or spirit.
“Daisy Vanreid is a means to an end.” The duke took a slow drag of whisky, prolonging the air of reproach that hung heavy between them in the tiny secret chamber.
“She’s been beaten by her father,” he informed Carlisle, hoping the revelation might offer an explanation for the both of them as to why Daisy Vanreid, by all accounts an untrustworthy siren potentially abetting a dangerous coterie of would-be assassins, affected him the way she did.
“According to the lady, I trust?” Carlisle’s voice dripped with derision. “Good God, man, did the fire erase all memory of training from your mind? Gaining the sympathy of your mark is one of the oldest gambits in the bloody book.”
Of course it was, but his training and his experience had both shown him how to recognize true emotion and true fear when he saw it. Fear could be capitalized upon, manipulated to gain an advantage over one’s opponent with relative ease. In Miss Vanreid’s case, her fear had only made him weak. Because something—some instinct deep in his gut—told him she was innocent. That she was ignorant of any dynamite plots and wanted no part of whatever insidious dealings in which her father was embroiled.
It wasn’t lost on him either that Carlisle would refer to the Cheapside fire in such a cavalier fashion, as though it had been nothing more than a ride in the park. Sebastian bore scars on his hands and arms that attested to that. It took every bit of the training to which Carlisle had alluded to maintain his calm.
“My training suggests her fear of her father is genuine.”
Carlisle stared at him in that penetrating, disconcerting way again. Almost as if he could read Sebastian’s mind. “Whether or not she fears her father and whether or not he beats her is irrelevant to the matter at hand. You’d do best to watch yourself, Trent. Any sign of weakness for the chit, and I won’t hesitat
e to pull you off this assignment.”
Sebastian held himself rigidly. Perhaps he had earned his superior’s scorn, but he couldn’t shake his gut feeling. In all his years of service, his instincts had never failed him. Still, he had no choice but to kowtow, because the thought of any other man—Briarly in particular—wedding Daisy Vanreid appalled him. “Understood, Your Grace.”
The duke nodded, seemingly mollified. “You’ll marry her tomorrow, then?”
“Yes,” Sebastian ground out with great reluctance.
Marriage to anyone, let alone to a pawn, and especially to Daisy Vanreid, did not appeal to him in the slightest. Binding himself to a woman Carlisle intended to throw into prison, a woman suspected of treason, was an intensely personal sacrifice, and one he didn’t make easily. And yet he had to acknowledge that there was some rogue part of him that wasn’t entirely sad at the prospect of shackling himself to her.
What the hell was the matter with him?
“Our plan will proceed without further alteration?”
Disgust sliced through him with the bite of a blade. He couldn’t help feeling that he was just as much of a pawn as Miss Vanreid, a chess piece maneuvered about the League’s board. It didn’t sit well with him that his every interaction with Daisy—from following her into the garden last night to proposing marriage earlier, to wedding her—had been plotted and mapped out by Carlisle like a general working out a battle strategy.
Only one part hadn’t been predetermined, and that had been the animal lust raging through him with Daisy in his arms. His desire for her was not feigned or planned. And certainly not controllable.
The duke awaited his response, so he inclined his head. “Our plan will proceed. I’m secreting her away at two o’clock tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Carlisle took another sip of spirits.
“There’s only one problem,” he took great pleasure in adding.
“Jesus, Trent. You’re tipping the scales tonight, and it isn’t in your bloody favor,” the duke warned.
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 6
