“I spent most of my time in the garden,” she said, her gaze flickering to her Scottish protector. Dear God, what was he going to do? Didn’t he realize that anything he said would only make it worse for her? Maybe he wasn’t concerned about her at all. Maybe he needed to make sure she never divulged his secrets.
“I did spend most of my time in the garden,” she said again to her father. “I came back home when I heard you were looking for me. I—”
“I demand to know the man’s name and whereabouts.” He raised his fist to her face. “So help me God, I will beat the truth out of you if you make me. Everyone at the party must be laughing at what a fool I looked, searching for—”
“My name is Damien Boscastle, the Earl of Shalcross, and I am standing in your shadow. Your daughter was with me this evening. I take full responsibility for our actions. I led her astray.”
“What?” Emily whispered, shaking her head in disbelief, moving forward without thought to what she was doing. Damien Boscastle? Who in heaven’s name was this man? An earl? She hadn’t believed her maid’s prattle.
The unfamiliar voice either failed to penetrate her father’s rage or further stoked it. In a blur she watched her father’s hand descend, and Damien intercept the blow with his forearm. Her father stumbled back into Michael, who steadied him before stepping forward to act as a shield between the earl and the baron. Emily wouldn’t want to stand between them at this moment.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asked Damien in bewilderment.
Damien straightened, scrutinizing Emily again before he answered. “The ranting from this house is more than enough to draw the attention of any neighbor passing by. I’d have thought that this would be a night for discretion. It is not necessary to broadcast one’s private difficulties, is it?”
Emily swallowed hard, avoiding his hard gaze. There lived only one neighbor who, perhaps if he were taking an evening walk, might have overheard the baron’s outburst. That was unlikely. The servants had learned long ago to stay in their quarters when the master had been drinking. And it might be undesirable to attract notice to an unpleasantness at home, but no one had asked for his intervention as far as Emily knew.
Her father seemed to have calmed considerably. Perhaps at last he had made sense of what the earl had said.
“My lord,” he said, his manner deferential. “You will understand my distress. I was under the impression that my daughter had stayed home, and naturally I would not have allowed her to go without a reliable escort. Perhaps she even told me and I forgot.”
“I understand,” Damien said, when it was clear he didn’t have the clue what the baron meant.
“I have known that my daughter would be the death of me since the day she started to walk.”
Damien’s eyes darkened. “I think I understand,” he said again.
“She changed the color of my hair overnight,” the baron said.
“I can see that happening, too,” Damien murmured.
“I do not believe I properly caught your name. Forgive me. And did you or did you not offer her a marriage proposal?”
Emily shivered in the moment of silence that followed her father’s bluntly asked question. An earl. A request for Emily’s hand. A single indiscretion could be overlooked when accompanied by a proposal from a nobleman. But this was his opportunity to back out of his impulsive offer. Her father would rage, yes, and then he would pass out on the sofa. In the morning everyone in the house would hide in their respective places. The baron would not be certain what had happened during the night.
But he was alert enough now. He coughed lightly, prompting the earl to respond.
Damien shrugged with a detached air that Emily might have admired had she not been the object of his impassivity. “I am Damien Boscastle, Earl of Shalcross. Yes, I wish to marry—”
The baron turned to Michael. “Do you have knowledge of his lordship?”
Michael glanced in Damien’s direction. “Yes. I do. He’s of an honorable family. You heard what he said. Twice.”
The baron expelled a sigh.
“I served under him in Spain,” Michael added.
“Then all’s well that ends well.” Baron Rowland looked shaken but relieved. “Shall we call for a drink to congratulate one another? I had no idea, Emily, that you had fallen in love with his lordship.”
Neither had she. Still, the earl, if that was indeed his title, had placated her father for tonight. She expected there would be hell to pay all over again when dawn came and Damien had disappeared. She wouldn’t let herself believe he meant what he’d said.
“Come, come,” the baron said, motioning to Damien as if he were already the favorite member of the family. “We shall break out a French brandy.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Damien said with a taut smile. “We can celebrate over tea on Sunday while we discuss the details of the marriage.”
“Sunday?” the baron said, blinking.
Emily wrenched another pin from her wig. Her father looked as though he might tear off his cravat and tie the earl to the banister before letting him escape this engagement. Not that any length of linen could hold a man of Damien’s agility. She had become familiar with the brawn that his evening clothes disguised.
She felt a shudder of relief begin to unbind her muscles. Sir Angus/the earl—whoever he was—would not return tomorrow or on Sunday. This was simply the last act he must play before the curtains dropped. He would be gone before Emily rose in the morning. It did not seem probable now that anyone would wish to hurt her or Iris because they had unintentionally overheard a part of some alleged conspiracy.
It also seemed improbable that a man with those unearthly blue eyes had asked her drunken father for her hand with any sincerity.
“Good night, everyone,” she said, and turned before the gentlemen below could reply. “Sleep well.”
It was too much to expect—to be allowed the last word and a graceful by-your-leave. Never mind what miracles she prayed that the morning would bring.
“What is wrong with you?” her father asked with an uneasy laugh. “You might as well give your betrothed a proper send-off. I see no point in playing coy if you’re engaged to his lordship.”
A challenging smile crossed Damien’s face. Something was different about him. His voice interrupted her before she could work out why he seemed entirely changed. Almost as if he’d become another man. Of course, she had known him for only a few hours. But they had stared at each other in the tent. He had kissed her and brought her home on his horse. He was not a mere Sir Angus. He was a peer. But that wasn’t why he seemed different.
He stood as tall and wide-shouldered as before. He wore the same red beard and detailed evening clothes. He looked a little tired, but the fire in his eyes hinted that it would be dangerous to underestimate him.
He was still unlike any other man she knew.
But something had definitely changed.
His voice startled her. “May I be allowed a moment alone with my fiancée?”
No one else said a word.
She shook her head and the wig dropped on the last step.
Damien stared at the mass of black ringlets that had landed at his feet. “This is a surprise.”
Michael rubbed his cheek. “At least she revealed her identity before the wedding night. It’s your turn now.”
Emily wound one arm around the stair railing. “Yes, what about you? I don’t know anything except what you wanted me to know.”
The baron cleared his throat, unable to follow the conversation. “It takes years for a man and wife to know each other, Emily, and even then they can end up as strangers. How and when did your affection for each other begin?”
Michael forced a laugh. “It was me. I played Cupid, sir. I introduced them through a series of correspondences. Before I knew it, their letters to each other had evolved into an enduring love.”
“I never noticed that Emily received any letters,” the baron said in puzzlem
ent.
“Well, you wouldn’t,” Michael said. “She was shy and not certain what would come of their written devotion. But that is why they are still awkward around each other, sir. They’re still learning to express what was easier said on paper.”
Devotion. Love letters. Emily wanted to weep.
Damien looked up from the step to her face. “You appear to have lost your wig,” he said, nudging it aside with the toe of his boot.
She stared back at him with a gasp of realization. “And you have lost your Scottish brogue. That’s what is different.”
He advanced on her, speaking in a low voice that only she could hear. “I have lost more than that. I do not take surrendering my name and protection lightly. Despite what you and your maid might think of your charade tonight, you have put yourself in a dangerous position.”
Emily had only to examine the hard angles of his face to realize that she might be better off taking her chances on staying in Hatherwood than surrendering to Damien’s dark sensuality. She wondered if Michael knew of an antidote for a love scheme gone wrong, and whether it would be too late to use it.
Chapter 15
Damien stared up in astonishment at the graceful hand that the woman on the stairs sifted through her long red hair. She had changed into a demure white silk gown in place of her gypsy garb; what lay beneath was a mystery he was growing intensely curious to solve.
Her simple gown graced a body with ample curves and a softness that he found incredibly sensual. She was not the same woman he had brought to this house. She was definitely one who piqued his interest.
Of course, she could still spring a shock or two after they exchanged vows, and he had some surprises in store for her, too. Still, the sight of her now made him hopeful that a passionate future lay ahead of them.
As if he were an expert on matrimony. He was not. His former lover had emptied his coffers before she ended their engagement to marry a business partner. She believed that Damien was on the road to ruin, his wealth depleted. When he discovered who she was at heart, he considered himself fortunate that she had revealed her true colors before he’d given her his name.
At any rate the bride-to-be and her captive groom would make a commitment to each other before her father, brother, maid, and Damien’s valet. It would be easier to escape Newgate Prison than the arranged marriage that must take place in a week if Damien was to succeed in preventing an assassination. He could not afford to let Emily escape, thus risking her life and ruining the culmination of months of covert work to capture the traitors. Of all the sacrifices he had been prepared to make, a wedding had never entered his mind.
The baron could not allow an earl, eccentric though he may appear, to slip through Emily’s fingers. In fact, once he had finally recognized the name Boscastle and realized Damien was indeed the Earl of Shalcross, the baron was far less interested in the details of the disgrace than he was in the marriage arrangements.
“May I ask if the wedding date has been set?” the baron inquired, breaking the stillness.
Damien shook his head. “I prefer a small private ceremony in Hatherwood. As soon as possible.”
Lord Rowland beamed. “My hopes exactly.”
Damien lifted his chin, smiling like the scamp he was. “You don’t mind, do you, Urania?”
“Emily,” she said through her teeth. “We don’t need to use code names for each other now, my dear heart.”
“Code names?” the baron said in bewilderment.
“She means our pet names, the silly endearments that amuse only us,” Damien said smoothly, leaning against the railing with a lovelorn sigh.
“Do you have a date in mind?” the baron asked again, frowning now.
“Ten days at most. I would prefer to be married and gone within a week.”
“A week?” Emily and Michael said in unison.
The baron smiled. “That’s rather a whirlwind courtship, isn’t it?”
Damien shrugged. “The winds of fortune brought your daughter into my life, sir. I cannot risk them blowing her into the arms of another.”
Winds of fortune, Emily thought. Sir Angus—the earl—was a great bag of wind himself. And she would deflate him the next time she saw him. If she saw him again.
She glanced at her brother, who seemed pleased by this improvisation. Damien looked, well, who knew what was going on in his devious mind? She’d bet it had less to do with a wedding reception than with chasing rebels for the good of England.
Anyway, she was marrying him for her own protection.
“A marriage built upon a foundation of letters written to each other over a course of time is bound to last,” the baron announced. “I am honored, my lord, to accept your proposal for Emily’s hand.”
Chapter 16
Winthrop, the earl’s valet, walked his horse out from his hiding place in the woods the instant Damien reached the oak tree where they had agreed to meet. “My lord,” he said, “I’ve had a hard time waiting here tonight. My intuition warned me that you were in grave danger. It is a relief to see you—”
He paused, assessing the condition of his master’s disguise.
“What is it, Winthrop?”
“I hope you did not attend the meeting missing a part of your shoulder and a good deal of your torso padding.”
“The padding is in my saddlebag,” Damien said. “And good riddance to it. I can hardly wait to remove the rest of this disguise.”
“Then you were caught out?” Winthrop asked in alarm.
“Not exactly. However, our plans have changed. We’ll have to finish discussing them at the inn. I trust you’ve paid Sir Angus’s bill, expressed his gratitude, and found a room elsewhere for the Earl of Shalcross?”
“Yes, my lord, but I do not understand.”
“I don’t have time to elucidate, Winthrop. I’ll fill you in as best I can as we travel. I need a shave and fresh clothes for the morning.”
Winthrop nodded in complete agreement.
The moment the two men entered the room at the inn, Winthrop brought out a razor case and set the towels warming by the fire, while Damien finished removing his Sir Angus costume.
“You will need to dispose of this disguise as soon as possible.” He thought of Michael’s ingenious method of hiding the tent. “There are quagmires in the area. However, we are amateurs in that matter and I would not want you to go down with the evidence. Leaving our past identities behind does not mean we should literally vanish from the face of the earth.”
The valet smiled. He had nursed Damien back to health many years ago. To this day he seemed to believe this action meant that he was indebted to his master instead of the other way around. Damien depended on Winthrop too much to argue.
“I was about to launch a search for you, my lord,” Winthrop said. “You are three hours later than I expected, even given an emergency. What went amiss at the party?”
Damien frowned at his reflection in the shaving mirror. “Damn me if I ever have cause to wear a mustache this thick again. What did you just ask me? And this red beard. What irony. My hair was red when I met her. Hers was black and is now red.”
“Something went wrong this evening, I assume. I feel as if I am following the moves on a chessboard.”
“‘Wrong’ seems an inadequate word to describe the trap I walked into tonight.”
Damien removed from his vest pocket the letter that Emily had asked him to rescue from the tower. He turned toward the fire. He had no inclination to read her private correspondence. But, then, he was marrying her. He had the right to learn something of her nature.
Dearest Camden,
By now you realize what I have kept hidden for so long. No matter what the outcome of my reckless act tonight, I confess . . .
He crushed the letter in his fist and threw it into the fireplace, frowning as he noticed his valet staring at him in alarm.
Winthrop lowered the stool he had brought to the shaving stand. He lit the two candles in their wrought-iro
n stand. “You weren’t recognized?”
“Sit down while I explain what happened.”
“Haven’t I stood steadfast at your side during attacks and storms at war? I cannot shave you while sitting down. I have never been prone to hysterics.”
“Well, neither have I. But in a few minutes you and I might challenge our history. I was not caught out by the conspirators. Give me credit for at least doing my job.”
“Then?”
“I fell into the company of a fortune-teller.”
“Good gracious. She was able to divine that you were incognito?”
“She wasn’t able to divine her own name,” Damien said in annoyance. “She tricked me. Whether it was deliberate on her part or mere carelessness on mine, I haven’t reassembled my wits enough to decide.”
Winthrop paused. “But if you represented yourself as Sir Angus, you deceived her, too.”
“It appears that neither one of us meant to deceive the other,” Damien said in disgust. “We were on separate missions. Not that I can use that as an excuse for what occurred.”
Winthrop looked appalled. “You were exposed by another operative?”
“I wasn’t exposed by an operative, Winthrop. I was forced into an engagement with her. And her father. Anyway, she is not an agent unless the Crown has opened a division called the Amorous Office since we’ve been gone.”
“And you proposed to a fortune-teller?” Winthrop could not suppress the note of horror in his voice. It was no secret that he wished Damien would marry and lead a life befitting his rank, but this was evidently not the match he had in mind. “Can they be trusted?”
Damien pulled another wad of padding from his shoulder. His back looked like a damned bridge. “Her life depends on it. After the wedding she will rarely leave my side.”
“Until then?”
“Until then I must contrive to spend as much time in her company as possible. I have to appear to be a man obsessed, unable to tear myself from my betrothed whom, it is to be hoped, won’t reveal that we knew not of the other’s presence until this portentous evening.”
The Countess Confessions Page 9
