Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (Allied At The Altar Book 3)

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Not practical?’ A wry smile curved the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Because now we know.’ Now they knew what was between them, what they could do to each other. They could burn each other with kisses that could go nowhere.

  Sutton reached for her hand where it lay between them on the bench. ‘Yes, now we know. The question is—what shall we do about it?’ That was when Elidh knew the danger was real, no longer a cautionary figment of ‘what if’ existing only in her imagination. Was Sutton probing for a confirmation of interest on her part? What would he do if she gave it? Would he pursue a proposal? That must not happen. It was the last thing she’d come to this party wanting and, for Sutton’s sake, it was the last thing she wanted still.

  ‘We can do nothing about it except enjoy the moment, you said so yourself.’

  ‘What if I am wrong about that? What if we could enjoy more than moments?’ Sutton persisted.

  ‘But, Sutton, you are not wrong. You’ve only known me a handful of days and your situation is every bit as desperate as Miss Partridge’s when it comes down to it. You’re simply reaching for me because you think I pose no threat to you, that I’m not competing for you, and that somehow makes me more honest, more real than the rest.’ She smiled softly at him to soften the blow. ‘You mistake my neutrality for something else, I think. It would be best if you don’t.’ She was pushing hard now, forcing him to see reason. This had to end. She was starting to fall for her own disguise, starting to forget who she really was and what she was doing there. She was someone else altogether when she was with him, not entirely Chiara, nor Elidh, and that was a very dangerous person to be.

  * * *

  The person in the mirror was ready for dinner, her hair done up in another elaborate, braided creation, her light blue skirts pressed to perfection, cosmetics delicately applied. But the girl on the bench before the vanity was not ready in the least, her insides in as much turmoil as her exterior was calm.

  Rosie fastened a matching ribbon around Elidh’s neck, pleased with her handiwork. ‘You look like your mother. Blue was her best colour, too.’

  That was the problem. Two problems, actually. Whether she looked like her mother or like Principessa Chiara, the truth was, she was neither and she was forgetting who that was. That was the second problem: the woman in the mirror was fast becoming far too real. Elidh was becoming too used to the illusion of being beautiful. It would be a hard fall to earth when the ruse was over if she didn’t remember. Elidh fingered the ribbon. ‘I’ll never be as lovely as my mother.’

  Rosie clucked disapprovingly. ‘Your mother was pretty, but what made her stand out was who she was on the inside. She was good and kind to all those around her, just like you. Some of those girls downstairs would do better to remember that beauty comes from within. Isabelle Bradley’s mother best take her in hand before it’s too late.’

  ‘What’s too late?’ Her father swept into the room, decked out for dinner in a lavish olive-coloured coat and rose waistcoat she recalled from Hamlet. His unruly greying waves were tamed and he looked dashing and in good humour. ‘I’ve been playing cards.’ He held up a jingly pouch of coins. ‘Only lost once and all it cost me was the gold rose brooch.’

  Elidh winced. In short, he’d lost nothing then. The brooch was gold plate over lead. It was pretty enough to look at, but she hoped the gold plate didn’t chip until they were well away from here.

  ‘I was wondering if it isn’t too late to reconsider an early departure?’ She stood and faced her father.

  ‘Why ever would we want to do that? You spent the day on the lake with Keynes, I won at cards, I nearly have a patron lined up. We are that much closer to achieving all of our goals.’ He beamed. ‘Rosie should start designing your wedding dress from what I heard at the tables.’ He grinned.

  ‘That’s what I fear. I can’t marry him, Father, even if he were to ask.’ She’d not thought to have this discussion. She’d not thought things would get this far. She’d meant to keep her distance, meant to do her job to help to secure a patron and nothing more. Her own plans had gone awry. ‘Have you thought of what happens if we succeed?’ In the beginning, she’d counted on the improbability of her father’s plan coming to fruition to protect her, but that improbability was fading by the day. Now, she was forced to consider the consequences of succeeding.

  Her father pinched her cheek in his good mood. ‘We all live happily ever after with never again a financial worry.’

  ‘But plenty of other worries,’ she countered. She had to be firm here. ‘If we get a patron we leave here and the Balares di Fossano disappear on their travels. No one ever need see us again. But, if the Principessa marries Sutton Keynes, the Balares di Fossano will exist for the rest of our lives. We can never stop the ruse. It must be sustained day and night.’ How could she make him understand the horror of that? ‘I would have to live a lie. I would have to lie to my husband. What kind of marriage could that ever be when it’s started on a falsehood?’

  It was no longer the improbability of the ruse that bothered her, it was the ethics of it. Her arguments in their rooms on Bermondsey Street had all been about the impossibilities of impersonating a princess. Her arguments now were more serious.

  ‘If my husband were to find out, it would be disastrous. He would be compelled to divorce me or be complicit with the lie. Both are devastating.’ If he divorced her, Sutton would lose the fortune he was marrying to protect. But if he chose to support the lie, she would lose him. Whatever hope they had for happiness or feeling would be gone. Those things could not exist without trust and honesty. ‘We can’t keep up the ruse indefinitely. There will come a point of discovery if we run it too long.’ Two weeks was long enough. She couldn’t imagine a lifetime of it.

  ‘Well, we don’t have a proposal yet, so let’s say we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Her father smiled and cocked his arm. ‘All we can do right now is go down to dinner and charm Lord Wharton into patronage.’ He wasn’t entirely wrong, but she recognised his ploy for what it was: a stalling technique. Her father wanted to believe true love conquered all, that she would win Sutton and his instantaneous love for her would override any and all considerations that might stand in their way. But the world didn’t work that way.

  Elidh took her father’s arm and stiffened her resolve. Things had got out of control today. She’d had her adventure. Now, it was time to make sure the adventure was over. To continue it was too dangerous.

  * * *

  There was no one more dangerous than Baxter Keynes on a vendetta and he was definitely on one now. Thanks to his cousin, damn him. Bax laced his hands over his midsection where rich living was beginning to take its toll and listened intently to his informant’s report. For all intents and purposes, it appeared Sutton meant to see the farce of his father’s will through to its disastrous conclusion.

  It was galling to be just two miles from the house party of the Season and not be in attendance. Instead, he was relegated to using a false name and to snooping from a private parlour at a mediocre inn. And he couldn’t even do that. He’d had to bribe his way to the information and hear it second-hand from a guest at the party.

  His informant finished and Bax leaned forward, fingers tapping an edgy tattoo on the scarred table. ‘Who are the leading contenders?’ Perhaps he could help his cousin narrow the field even further. If he could get rid of the girls his cousin favoured, his cousin might lose his fortitude for the game, especially when faced with the possibility of marrying a girl he found unpalatable in the extreme. Such an obstacle didn’t matter to him, personally. He’d marry a horse to secure a fortune of this size. But those things mattered to Sutton. As did other people. Sutton was a protector. If he thought these girls were in jeopardy, he might call it off altogether.

  His informant, a young, well-dressed man, was the brother of one of the hopeful girls. From the looks of him, he probably spent far be
yond the means of his allowance. The boy shifted nervously in his seat, suddenly concerned about propriety. ‘What are you going to do to them? I don’t want anyone hurt.’ His conscience was waking up too late. The boy had already proven he could be bought.

  ‘Who said anything about hurting anyone?’ Bax replied smoothly. He motioned for the serving girl. ‘A bottle of brandy if you have it.’ People shared information better after a drink or two. This boy was green enough to be impressed with taking an expensive drink with his new friend. The bottle came and Bax poured two generous servings. ‘I simply want to know.’ He leaned forward across the table, his voice dropping. ‘A man can make some money if he guesses the bride. The betting book at White’s is full of opportunities.’

  All true. Bets were being made across London over who would be Sutton’s final choice. ‘I could place a bet for you when I return to the city,’ Bax offered. He’d given the boy brandy and money; how much more enticing could he be?

  The younger man perked up at that, seeing the possibilities for his own gain. ‘Well, if that’s all you want the names for.’

  ‘It is.’ Bax smiled. ‘What did you think I wanted them for? Serial murders? You, Fenworth, have a very dark mind.’ He chuckled conspiratorially at his hyperbole. Really, young Fenworth was inspired. Was that such a bad idea? Killing off the competition? No one would think of marrying Sutton then. But who knew? It was still a lot of money. Bax supposed there’d always be someone willing to dice with the devil. Goodness knew, he was.

  If there was to be a murder, though, Bax would save it for the finale. If a bride stood between him and his father’s fortune, he’d take whatever measures were needed. Extreme measures came with extreme consequences. One always had to be sure they were necessary before embarking on such courses. The problem with murder was that it wasn’t incredibly sophisticated. Why murder someone—that was so very final, so very irrevocable—when a simple kidnapping often rendered more leverage? Someone could only die once, but a kidnapping could keep giving and giving if a man was smart. Bax was smart. ‘About the girls, Fenworth?’ Bax smiled, man to man, and pushed a few pound notes across the table.

  Fenworth put the notes in his pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper in exchange, glancing surreptitiously at the few patrons peopling the afternoon taproom.

  ‘Here’s a hint, Fenworth,’ Bax noted wryly. ‘If you don’t act like you’re doing anything wrong, no one will think you are.’ Fenworth was ultimately corruptible, but, by Jove, the boy was naive. All the more fun to ruin. Bax hid a grin as he scanned the list. There was nothing he loved more than watching the golden ones fall from their pedestals. He could turn Fenworth into a drunkard, a gambler, maybe even an opium addict within weeks. He’d have Fenworth gambling off more than a list of innocent girls’ names in order to recoup his losses or pay for his next pipe of the poppy.

  Bax raised his dark brows. ‘Your sister’s name is on the list.’ He smiled in an older brotherly fashion. ‘Eliza, is it? Congratulations. I am sure your father will be impressed with the results so far. I take it he sent you to watch over her? Guide her?’ Eliza Fenworth was Viscount Weston’s only daughter, a lovely but quiet girl who was pretty to look at, but not very interesting to talk to. She went on about music and composers until a man wanted to smash a violin.

  Fenworth puffed up his chest, the little popinjay. ‘Yes, absolutely. One can’t go marrying one’s sister to a man who possesses no title without serious consideration. Keynes would be a step down for her, for the family.’

  ‘His money wouldn’t be,’ Bax said bluntly. Viscount Weston needed the funds. Who didn’t need the money? For that amount, people would contemplate a great many steps down. He smiled to take the edge off his comment, to make Fenworth forget his comment insulted him as well. ‘Does your sister have a chance? What is your father greasing Keynes’s palm with?’ Surely the girls at the top of the list were there because they offered his cousin something in exchange for access to the money.

  Bax pushed a few more pound notes over to Fenworth, watching the reality come to him that selling information was very lucrative. ‘Father has seats in Parliament.’

  ‘Not as many as Lady Imogen Bettancourt’s father, and he’s a marquis. His title is better, too,’ Bax pointed out. ‘So, your father and Bettancourt have seats, as do a few others on the list.’ He tapped another name. ‘Ellen Hines, Wharton’s daughter. No seats there that make her stand out. What’s the attraction?’

  ‘Land. Wharton has estates everywhere.’ Good. The boy was a quick study.

  ‘Miss Peckworth? Southmore’s youngest?’ Bax queried.

  ‘He’s connected to the Foreign Office. Diplomatic opportunities.’

  ‘And Miss Whitely?’

  ‘East India Company connections,’ Fenworth supplied, proving how easily he could be bought. In fifteen minutes Fenworth had gone from being concerned over how the information would be used to giving up not only a list of names, but a veritable biography as well. All for a few pounds. Still, it did call into question Fenworth’s loyalty. People who were easily bought were easily bought by anyone. Bax wanted to ensure he was the only one buying Fenworth’s information.

  Bax poured another round of brandy for them. ‘We have to keep your sister in the game, for both our sakes.’ That seemed unlikely. Eliza was pretty, but Weston had little to offer in the way of enticements. ‘Frankly, if it were up to me, I’d pick the Marquis’s daughter and be done with it.’ So why was his cousin lingering? The field might not be overly narrow at this point, but it was narrow enough to see the cream starting to rise.

  Fenworth chuckled smugly with a confidence Bax didn’t care for. ‘You have not seen the Italian Principessa. If you want to know why your cousin lingers in his decision, that’s why.’

  The one name on the list he’d not asked about because there was no reason to. A foreigner would have little to offer Sutton other than a technical title and one never knew how legitimate those European titles were. Italian princes and French counts were littered everywhere these days, many of them dispossessed, or struggling to maintain their titles in the wake of nationalism. It was not a good time to be European royalty. ‘All right, I’ll bite.’ Bax leaned back in his seat. Fenworth was holding out on him. Perhaps he’d misjudged the boy. Untutored, perhaps, but not as naive as he’d thought. ‘Tell me about the Princess.’

  Fenworth’s eyes glinted. ‘Now, that, my friend, will cost you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Tell me again about your violin, Miss Fenworth.’ Sutton sat beside the pretty blonde on the sofa, more out of guilt than out of any true desire to hear about her violin. She was quiet, notoriously so, unless, Chiara had informed him, she was talking about music. Then she became quite animated. He wanted her animated now. Her silence had made her easy to neglect. It had also made her palatable. It was easy to keep her at the top of his list because he didn’t have to worry about Miss Fenworth sneaking into his chambers or hanging on his arm every time he walked somewhere.

  Lord, what was happening to him? Assessing a woman as if she were a commodity. Which, the logician in him argued, she was. A wife was a means to an end, just as he was a means to an end for every woman in this room. Except one, his prickly conscience reminded him. Chiara. But she didn’t count, by her own volition. His volition, however, wanted to change that decision, more so each day.

  ‘It’s new. It’s a Jacob Diehl from Hamburg.’ Eliza Fenworth held out her prized instrument to him. He took it with a smile, trying to recapture his humanity, or perhaps apologise for the lack of it. The house party was turning him into a man he scarcely recognised, and all for a fortune he didn’t want but felt compelled to protect. Maybe it was true. Money changed a man even when he tried to do good.

  ‘See the wide soundholes and how Diehl placed the bridge? His violins are known for their long corners and their flat bridges,’ she explained, her face comin
g alive with her talk of music. Chiara was right. The girl effused vitality all of a sudden. Her eyes sparked and she seemed to glow, her beauty becoming three-dimensional now. He wasn’t going to marry her for it. But he knew a man who should—a Quentin Burbage, the second son of a baron, who spent his days in the Strand making instruments while his father raced the family string in Newmarket. He’d come for a few long weekends last year to see the horses and Sutton had enjoyed him—a kind, gentle, intelligent man. Perhaps he would write to Burbage and tell him about Miss Fenworth when all this was over. Eliza Fenworth had been one of the few to conduct herself properly this week. She’d not begged for his attentions and, in doing so, she deserved a prize she’d actually enjoy. He sensed Eliza didn’t want to be married to him any more than he wanted to be married to her, or anyone else present.

  Except Chiara. There it was again—that errant, wicked thought. Sutton passed the instrument carefully back to Miss Fenworth. It seemed Chiara had become the exception to everything since he’d kissed her in the cave. He only felt like himself when he was with her. He wasn’t playing a role, wasn’t pandering to parents and falsely flattering their daughters. Yet he’d shown so little of himself to her that to draw such a conclusion bordered on hasty generalisation.

  By the piano, his mother called for attention and everyone took their seats. Tonight, the girls would entertain them with musical skills. Sutton surveyed the collection of aspiring musicians, a pit growing in his stomach. They were all lovely, all talented in some way, all desperate in others, put up to this farce by their parents or their own vanity. But who among them could he marry? Who among them did he see himself spending the rest of his life with? Isabelle Bradley with her incessant chatter? Did the girl ever stop? Eliza Fenworth, who was just the opposite? Virginia Peckworth, who spent more time watching herself in any available mirror? Each of them had their flaws. Which flaws could he live with? Could he live with any of them and still keep himself intact or would he lose himself entirely, completing the process the house party had already begun?