Marrying Mischief

by Lyn Stone

  Emily watched the byplay between Carrick and Polly with interest. They obviously knew one another. “You must have visited here often in the past. Were you close to your uncle?”

  He laid his hat and cane down upon the floor beside the chair and raised his drowsy gaze to hers. “Lord knows, I tried to befriend him. The man was perfectly horrible to everyone, as you must know. Still, he did receive me whenever I came ’round. I suspect he missed Nick all those years and saw me as a sort of replacement or some such.”

  “I’m certain you’re wrong,” Emily said politely, momentarily touched by the hint of sorrow in Carrick’s expression. “His lordship must have liked you. At least he didn’t send you away.” She remembered all too well that the old earl had sent Nick away. Or so Nick claimed. As things stood now, she still questioned whether the departure was his or Nick’s own idea.

  She folded her hands together in her lap and leaned forward the least bit to show interest in her guest. “You live in London, I suppose?”

  Carrick’s smile widened. “So I do, but I also travel quite a lot. I’m a painter, you see.”

  “Oh, well, that’s grand, isn’t it? What do you paint?”

  He leaned forward, too, resting his elbows on his knees and seeming eager. “Portraits mostly. That’s why I’ve come, to offer you and Nick a gift, a wedding portrait.”

  Polly presented him with a snifter of brandy just then, and Carrick spared her an indulgent smile as he took it. “Why, thank you, Polly,” he said, his tone as smooth as dark silk.

  Emily felt an instant shiver of dislike. She recognized a prelude to seduction when she saw one. Or perhaps it was not a prelude at all. Polly smiled back rather confidently. The thought of a gentleman taking advantage of a female servant rankled, especially on the heels of finding out about the liaison between Nicholas and Rosie.

  “That will be all, Polly,” Emily said meaningfully, and nodded toward the tea things the maid had set aside to fetch the brandy.

  Carrick downed the drink, set the glass on the piecrust table nearby, picked up his hat and cane from the carpet and stood. Emily got up, as well, intending to see him out.

  “I will inform Kendale of your offer, Mr. Hollander. Will you visit again when he is home to greet you?”

  “Soon,” he promised, politely holding out his hand. When she offered hers in return, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, planting his full, firm lips against her skin in a rather prolonged and suggestive way. She could swear she felt his tongue. Suddenly all too aware of the peril in being alone with him, Emily tugged out of his grasp and backed up a step.

  He laughed. “Don’t be so skittish, cousin. Humor an eccentric.” He bent forward as if to impart a secret. “We artists must keep up the ruse that we are rakes and libertines. Otherwise we should be thought horribly ordinary and not worth knowing.”

  Unwilling to betray her unworldliness or to reveal her distress, Emily simply forced a tight-lipped smile as she clutched her hands together tightly at her waist.

  Carrick bowed low. “I take my leave of you, sweet cousin. Do give my regards to the estimable earl when he returns. Tell him I shall immortalize the both of you on canvas at his earliest convenience. Upton has my card.”

  “Yes. Goodbye,” Emily said, wiping the back of her hand on her skirt and feeling assuredly glad to see him go.

  She reached for the door to the drawing room and firmly closed it behind him. No more guests today, no matter who they might be.

  Unable to sit again when she was so agitated, Emily paced. She must decide now whether she should share her impressions of Carrick with Nicholas when he returned.

  Nicholas obviously didn’t like Carrick much to begin with. It would not do to cause further hard feelings between the cousins when neither of them had any other close family. Carrick’s parents, the old earl’s younger brother and his wife, were dead. Nicholas’s mother had no family living as far as Emily knew. No one had ever mentioned any.

  She concluded that it might behoove her to let the matter of Carrick’s unwarranted familiarity pass and simply inform Nicholas that he had called and offered them the gift of a painting. Then she would avoid being around Carrick unless her husband was also present.

  She curled one fist inside the opposing hand and rubbed away the sensation of the man’s mouth against it. Growing up with as little protection as she’d had did have certain advantages. She knew precisely how to defend her own person if need be. However, she had become dedicated to adjusting to her new role in life. That considered, even she knew it would appear uncouth for a countess to knock the bloody stuffing out of the earl’s cousin.

  Nicholas kept his hat in hand as he awaited Lord Worthing in the study of Balmanger House on Solden Street West. He doubted he would be here long once the baron discovered why he’d come. It was late for a formal visit—those usually ending at four and the hour being now past six—so Worthing would realize this was not a simple social call.

  The door opened and Worthing entered. “Nicholas…or Kendale, I should say now. How good to see you again. Terrible about your father. So sorry you couldn’t be there for the funeral. Fortunately, our family was able, so he was properly mourned.”

  “You have my gratitude, sir,” Nick declared solemnly, shaking the man’s hand. “I know you were good friends.”

  “So we were, all those years in school and after. And you have all his good traits, I’ll wager.” He slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Strength. Good head for business, and all that. He was proud of you, son. Very proud.”

  A deliberate lie, but one Nick forgave. He wished it had been true and Worthing must know that.

  The portly little man with florid features and wisps of brown hair combed over his balding pate exhibited all the exuberance of a fish marketer attempting to sell herring about to go bad. Or a father with a daughter gone ripe on the vine.

  Nicholas got right to the point. “Sir, I’ve come about the betrothal contract.”

  Worthing beamed and said in a conspiratorial tone, “We’ll have Dierdre down here as soon as she’s through primping. She knows you’re here. I sent one of the girls to tell her when Jenkins announced you were here.” He waved an arm expansively toward the chairs. “Sit and I’ll pour us a sherry.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Nicholas told him, hating to dash the man’s congenial mood. “You see, the betrothal contract’s fraudulent, sir. My father forged my name.”

  Worthing fell perfectly still, his smile dying a quick death and his eyes growing hard. “You lie.”

  “No, sir. I swear to you that I knew nothing of it until I found Father’s copy in his desk. I deeply regret what he did and beg your pardon for it.”

  For several long minutes Worthing glared at him. Nick remained stoic, enduring the tension while the baron came to terms with the truth.

  “Nevertheless, you will honor it,” Worthing ordered.

  “No, sir, I cannot.”

  “You would break Dierdre’s heart?”

  “I doubt that’s an issue, sir. Please do not trouble yourself to persuade me on this. I cannot marry your daughter in any case. I am already wed.”

  The baron did not appear to be all that surprised. “It has not been announced in the papers. You will quietly annul it, of course. Then we will proceed as planned.”

  “No, that is not possible.”

  “It would be wise of you to reconsider, Kendale.”

  “You ask the impossible. I merely came to inform you if you did not already know, and to assure you that none of this needs be discussed any further. If anyone else heard of the alliance my father concocted on his own, simply explain that your daughter decided to cry off.”

  Worthing threw out one arm, pointing toward the door. “Get out of my house,” he growled.

  “Of course,” Nick agreed. “And again, I regret the inconvenience my father’s action has caused you and your family.”

  “You will suffer more than regret in the near future, you
bastard,” Worthing promised in a hard voice laced with hatred. “You are not worthy to bear your father’s name or his title. I will personally see to it that no home in England will receive you after this. I shall ruin you!”

  Nicholas calmly left the study and strode toward the front entrance. The baron’s voice rose behind him to echo in the vestibule, “Your father made a promise, a vow you would comply. Since you refuse, we will settle this in court, you and I!”

  “That would be unwise,” Nicholas warned as he turned, his hand on the door handle. “Think of your daughter and her mother and how such a scandal would affect them.”

  “You will pay. I swear you will pay,” Worthing declared, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Were you not already richer than God, I might have considered doing just that, sir, out of embarrassment for my father’s treachery and for Dierdre’s sake. But since you have more wealth than the law allows, and on principle—because I am not the cause of this conundrum—I shall not surrender a farthing. That is final.”

  With that announcement, Nick placed his hat on his head and left the house.

  Peculiar, he thought, once he had calmed down and was halfway to St. James, exceedingly peculiar that Worthing had never asked whom Nick had married. Could it be that he had already known? Had the bonhomie and the switch to sudden outrage been but an act?

  He mentally added another name to the list he was forming of those with reason to wreck the Kendale carriage on its way to London.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nick approached the bow window of White’s. Through it, the club appeared to be sparsely attended this evening, which suited him well. He realized he might have to prove his identity to be allowed inside unless Duquesne had received the message to meet him here and would vouch for him.

  On his few surreptitious trips to London during the past seven years, Nick had not frequented public places lest he be recognized and his father notified that he was in the country. His business in London had not necessarily required that much secrecy, but Nick simply had not wished the earl to know he had returned.

  Duquesne greeted him the moment he walked in, introduced him to the proprietor and several nobles who were already well into their cups.

  The viscount held a place of great affection in the hearts of fellow members, Nick observed. No surprise, for Guilford Bollings, Viscount Duquesne, was an uncommonly genial fellow unless crossed.

  To Nick, he had always been Guy, his chum throughout school and university, and a friend who had remained true even after Nick’s exile. Guy had even visited him in India once and had written letters regularly to keep his and Nick’s friendship current.

  If he had a brother, Nick would want him to be exactly like Guy—loyal, witty, and imminently resourceful. Guy sought all manner of derring-do, both to avoid the idleness of his class and to provide much-needed income. Nick admired him enormously. They had in common the necessity to make their own fortunes despite the fact they were both first sons and titled.

  Once they had no audience, Guy nudged him with his elbow. “Man, you look mule-kicked. Wedded bliss that dreadful, is it?”

  “How did you know?” Nick asked. “Who told you I was married?”

  Duquesne threw back his head and laughed heartily, slapping Nick on the back as he turned him toward a vacant table. “God, you really haven’t spent much time here, have you? I swear everyone hires gossip runners who possess the speed of Mercury. Winged feet and all that.” He yanked out a chair and sat down, throwing up a hand to signal for drinks.

  “So it’s all over town?” Nick asked, recalling Worthing’s behavior. Now that he thought about it, the man had overacted. He must have thought to stir Nick’s guilt and make him more amenable to getting rid of Emily.

  Guy nodded. “I heard it over a week ago. Actually I believe the news originated with that pretty cousin of yours, what’s his name?”

  “Carrick. He must have stayed somewhere near Bournesea after I ran him off. Emily’s father might even have told him of the marriage if he asked what was going on. The vicar never mentioned it to me, but I can suppose he would have been eager to announce his daughter’s marriage to the local populace.”

  “Vicar? Zeus, Nick, what have you been up to? You thought to keep her a secret? Is she buck-toothed and squinty? Who held the gun to your head? Not the vicar, surely!”

  Nick smiled indulgently. Guy would have his fun. “She is beautiful. You wouldn’t remember Emily from your visits to—”

  “Good God! That Emily? The fairy child who used to peek at us from behind the rocks when we swam? Never say it!”

  “She did no such thing,” Nick argued, trying to contain his mirth.

  “Did so, and I cannot help but wonder why she didn’t hold out for me. After all, I was the larger…catch.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Will you stop? And when you meet her next, you’re not to go on this way or she’ll be mortified and I shall have to call you out.”

  “Lips sealed,” Guy promised with a chuckle. “Even though I boast the best equipment, I admit you are a better marksman.”

  “Thank you,” Nick said. “I think. Now will you listen? Emily and I might be in danger and I hope you will assist me in discovering the culprit who means us harm. At least give me the name of someone capable who will look into it.”

  Guy sobered immediately and straightened from his slouch to give Nick full attention. “Begin at the beginning, man, and don’t leave out a thing. What has happened?”

  Nick explained first about the quarantine and how he had come to be married to Emily. Then he told Guy about the earlier attempts on his life, the carriage wreck and his suspicions regarding it.

  “If anyone hired it done here in London, I can find out who,” Guy said with confidence. “But if he acted alone, or secured help elsewhere, it will take a bit of digging to unearth him.” He stood abruptly. “Say good-night, Nick. I’m off.”

  “Will you send word, or shall we meet here again tomorrow?” Nick asked.

  “Here?” Guy asked with an expression of comic disbelief. “Why, I never come here unless forced. Look around. It’s damned dull! Expect me at half past eight tomorrow evening at Kendale House. I can scarcely wait another day to meet the fey little Emily all grown up. The chit should rethink what she’s missed by marrying too soon.”

  Nick decided to impose further on Guy. “Could you give me the name of a fashionable modiste? One who would be willing to come to Kendale House?”

  “Say no more. Expect her and her entourage to arrive at one o’clock tomorrow.” He grinned. “Unless, of course, you were asking for yourself and not for your wife, in which case I would suggest a more clandestine rendezvous.”

  “Scoundrel,” Nick muttered companionably as he grabbed his hat and joined Guy walking out.

  “Paragon,” Guy countered.

  They parted outside with a nod of accord and not another word.

  Satisfied that he had accomplished all that he possibly could for one day, Nick hailed a passing hack and headed for Kendale House. He had nowhere else in London to go.

  He pulled out his pocketwatch and saw that it was only half past nine. Despite that, he was exhausted, sleepy and disgruntled. Unless Emily had made peace with whatever or whomever had turned her combative since he first set out this morning, he hoped for once she had decided to retire early.

  Emily waited for Nick in the library, desperately searching for a book that would distract her from the day’s events. Nothing thus far, she thought, replacing a boring treatise on battle strategy back in its place on the shelf. The entire place seemed filled with tomes only a man would find interesting.

  She gave up, settled herself in a chair before the empty, cold fireplace and closed her eyes.

  He would be home soon, surely. Even the most passionate tryst shouldn’t take all night. After all, those sorts of women entertained more than one gentleman during an evening, did they not? It wasn’t as if he’d had the time to arrange
for a mistress since they’d arrived.

  She shouldn’t know of such things. They were never discussed among the women of her acquaintance. Ha! The women she knew probably waited until she was not around and then let fly with all sorts of conjecture about the vicar’s promiscuous daughter.

  Emily read about such things, however. Novels of romance and adventure had been available and plentiful in Nolan’s Book Emporium. She owned six of them herself. There was little to do in one’s leisure time other than read in a village the size of Bournesea. Amazing, the things people would relate in books that they would not dare discuss in the presence of another person.

  Not that any of those books contained the actual details as such, but they did lead one to fill in the blank parts with vivid imagination. Oddly enough, she had found more particulars within one of her father’s own books that was meant to instruct young men about to be married.

  Father would be aghast at her naughty indulgences, but he would forgive her if she ever confessed them. God love him, he was such a sweet, gentle man without a jot of censure within him.

  Emily knew she was somewhat spoiled because of that, but at least he had taught by example how to love someone without putting conditions on it. He embodied acceptance of foibles and instant forgiveness. His sermons usually revolved around those themes.

  Thoughts of that brought her upright in the chair. Was she wrong to judge Nicholas? He had lied by omission, almost seduced her, certainly seduced poor Rosie. Then he’d lied again.

  But he had married her to save her good name. He had seen that her brother was tended when he was so ill. And he worried so about spreading the cholera, yet had stayed with his men when he might have left them there and gone elsewhere to reduce his chance of contracting it. There was an innate goodness in Nick, she knew. It would be up to her, as her father’s daughter, to unleash that and show him the error of his ways.

  “Emily? What on earth are you doing in here? It’s cold. Why aren’t you upstairs in bed?”

  “Nick!”

  “Are you unwell? You look pale,” he said with sincere concern.