He suddenly looked as unhappy as she felt. “Elizabeth, I never had anyone specific in mind. I never thought much at all beyond destroying Montaigne—”
“There’s no need to explain,” she said softly. Walking over to him, she brushed some dried mud off his frock coat. “Nothing has changed. We’re still business partners, working together to achieve something important. And after the Fair, we’ll divide the money and… say our farewells. I’ll be off to Spain. And you’ll be off to woo Priscilla.”
He scowled. “Who the devil is Priscilla?”
“Your future wife,” she said lightly. “Lady Darkridge, your countess. I’m sure she’ll be named Priscilla. Or Clementina or Eugenie or something equally grand. With impeccable manners and the very finest connections. And she’ll be an excellent dancer, that goes without saying.”
Elizabeth knew it was ridiculous to resent an imaginary person, but she rather despised Priscilla.
His hand was gentle on her cheek as he tilted her head up, his expression strained. “Elizabeth, if there were any other way—”
“Marcus, you and I… our alliance was never meant to be anything more than temporary. I’ve always known that. And I-I accept it.” She pressed her hands against his lapels, noticing as never before how expensive the fabric was. “I’ve never asked you for any promises, and I don’t expect any.” She tried to smile. “As I told you once before, I’m not the least bit old-fashioned.”
“The problem is,” he replied, a muscle flexing in his jaw, “I am.”
“I have come to realize that.” Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against his chest. “But the two of us had… one extraordinary night together—”
“Day together,” he corrected in a whisper.
“Day together,” she echoed, trying to keep her voice from wavering. “And I’ll never forget it… or you. But that’s all there can ever be for us.” She let herself savor his touch, his closeness for just a few seconds longer. “I don’t regret a moment of what we’ve shared. But I don’t want to talk about the future anymore.”
She pulled away from him, moving quickly to where she had left his greatcoat on a hook near the door. “Now, my lord, we need to get out of here without being seen. I think you should wait a few minutes and then follow me.”
Elizabeth slipped out into the corridor, putting on his black coat as she shut the door behind her.
Alone in the darkness, she leaned back against the solid wood, closing her eyes, trying to breathe, just to breathe.
She had always known that she would lose him, that they would have no future together—but it was painful to hear it spoken aloud.
Wiping at her eyes, she told herself it was better that they be honest now than suffer even worse heartache later. Better to face the truth than to hope for what could never be.
She pulled up the collar of his coat to conceal her identity… and tried not to notice that it still held his scent.
The inn was quiet but for a few guests in the public room below. She tiptoed down the stairs. Looking around to make sure the innkeeper wasn’t nearby, she made a quick, stealthy exit out the front door.
Marcus joined her outside a short while later. “Let’s go,” he said curtly. He strode off without waiting for her reply.
“Oh Lawks,” Elizabeth said under her breath. Did he have to make this more difficult?
How on earth had she become the reasonable, practical one in this partnership of theirs?
He remained stonily silent as he led the way out of town, taking the road south, toward London. Elizabeth gave up trying to keep pace with his long strides, following a short distance behind him… knowing that each step carried them closer to the moment he would walk out of her life forever.
Chapter 18
“Now don’t ye misunderstand me, Bess,” Nell said as she stabbed one last pin into Elizabeth’s tall white wig. “It’s not that I think Montaigne will remember ye. I just don’t like sendin’ ye into the lion’s den lookin’ like such an appetizin’ morsel.”
Elizabeth placed a paper cone over her face as her friend dusted the wig with white powder. She’d had a fortnight now to go over every detail of this day. Nonetheless, as the hour approached, she had a frantic flock of butterflies in her stomach.
“Nell,” she said patiently, her voice muffled by the paper contraption. “It’s the perfect disguise and the perfect scheme. I’ve explained half a dozen times.”
Georgiana clucked her tongue. “You can explain it to me half a dozen more times and I’ll still say it’s far from perfect.” She sat on the other side of Elizabeth’s bedroom in the small town house the three of them shared, supervising the preparations. “All the rouge and silk in the world won’t hide your eyes, Elizabeth, or your voice. He could very well remember you.”
“Just see that ye get in and get out fast as ye can,” Nell advised.
“But I have to spend a certain amount of time with him.” Elizabeth discarded the cone as soon as Nell set aside the little hand bellows. A cloud of white drifted around her shoulders before settling on her dressing table. “I can’t just burst in and start asking questions.”
Georgiana’s only response was a frustrated “Hmph.”
Trying to bolster her own confidence, Elizabeth leaned forward and surveyed her appearance in the mirror. Never had she worn such an outrageous amount of paint. Her entire face had been artificially paled, her cheeks brightened with rouge and highlighted with a diamond-shaped patch just to one side of her mouth. Nell had dabbed a great deal of carmine on Elizabeth’s lips, a thick coating of lead pencil on her brows, and had tried to play down the color of her eyes with brown and sand-hued powders.
“Honestly, Georgiana,” Elizabeth insisted, tucking a stray ringlet from her wig behind her ear. “My own sister would never know me.” She rose from her seat as Nell began capping the various bottles and jars.
“Perhaps,” Georgiana replied. “But I suppose no man will pay much attention to your eyes once he sees that gown Nell made.” Relenting at last, she came over to help Elizabeth don corset, pannier and petticoats while Nell hurried to collect the gown from the bed.
Elizabeth held her breath as they lifted the gown over her head and laced it tight. The dress was of a shade Nell called “ravish-me red,” and perilously low-cut. To Georgiana’s dismay, Elizabeth had refused a modesty piece, the better to distract Montaigne.
Georgiana stepped back to look at her with a worried frown. “I do wish you’d allow one of us to accompany you.”
“Or both of us,” Nell added. “Ye could’ve just as easily explained in yer letter that you and two of yer friends needed advice on investin’.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t let them take such an unnecessary risk. “It was hard enough to get an appointment on short notice.” She surreptitiously dried her sweaty palms on her skirt. “And I’ll have a much better chance of achieving my ends if I’m alone with him.”
She picked up her red fan from the dressing table, opened it with a snap, fluttered it artfully and dropped into a low curtsy that exposed a great deal of her bosom. “My dear Mr. Montaigne,” she said in a practiced, flirtatious tone. “I do so hope you’ll assist me in deciding what to do with all my millions.”
Nell nodded at the performance. “Ye’ll have his complete attention, fer certain.”
“Yes, but what kind of attention?” Georgian asked, fanning herself with a lace handkerchief.
“I’ll be careful.” Elizabeth opened the center drawer of her dressing table. “I promise.”
She picked up the small dueling pistol she had purchased just for this occasion, and slipped it into her deep skirt pocket. She intended to use it only as a threat, and only if the need arose. She hadn’t even loaded it, despite Marcus’s orders.
Because she didn’t trust herself to face Montaigne with a loaded gun.
Georgiana watched her pocket the weapon. “That does not make me feel a bit better. I told Lord Darkridge as much yesterday—”
<
br /> “Lord Darkridge is the one who insisted I carry it,” Elizabeth said, her gaze locking with Georgiana’s. She still hadn’t quite forgiven her friends for sending him after her to Northampton in the first place.
Since their return to London, Marcus had been to see her every day. She had tried to keep her distance—and refused to spend any time alone with him. In little more than a week, the two of them would be saying their last farewell… and he would be off to woo and wed another woman. She was doing her best to accept that, but being in his company only made her heart ache.
And there was no point in torturing herself.
Despite her aloofness, Marcus had seemed quite content to visit with Nell and Georgiana. The three of them were growing downright chummy, Elizabeth thought sourly.
“The earl has been quite a frequent guest the past fortnight, hasn’t he?” Georgiana smiled, lifting a burnished red eyebrow. “I believe I may have been wrong in my previous opinion of him. One would think the man quite smitten.”
“Georgiana, as I have made abundantly clear, the earl and I have a business arrangement, nothing more.”
“Does he know that?”
“Yes, he knows that,” Elizabeth said softly, fumbling with her fan as she tried to persuade it to close correctly. “His future plans don’t include me. They can’t. Neither of us is thinking of things in that way.”
“Who’s to know what a man thinks?” Nell asked. “Most men don’t put a whole lot of their time into thinkin’. They act first and wait fer their brains to catch up later.”
“Well, regardless of what he may or may not be thinking, after the Fair, he won’t be dropping by anymore.” Elizabeth finally managed to subdue her fan. “So I suggest the two of you stop becoming so attached. All of us will be perfectly fine without him.”
She had been telling herself that every day. When Marcus was gone from her life, she would be fine. She was strong and independent, and she would be just fine.
Georgiana didn’t say anything, but simply held Elizabeth’s gaze… until Elizabeth had the uncanny feeling that her friend could see right through to her soul.
Glancing away, Elizabeth slipped her feet into a pair of heeled slippers that matched her dress, then picked up her silk-lined black cloak.
As she led the way toward the door, she felt the pistol bump against her thigh with each step… and prayed she wouldn’t need it.
~ ~ ~
A half hour later, Elizabeth stepped down from a hackney coach into the rich, sunlit splendor of Cavendish Square. The streets were busy at this time of day, as servants bustled about their duties, milkmaids and peddlers sold their wares, and gentlemen and their ladies enjoyed the summer breeze. Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Montaigne’s town house looked exactly as it had the first time she had been here.
The beige brick. The gleaming windows. The polished door with brass fittings. All still flawless. There wasn’t a nick in the black paint on the iron fence, not a petal out of place in the carefully arranged flowers that bordered the walk.
She had stood in this very spot when Montaigne’s footmen had forced her into the carriage bound for Fleet prison. His cold dismissal echoed in her memory.
Until you drop the brat you are of no use to me.
Fury knifed through her, sharp and hot. Her life had been irrevocably changed that day, yet his comfortable existence had gone on without so much as a single mote of dust out of place.
Not for long, she vowed.
Holding fast to that thought, she turned and paid the driver, asking him to return for her in an hour. As the coach pulled away, Elizabeth checked the little watch attached to her fan. Three o’clock. Her appointment wasn’t until three-thirty.
She stared up at the house, then turned away, unable to bear the sight of it any longer. It would be rude to appear so early, and a stroll about the square might calm her. She walked down the street, nodding polite greetings to the passing gentry.
At the corner, she almost tripped over a gentleman’s walking stick. The ladylike apology on her lips quickly turned into an oath as she recognized him.
“This was not part of our arrangement, my lord.”
Marcus, handsome in dove gray brocade, bowed and doffed a matching gray tricorne. “Pardon, madam. I thought it wise to be in the neighborhood should you find yourself in need of assistance.”
Elizabeth found it impossible to reply. He wasn’t even touching her, but she couldn’t catch her breath and her skipping pulse wouldn’t slow down. Despite her efforts to distance herself over the past two weeks, to regain control of her emotions, her feelings for him hadn’t changed in the least.
She was still in love with him.
Love. That word she had been fighting so hard to deny—the only one that made sense when she tried to put a name to these feelings.
She was in love with him.
“I-I don’t need you here,” she informed him coolly. “I’m supposed to be alone.”
“I hardly recommend your going anywhere alone looking like that.” He took her elbow and walked around the corner, flicking a sideways glance at her cloak. “What exactly are you wearing under there?”
“My disguise.” She resisted the sensations that danced through her at his touch. “And I’ll thank you to leave me alone so I can get on with putting it to good use.”
“Did you bring a gun?”
Muttering an oath under her breath, she reached into her skirt pocket and pointed it at him.
“And it’s loaded? You won’t mind if I check.”
“Do you want me to go in there reeking of gunpowder? I’ve taken every necessary precaution. Now stop interrogating me. You’re only making me nervous.”
Without warning, Marcus pivoted her toward him, taking her by both arms. “Montaigne is not a man to toy with, Elizabeth. Exactly how far do you plan to go in wheedling information out of him?”
“I’ll do what I have to do.”
His eyes darkening, he pulled her against his chest. He was going to kiss her! Right there in broad daylight, on the open street in front of a half-dozen passersby!
As he looked down at her, his expression softened.
Could he tell? she wondered wildly. Did her love for him shine through like the sun, like the stars and moonlight in a midnight sky?
“Don’t.” She turned her head, afraid one kiss might unravel her determination to be reasonable and accepting about all of this. “Y-you’ll smear my rouge.”
He let her go, his voice brusque. “No, we can’t have that, can we?” He inclined his head in the direction of Montaigne’s town house. “Don’t let me keep you… partner.”
Elizabeth glared at him. What did he have to be so surly about?
“Good day, sir.” She turned and walked away without allowing herself to look back.
Checking her watch, she saw that her appointment wasn’t for fifteen minutes yet. It wasn’t socially acceptable to arrive this early, but she didn’t care. The desire to get this awful business over with seized her, and she hurried down the street.
“I’ll be right here,” Marcus called after her.
Elizabeth didn’t bother to point out the obvious.
If everything went wrong, what could Marcus alone do against Montaigne’s army of footmen?
Chapter 19
Elizabeth climbed the steps, lifted the gold-plated knocker, and let it fall.
A footman clad in burgundy-and-gray livery opened the huge portal and ushered her inside. Before the servant could take her cape, the study doors opened and Montaigne himself strolled out, his attention on a man beside him who carried a stack of ledger books and papers.
“They will arrive here the day before the Fair, sir,” the man was saying, “disguised as deliveries from various shops. Ten trunks in all—”
Montaigne, noticing Elizabeth, held up a hand to interrupt. “Ah, this would be the beautiful Lady Barnes-Finchley?”
His voice scraped over her nerv
es like a sharp-tined fork. His sallow features—paled by a particularly bad shade of scented powder—looked just as she had seen them in her nightmares. The frosty blue gaze, perfectly coiffed wig, and lecherous smile were all the same.
A dizzying sense of time repeating itself overwhelmed her.
She stood rooted where she was and managed to force a smile to her face and a greeting past her carmined lips. “G-good afternoon, Mr. Montaigne.”
He looked at her silently, his gaze lingering over her face.
Panic gripped Elizabeth and she almost turned and ran.
Then the moment passed, and he was waving the footman away and turning to the man beside him. “That will be all for now, Roberts. We can review the rest of our plans later.”
The word plans lanced through Elizabeth’s consciousness and forced her to remember her purpose in being here.
Hadn’t the man with the ledgers said the word Fair? They had been discussing Montaigne’s plans for St. Bartholomew’s Fair! She scrambled to remember all he had said: the day before… ten trunks… disguised as deliveries from various shops.
Relief bubbled up inside her. She hadn’t been here five minutes and she already knew a great deal. Perhaps she could claim a headache and depart right now—
That impulse dissipated when Roberts bobbed a bow to her and left her alone with Montaigne.
She couldn’t leave yet. She had to find out much more: what time the coach would be leaving for the Fair. How many men would be guarding it. What route they would take. Marcus would need all the information she could get.
The more she found out, the safer he would be.
Mustering her courage, she kept the smile on her face. “I’m sorry to have arrived so early, Mr. Montaigne. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.”
“Think nothing of it.” He stepped behind her to remove her cape himself. “I’ve a very busy schedule, but I am always willing to make time for a woman in need.”
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