“But . . . I want to come,” she protested, resenting the way his hand was already reaching for the door. As odd as the sentiment was, given that she’d practically had to be dragged to last night’s literary salon, she found that in this moment, she wanted to be involved.
And in truth, she’d only fainted last night because of the unnatural, vise-like grip of Eleanor’s borrowed corset. She’d found it impossible to breathe when she’d most needed to.
But wearing her own front-lacing corset, surely she’d be able to—
He glared at her over his shoulder, severing that line of thought. “This is far too dangerous a mission for you, and I’ll be damned if I will be held responsible for your ruin and your death, Miss Channing. I will attend services myself on Sunday. Identify and stop the traitors, if I can.”
“And if you are unsuccessful in that endeavor?” she retorted. She ought to be glad he seemed poised to do something, but instead she felt hurt. He was planning to exclude her, when it had been her own idea to attend Sunday services to look for them. How could he? She was every bit as much a part of this as he was.
More so, in fact. She had sacrificed her reputation—furtive, fledgling thing that it had been—to uncover this plot. He’d done nothing more noteworthy than kiss her behind some curtains and then give her a fumbled proposal of marriage.
His face turned grim. “Then at least I will have more information on which to make an informed decision. And you shall be safely at home, where you belong.”
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
June 4, 1858
When did my life become so reminiscent of the plot of a torrid novel? Even my situation with the gossip rag has a ring of gothic tragedy to it, tinged with a touch of comedy. Perhaps it is an unfortunate side effect of being “ruined”, but it seems as if I no longer have anything to lose. I ought to be terrified, hiding in my room, reading my precious books.
But instead, I am angry that Mr. Westmore has dismissed me from his plans.
Eleanor congratulated me on turning Mr. Westmore down in his offer of marriage, and assured me I have made the correct choice. But a betrothal would have forced Mr. Westmore to take me seriously. At the very least, he would have had to take me along with him this coming Sunday. Which means, I am sorry to say, I am no longer sure I did the right thing.
Chapter 8
West woke up in sweat-soaked sheets, his arms thrashing, lungs working like a bellows.
Damn it all, the nightmares were back.
He’d begun to imagine he’d outrun them. In the months after his return from Crimea, they’d come close to consuming him. Their determination to creep into his nocturnal thoughts was part of the reason he preferred late nights in strangers’ beds. A dreamless sleep was a hard-fought luxury in his world, most commonly achieved with a potent combination of strong spirits and the distraction of sweet, feminine flesh.
But in the past few days, those nightmares had returned with a vengeance.
And strong spirits and sweet, feminine flesh had been sorely lacking in his world.
He scrubbed his forehead, slick with sweat. Miss Channing had been in this dream, which was a terrifying departure from the usual script. He ought to be relieved she’d refused his offer of marriage so neatly, releasing him from any obligation of propriety. Ought to be forgetting all about her, instead of dreaming about her at importune times.
And what cause had a mouse-like virgin to be gallivanting about his battle scenes? In this nightmare, she’d been in grave danger, held at the point of a traitor’s gun.
No doubt that was why he felt strung as tightly as a bow.
He was convinced now, more than ever, of his rightness in dismissing her earnest attempts to help track down the traitors. She might be a bookish miss with a few good ideas, but Miss Channing was also an innocent. He couldn’t apply his mind to the problem at hand if he was constantly worrying about her safety.
And if nothing else, this morning’s dream was a vivid enough reminder of why she shouldn’t be involved in this.
He forced his body to unclench, though he still felt the thump of readiness in his veins. Thoughts of danger and mousy virgins receded to their proper shadows, and he turned an ear to the house outside his door. Had he awakened the house with his shouts this time? He didn’t hear anyone stirring about—but then, when he’d come back from Crimea, he’d asked for a room on the little-used west wing of the house because he’d known his nightmares would cause worry if others heard him. If Wilson had any idea that he sometimes still slept poorly, or that his nocturnal demons had returned, the servant would probably launch into yet another ill-timed lecture.
The nightmares were almost preferable.
He dragged a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Outside his window, the light was just warming. He well knew this time of day. Usually, he’d just be stumbling home from his evening’s exploits. It was too bloody early to be getting out of bed.
Perhaps that was the trouble here. Since the business with the assassination plot, he’d been . . . distracted. His parents had been nearly relieved when he’d told them Miss Channing had very sensibly refused his honorable offer, but he’d felt a lingering sense of unease.
Not because he wanted to marry her.
He didn’t.
But something about the notion that she didn’t want to marry him sat poorly in his gut.
He’d spent the past few days pursuing the leads on Miss Channing’s rather well-thought-out list. In spite of his claims to the contrary, he’d even made inquiries at Bedlam, not knowing what else to do. Unfortunately, the officials there had taken his inquiries about as seriously as the authorities at Scotland Yard, and he’d come to the conclusion that escape—and lucid plotting—were probably beyond the capabilities of anyone fortunate enough to survive a stay there.
So he’d returned to Scotland Yard, trying to argue his case again. This time, he’d come close to smashing the nose of the sniveling constable who—once again—refused to take his statement. Since that memorable failure, he’d been waiting for Sunday, restless and relentless. He’d come to the irrevocable conclusion he needed to find the traitors himself, if only so he could descend back into a welcome oblivion.
And while his quarry may have eluded him so far, he was determined to end it today.
Which was why ten o’clock that Sunday morning saw the birth of a proper miracle: West, up, properly dressed, and stepping through the doors of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
In a past life, he would have come here with his family on a Sunday just to ogle the gorgeous, swooping lines of the high, arched ceiling. But his taste for unique architecture had dulled since his return from Crimea, and today he pushed inside without looking up. God, how long had it been since he’d attended church? For one, these days he was rarely up early enough on Sunday mornings to drag his still-inebriated arse to a pew. And for another, he found it difficult to truly regret the various lust-fueled sins he was expected to repent.
He half-wished Wilson could see him now. Then again, he’d probably just earn a lecture from the old servant for having missed so many Sundays in the past.
The day was hot, and bound to get hotter. The crowd seemed lighter than usual, no doubt thanks to the smell rolling in through the open doors at the rear of the cathedral. The overheated Thames had blanketed the city with its stench for nigh on a week now and seemed to only be getting worse. Many families who usually stayed through the end of the Season had already packed their things and retreated to the cooler countryside. There was even talk of ending the current parliamentary session early, and it looked as though many of the pews were empty today.
West was glad to see it. Fewer dukes to sort out.
Those who had braved the stench were just settling into their seats. As he lurked near the center of the outer vestibule, studying those in attendance, he considered again whether the traitor he sought might be someone he knew. Though the v
oice he remembered from the library had seemed vaguely familiar, he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d heard it before.
And unfortunately, West knew an awful lot of dukes.
To his right, he could see the Duke of Rothesay, his bulk spreading across the bench. West discounted the man almost immediately: that night in the library, his view had been hampered by darkness, but he’d at least gotten a glimpse of the men’s profiles. Rothesay’s girth was too large to match either of the men from the library.
The Duke of Strathearn shuffled past, and West considered whether the stooped old man might be a viable candidate for treason. But the voice he’d overheard in the library, while delivered as a terse whisper, had struck him as belonging to someone younger.
Strathearn was seventy, if he was a day.
Unfortunately, discounting two dukes didn’t even scratch the surface of the possibilities. He stared out across the rows of benches, discarding some ideas, turning over others. He didn’t particularly like dukes, although he could allow there were a few out there that weren’t so dodgy. The thought of bringing at least one of them down a peg or two gave him a devilish sort of pleasure. He thought back to his experience at Harrow and the endless torture he and Grant had endured at the hands of Peter Wetford, the eldest son of the Duke of Southingham. The boy had used his superior standing as a formidable shield against retaliation. The one time West had even tried to physically defend himself, he’d found himself dragged before the headmaster, threatened with expulsion. It had been a lesson he’d long remembered.
One didn’t go about striking peers of a superior rank, no matter what they did to you.
Truly, the rats had been his only option for teaching the arrogant sod a lesson.
West was startled from those unwelcome memories by the sudden scent of lemons, nicely pushing out the eau de Thames. The realization of what that meant made his hands curl to fists.
He turned his head and caught Miss Channing’s slender profile marching by.
Bloody hell, it was the woman who’d refused to marry him. He stared at her as she passed by, his mouth open in surprise. Had she come to church because she’d changed her mind on that front? Perhaps she wished to accept his offer after all? For some bizarre reason, the idea didn’t seem to carry quite the same degree of dread today as it had only a few days ago.
And the sight of her felt like a punch to the gut.
She was wearing brown wool again, and she was walking beside the same stern-looking housekeeper who had served as a chaperone during their drawing room conversation. She did not glance toward him, or give any sign that she recognized him. In fact, they sailed right by him, as if he was beneath their notice. But then Miss Channing suddenly stopped. Reached into her reticule. Pulled out a handkerchief and clutched it to her nose.
“Oh, Mrs. Greaves,” he heard her gasp. “What is that terrible smell?”
“’Tis the Thames, miss.” The older woman frowned. “They’ve got the doors open on account of the heat. Is it bothering you too much to stay?”
“No, we can’t leave when we’ve come all this way. I . . . I think I’ll be all right.” Miss Channing waved the older woman on. “Do go claim our seat down at the front. I just need to stand here a moment and adjust before I sit down.”
“Are you sure?” the housekeeper asked dubiously.
“Yes, quickly now. Before someone takes our row.” But as soon as the older woman headed down the aisle and settled her bum onto a pew, Miss Channing rounded on him, her brown eyes close to sparkling. She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him behind a large marble column, until they were hidden from the view of her somewhat useless chaperone. “All right, Westmore, what is our plan?”
And that was when it hit him. He was not entirely beneath her notice.
She had plotted this. Come to church to vex him.
And while irritation twitched through him, so, too, did admiration. Worse, it occurred to him that in spite of the worry that spiked through him, he was not averse to seeing her again.
“Damn it, Miss Channing,” he growled. “What are you doing here?”
“I should think it would be obvious.” She shrugged. “I am attending church.”
“But why?”
Coy brown eyes met his own. “To pray for your depraved soul, of course.”
“It seems you could pray for me just as well from the safety of your home.”
“It is a public service here, is it not? I should think my attendance would be expected. Mandatory, even, considering the tatters of my reputation.” Her lips quirked upward. “I’ve amends to make with God.” She waited a beat, and then added, “Not to mention Mr. Dickens.”
West choked on the laugh that wanted to escape him. He’d imagined her many times this week, wondering if she was regretting her refusal of his offer of marriage. In spite of what ought to have been his sense of relief, he remained worried for her, what their scandal might mean to her future. He’d imagined her sad. Worried. But he hadn’t imagined her . . .
Smiling. She quite caught him by surprise.
“You should be home,” he warned, shaking his head, “where you are safe.”
She rolled her eyes. “I am not convinced I am any safer at home, Mr. Westmore. There are villains, you see, just outside the flower garden. Perhaps you’ve seen them? Heaven knows I have, though it’s an image I’ve tried to scrub from my mind.”
This time, he couldn’t contain the bark of laughter that shot out of him, echoing against the high, arched ceiling. A few people in the pews across the way turned around to glare at them, but he ignored them. So she wanted to spar, did she? Well, she’d picked the wrong gentleman for that. He’d honed his debate skills with his sisters, each of whom could reduce grown men to tears with their verbal fortitude. She didn’t stand a chance.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve seen, Miss Channing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen you faint dead away, and over something as small as a bit of flesh inadvertently exposed to the literary world. Infants have more courage, resisting their afternoon naps. Drunken goldfish could navigate these waters better than you.” His gaze drifted over the pretty pink curve of her lips, and in spite of himself, he had to admit her plain brown gown nicely offset the hue. “Admit it,” he said, more softly now. “You don’t have the fortitude for this.”
She lifted a hand to the rows of benches leading to the front of the cathedral. “For church?” she scoffed. “I hardly think the service will be that extraordinary.”
In spite of himself, West chuckled. He couldn’t help but approve of her grit. And damn it all, her eyes were definitely sparkling. This was a side of her he’d not seen before. “I think you’ve had ample time to adjust to the smell of the Thames now.” He gestured to the front of the church, where most people had taken their seats. “Your pew and your entirely too obedient chaperone are waiting.”
“Not just yet.” She bit her lip. “Have you . . . ah . . . looked for the traitors this week?”
West opened his mouth. Shut it again. Good Lord. The woman was trouble in a brown dress. And she really needed to lower her voice. He demonstrated the way forward, shifting his voice to more of guttural growl. “I’m considering a few possibilities.”
“Who are you considering?”
“Those who might have cause to target one of the people from your list.”
She gifted him with a full-blown smile, the first he had seen from her. He sucked in a breath as the force of that smile hit him like a runaway carriage. It transformed her face from something mouse-like to some something that had a hope of stirring his fantasies.
Bugger it all.
If she wore a smile—and nothing else—he could see how she might be beautiful.
“Then tell me, Mr. Westmore.” She stepped closer, until her skirts brushed indecently against his trousers. “Who are your primary suspects?”
“I really don’t think—”
She looped her arm through his and pulled him
deeper into the vestibule, even farther out of sight of her gullible chaperone. “Stop dismissing me, Mr. Westmore. I am here now, and you are not doing this without me. Now, I’ve read a few mystery novels, and I know how this needs to be done.” She peered around a marble column, looked to the left, then to the right. “We should split up,” she told him, loosening her hold on his arm. “Cover more ground. Ask people questions regarding their whereabouts on the evening of June 1st.”
West gaped at her. Was this even the same woman who had fainted in the library? “Good God, woman, you can’t believe that reading a mystery novel in any way prepares you to deal with tracking a real-life traitor.” The woman was going to get herself injured—or worse. This was why he’d pushed her away, why he’d insisted on doing this alone.
Did she really think you could just walk up to a duke and ask if he was plotting murder?
“And there is no way in hell we are splitting up,” he added. Now that she was here, she almost had to be a bona fide thorn in his side. He couldn’t risk letting her go off half-cocked today. Any hint of their knowledge and the man might bolt, go underground, and then they would have lost the opportunity.
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, if you don’t like my plan, Mr. Westmore,” she huffed, “perhaps you might be so good as to share yours?”
Worse than a drunken goldfish, was she?
It seemed like she wasn’t the only one with a vivid imagination.
But as she waited for his answer, his colorful observation gave her pause. He wasn’t that far off the mark—at least, not that far off her usual mark. Mary couldn’t help but wonder a little herself at her seeming lack of unease. Usually, she’d be hugging the walls in a place like this, avoiding eye contact, keeping her head down. But her usual reaction to strange situations seemed held at bay. Was it because she had spent days plotting this foray, stewing in her stuffy room?
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 9
