The papers shook again, this time involuntarily. The world shook, too. Adela saw her mother’s elation, her joy at securing the title for her daughter that she’d been denied by fate herself, turning to ashes.
27
The Future Lady Millingford?
Adela gazed into the fire, where Sybil’s incriminating letters were reduced to hot flakes of disintegrating dust. She flexed her fingers, wishing to toss the affidavits and the marriage lines after them.
But she couldn’t act so impulsively. She turned to Wilson, fixed her eyes on his, willing him to pay attention.
“Wilson, I know you’ve never wanted the title or the money, but...” She bit her lip. “Let me destroy these documents. Let things be as they were...please.” He was frowning. “Ever since Papa died, one of Mama’s dearest wishes, perhaps her dearest wish of all, has been to see me as Lady Millingford, because she never held the title herself. I know it’s not possible in my own right.... It would require litigation, legislation, I don’t know what.... Chances are it could never happen. But we both know what Mama’s always hoped for—that I’d marry you and acquire the title that way.” Adela shook her head. It sounded all wrong and jumbled. “Please don’t deny her that dream. I don’t want any of it for myself, and I know it might be, well, temporary...but at least give her the chance of basking in her wish fulfilled for a little while. Please, Wilson.”
Time seemed to halt while he stared at her, his expression inscrutable in the uncertain light. Seconds and minutes were ticking by, seconds and minutes in which something could go horribly wrong and they might be caught in their act of lawbreaking. But still she knew she had to wait until Wilson was ready to answer.
Her heart lifted when he smiled at her and touched her arm.
“You’re a loving and dutiful daughter, Della. My dear mother-in-law should be proud of you, and I’m sure she is.” His pale eyes shone. Was he proud, too? “So I think I should try and make some effort toward acting the loving and dutiful son-in-law.” He nodded at the papers, then looked toward the fire and the destroying heat, and nodded again.
Adela flung them on the coals, and Wilson took up the poker and pressed them down, prodding and stirring until they caught and began to blaze.
“Don’t worry, my sweet, I’m sure I can endure the title when the time comes.... It’s not as if I’ll be a duke or anything, and Ruffington Hall is a fine old pile. Lots of excellent outbuildings for experiments.” He paused and his smile widened to a distinctly lascivious smirk. “Some very amenable walks by the river, too...although I think we might have to do some path clearing and careful management of low-hanging tree branches, don’t you?”
Adela’s fingers twitched, as if preparing for the usual protective gesture across the bridge of her nose, but she resisted. Nothing to be ashamed of. Her appearance might be less than perfect by the standards of a Professional Beauty, but that didn’t seem to cool Wilson’s carnal ardor, so who cared about a little bump out of shape here and there?
“And it might be fun to make a bit of mischief in the House of Lords, don’t you think? Stir them up a bit, eh?”
“Oh, they’ll be delighted to have you among them, I’m sure.” Adela grinned, imagining Wilson in the House, his long form lounging on one of the famous benches, not a speck of respect for the august institution in him. But one never knew, perhaps he’d do some good? He was probably more intelligent than all the rest of the peers put together, twice over, and he was certainly of a humanitarian bent.
The chime of a small clock on the mantel shattered her fancy, and seemed to galvanize Wilson, too. “I think we’d better get a move on, Della. Time’s a-passing and we have a fair drive to Spencerleigh House. Your mother will be fretting over where the future Lady Millingford has got to.”
“Sadly, you’re right. She’ll be fussing, wanting us all to present a united front. I believe we’re done here, though, aren’t we? We have both the personal letters and all the critical documents. We must decide how to return them when we’re safe and home.”
Wilson nodded approvingly, and rose to scan the strongbox one last time. When he’d rummaged through everything, and ensured that only Devine’s personal papers and some rather large bundles of money were left, he swung closed the heavy door. “I wish I knew who he intimidated to get all this cash, and then we could return that, too. But I suspect we’ll never know.” Wilson turned the handle back to where it had been, then inserted a pick into the lock and gave a few swift, decisive jiggles and jerks until it clicked again. Reversing his successful crack somehow, Adela assumed.
With all stowed carefully in their satchels, and the ashes double-checked to ensure all was burned beyond retrieval, they set masks and gloves aright, and looked around to ensure everything in the room was just as it’d been when they arrived. Then it was out over the windowsill and into the garden.
Carefully closing the window by reaching through the circular aperture, Wilson then took a syringe from a small box that he’d had stowed in his satchel. Adela watched, rapt, as he squeezed a thin stream of some sticky, colorless substance around the edge of the circle, then around the matching piece of glass that he’d removed and, using the suction cup, fitted it back into place. When he released the suction, the glass stayed put, and it remained so when he tapped it lightly.
“A new adhesive I developed especially for this job. I think I’ll patent it.” Grinning, he put the last of his tools in his bag, then took her by the hand and led her back along the path they’d arrived by, skirting the bushes before helping her back over the wall.
“Now, to the carriage. I need to assure Earnest that all’s gone well.”
Adela obeyed, looking back when she reached the corner, to see the small figure of a very young footman emerge from his observation spot in the shadows. Wilson took something from his inner pocket—banknotes, she suspected—and passed them to the lad, before offering his hand, which was shaken with enthusiasm. The two exchanged a few inaudible words, then Wilson saluted and turned, sprinting toward her.
“Look sharp. No loitering. This countrified area seems to be unpoliced, but you never know, a constable might come ambling along any moment.” He grabbed her hand and hauled her after him. Adela clutched her cap with her free hand, feeling the weight of her plait slide inside it.
At the end of the lane, around the corner in the lee of a line of copper beeches, stood their carriage. The tiny glow of a cigarette tip indicated that Teale was savoring a smoke to pass the time, and the two-in-hand horses were enjoying their break, too, with a nose bag apiece. As Adela and Wilson approached, Teale extinguished his gasper and leaped lightly down, to attend to them.
Wilson drew out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Eight-thirty. Do you think these two beauties can get us there in half an hour, John?” Snapping shut the watch case, he gave the nearest horse a pat on the neck.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, sir. It might be a bit of rock and rattle inside, but I’ll do my best to keep them smooth.”
“Good man.” Flinging open the carriage door, Wilson bundled Adela inside, pushing her up by her bottom, then following close on her tail, and settling down beside her on the velveteen seat. “Let’s go,” he called softly up to Teale, then latched the door, enclosing them in the intimate, well-padded interior of their conveyance.
Immediately, Teale got them under way, the well-matched pair moving at a steady walk at first, until they were out of the lane and onto the nearest road.
As the motion of the carriage settled into a smooth fast clip, Wilson reached up and removed his mask, then pulled off Adela’s, too, followed by her hat.
“So, my dear Cinderella, you shall go to the ball,” he said in a low, excited voice. “Now let’s get you out of those tweeds and give me a chance to admire you in your frillies before you have to get dressed again.”
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he leaned in close and kissed her hard. Adela couldn’t help but respond, even though she knew there was mu
ch to do in a limited time, and none of it easy in the rocking carriage. Wilson’s mouth was irresistible. It always had been. She slid her arms around him as his tongue darted and thrust. Her skin felt hot in its carapace of tweed. She wanted to be naked against him, whether he took his own clothes off or not.
Still kissing her, Wilson pressed her back against the seat, his nimble hands attacking her jacket, almost ripping it open and then finding and cradling her breast within, squeezing and caressing through the layers of her light woolen shirt and the filmier, lacier things beneath.
“Oh, Della, Della,” he gasped, cupping her bosom with a rough enthusiasm, “you make the most adorable safecracker’s assistant a felon could ever wish for. Although I could probably have breached that box in half the time if I hadn’t been distracted by thoughts of flinging you down on the carpet, ripping off your breeches and having you there and then.” He laughed against her lips. “Just think how amusing it would be to look at Devine when we encounter him, and know that we’d fucked in his office while we were robbing him.”
Adela giggled, too, but it cracked into a groan as Wilson’s thumb and finger tweaked her nipple through her clothing. Squirming, she pressed her pelvis against him, unable to resist the urge to excite herself.
He pushed her down to lie on the seat, and with his hands on the buttons of his trousers now, he seemed just about to climb on top and ravish her when suddenly he threw back his head.
“What the devil are we doing?” He laughed and sat back, reaching out to pull Adela up to a sitting position, too. “Aren’t we incorrigible, eh?”
In a turmoil of lust, she still saw the funny side, too. She still wanted to be ravished, or even to climb atop Wilson and ravish him, but it was perfectly absurd when in not more than twenty minutes they’d be pulling up at the august residence of Sybil’s fiancé’s family, and would need to appear presentable, stately and respectable.
“Yes, we’re terrible. Like a pair of rutting weasels.” She reached out and laid a gentle finger on Wilson’s lips. They looked rather red where he’d kissed so hard. “We really must save our ardor for later, and behave ourselves.”
He shrugged, wickedly licked her fingertips then put her hand from him. “Quite right, dear wife, quite right.” He waggled his dark brows. “But we have an appointment later for carnal intercourse, so please make a note of that.”
“Duly noted,” said Adela, and began the awkward process of changing herself from a breeches-clad tomboy into an elegant, if somewhat idiosyncratic, lady of quality attired for a gala ball.
The transformation was nowhere near as straightforward as they’d hoped. Two people taking off their garments and replacing them with others, in a confined space that was jerking and rocking as it moved at high speed, was no easy feat. Adela cursed and grappled with stockings and the little satin belt to hold them up, and her petticoats, the latter having seemed to triple in volume since she’d last tried them on.
“A curse on this frightful palaver!” she cried, batting down the layers of lace and cambric. “Heaven alone knows how I’d manage if I was like all those other poor creatures who still wear corsets. It would be impossible.”
“Here, let me help.” With his long, firm hands, Wilson smoothed down the masses of cloth. “There, that’s better.... But I must admit I’m having trouble with this shirtfront, and my studs. Usually in this situation, Teale is helping me to dress, rather than driving a carriage.”
“Come here, let me.” Adela attacked the studs, but found them difficult and fiddly. “Devilish things...they’re dashed hard to manipulate, aren’t they?”
She struggled and struggled, but her fingers fumbled and the studs ended up rolling about on the floor of the carriage. Wilson bent to retrieve them just as Adela did, and they cried out as their heads knocked together with a bump.
Rubbing their skulls, they collapsed into helpless mirth at their plight.
“This is hopeless. We’ll have to stop,” said Wilson, nodding to himself. “I’ll ask Teale to pull up somewhere secluded if he can find a place, and we’ll get out and arrange our apparel while on solid ground and standing still. It’s the only way.” Reaching up, he rapped on the roof of the carriage, and as it slowed and stopped, he lowered the lamp, raised the shutter and looked out. Adela huddled in a corner, drawing her evening cloak around her, while Wilson leaped out, in shirtsleeves, to converse with Teale.
“He knows a place,” announced Wilson as he climbed back in and the carriage quickly got under way. “We’re not too far off now, and there’s a small lane leading to a side entrance to Spencerleigh House...the tradesmen’s entrance.” Wilson grinned. “Perfect for a pair of lowlifes such as we.” Rummaging in Adela’s dress box, he pulled out the last petticoat and shook out the creases. “Now let’s do the best we can in the meantime, eh, my dear?”
28
The Belle of the Ball
Three quarters of an hour later, they stood at the top of the steps, looking down on the ballroom at Spencerleigh House, waiting to be announced. Adela reached out and straightened Wilson’s white tie, even though it didn’t need it, her nerves jangling. Wilson in turn nudged the Ruffington diamonds until they were set just so around her throat. She could almost see him calculating the fine measurements so the magnificent drop lay exactly centered. His eyes flicked to her hair, and she turned to show him the disposition of the new clips, too, their elegant glitter holding thick brown tresses away from her face.
“You look like a goddess, Della. Quite stunning. I hope Sybil doesn’t take umbrage with you for outshining her on her big night.”
“Oh, don’t worry, she’ll probably think my dress is peculiar and my choice of coiffure downright bizarre for a married woman. And Mama will have a fit of the vapors and accuse me of turning up looking like something out of the circus.” Adela laid her hand on Wilson’s immaculately tailored arm. “But they’ll both be delighted with you.” She brushed away an imaginary speck of lint. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look so sartorial.”
It was true, Wilson looked breathtaking, and apart from his wedding suit, was dressed in probably the most conventional attire she’d ever seen him wear. Tails, white tie, white gloves, the perfect gentleman. Only his slightly unruly hair, which refused to be tamed, remained defiantly Wilson.
“I feel as if I’m being throttled.” He ran a gloved finger round the edge of his collar. “I wish I was wearing my dressing gown and a comfortable shirt. Perhaps I should have retained my tweeds?” He gave her a sly, sideways glance. “We both should have, sublime as you look in that dress.”
“Don’t be absurd, Wilson. People are staring enough already.”
It was true. As they waited behind several other pairs to be announced, curious eyes were scanning them. Adela’s loosely flowing gown with its lightly defined waist was drawing disapproving—or maybe envious—stares from women laced into the tightest corsets. What discomfort they were enduring for fashion. Adela drew in a deep breath, enjoying the simple ability to do so, and lifted her head proudly. Even if they didn’t care for her choice in modes, they were certainly covetous to a woman of her legendary diamonds...and her beautiful man.
At that moment, a gap opened before them. They stepped to the top of the staircase. It was their turn to be announced. Even more curious sets of eyes were turning in their direction from the dance floor below. Music played on, something bright and cheerful, but in her state of nerves Adela heard only an ominous silence.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Ruffington,” rang out in the master of ceremonies’ sonorous tones.
There seemed to be an empty space in Adela’s stomach. She’d never been so anxious—even when she and Wilson had been breaking the law and burgling Blair Devine’s house—and she didn’t know why she was. She didn’t care what people thought of her. She cared only what Wilson thought. But conventional as it seemed, she wanted to be a credit to him, to be seen as much a jewel on his arm as the diamonds were around her throat. She wanted to
be the belle of the ball, and as much a desirable and admired woman as Coraline would have been at such an event.
It was like being frozen in a block of ice, a block of time.
Then she turned to Wilson and his smile was like the sun, thawing her fear and warming her heart. He tucked her hand under his arm and put his own palm firmly over it, the sensation of his sure hold on her shoring her up and making her soar.
“Shall we?” he said softly, but then, just before the first step, he leaned in close, his lips right against her ear, and whispered, “You do know that I love you, don’t you?”
The top step seemed to shudder under Adela’s feet, but Wilson held her steady and she seemed to float down the grand staircase, almost oblivious now to the fellow guests who might be watching their descent. To her there were no other people in the grand room, nothing but the pounding in her heart and joy bubbling up like vintage champagne, making her giddy.
When they reached the foot of the stairs, she turned and said to him, under her breath, “Wilson, you really do pick your moments, don’t you? I could have gone arse over tip down the staircase! Making an announcement like that when I was teetering at the top...”
“I’m sorry, my darling.” He was grinning and unrepentant. “But I thought it bore mentioning at that juncture.” He patted her arm and urged her into motion. “I thought a declaration of my feelings might boost your confidence. I know I’m not the most romantic of men as a rule, but I’ve deduced that women always feel more assured when they receive pretty compliments and protestations of affection.”
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