A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  Kit stared at his stopwatch. “My dressing room. And this will be the last time; I swear it.” He glanced up at the tall figure who stood by the door, examining the tip of his fleuret. “Excuse us, Pierce.”

  “By all means.” Pierce turned, opening the dressing room door and closing it with a decisive click the moment Godfrey followed Kit inside.

  “What is it?”

  “I have found out the truth about my fiancée.”

  The Duke of Wynfield stared across the salon at the raven-haired man lounging against the dressing room door.

  Their eyes met and clashed in silence. The duke made it clear by his look that he disliked Pierce. In fact, he stared at him until Pierce pushed off the door and sauntered past him, fleuret in hand.

  “I think Sir Godfrey has cooked his own goose,” he said, as if he and Wynfield were in on a private joke.

  “It isn’t our business.”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t say a word to anyone but you. I know Fenton can trust you.”

  “Yes.” Wynfield turned away. “With his life, if necessary.”

  Kit stared at the dagger that lay on the dressing table behind Godfrey. Fake prop or not, he had never been as tempted to use a weapon in his entire life. “Why did you eavesdrop in the first place?” he asked in disgust.

  Sir Godfrey pulled the half-dead nosegay out from the pocket of his coat. “Here. Take the foul things. They are a symbol of what I felt for her.”

  “Your feelings have mended fast.”

  “I am the injured party.”

  “If you dig in any one spot deep enough, you are bound to find a skeleton. What possessed you to sneak into her house uninvited?”

  Godfrey averted his gaze, and Kit knew that the next thing out of his mouth would be a lie. “I was worried when no one answered the door. Lady Ashfield has not been well, and Violet has neglected her for her charity work.”

  “How shameful, Sir Godfrey. To criticize a lady with a caring heart.”

  “But she isn’t a lady; that’s the point. And she didn’t care about breaking my heart with her deceit.”

  “You said she was unaware herself of her past.”

  “A fabricated past, indeed. Who would have dreamed that such a lovely face had been born of vice and not the virtue she pretended?”

  Kit felt the fire of rage building inside him. “Who would have dreamed that you were a toad unworthy of her trust?”

  Godfrey swallowed. “You don’t expect me to marry her now that I am aware of her disgraceful beginnings?”

  “Croak, croak,” Kit said softly. “I hope no one steps on you before you leave this room.”

  “But . . .” Godfrey’s eyes bulged. “I can’t withdraw my suit without causing a stink.”

  “And what,” Kit asked in a pitiless voice, “do you expect me to do? I have a suggestion.”

  Godfrey blinked furiously. “Does it involve a sword?”

  “Not if you prefer a pistol.”

  “I came to you for sympathy, Fenton.”

  Kit tossed the flowers into the dustbin. Had the baroness kept this secret from Violet, or was it even true? “The only sympathy I can offer,” he said, walking Godfrey to the door, “is to make your demise as quick and quiet as possible. To spare you the scandal, of course.”

  Godfrey closed his eyes. “I half wish that you would. I wish that you and she—”

  Kit froze. “Go on.”

  “—would be spared any unnecessary scandal, also.” His breathing grew raspy. “Will you keep this a secret between us, Fenton?”

  “Will I what?”

  “I can’t afford for anyone to find out why I broke the engagement. It has to die a quiet death.”

  “Why do you think you can trust me?”

  “Because you are an honorable man, and I am a miserable coward.”

  Kit smiled slowly. “Under one condition.”

  “Anything,” Godfrey said, gray faced and flattened against the door.

  Kit sighed. It was too tempting to forget that in the end only two things mattered—Violet and his honor. He couldn’t toy with Godfrey, as much as the cad deserved it. “I will keep your secret—”

  “Bless you,” Godfrey breathed, clasping his hands under his chin.

  “Unclasp your hands this instant.”

  “Is that the condition?”

  “The condition,” Kit said between his teeth, “is that you are never to mention Violet in a derogatory manner again. In fact, you are to forget that you ever knew each other. Don’t darken her doorway again. I will also find a way to kill you if you say one word against her.”

  Godfrey nodded. “I knew you would understand.”

  “I understand that you’re a fool.” Kit elbowed him aside to open the door. “Not a word to anyone. And, Godfrey—”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m canceling your subscription as of now. Without a refund.”

  Godfrey shrank away as Kit reached out to open the door. He strode out into the salon, scowling at the sullen quiet that greeted his appearance. Every pair of eyes followed Godfrey’s undignified escape to the front door.

  “Well?” Kit challenged. “Why are you all standing about like tin soldiers? Engage.”

  “Fenton.”

  He turned at the sound of Wynfield’s voice. “What is it?”

  “How long have you known Pierce Carroll?” Wynfield asked as they met by the stairs.

  “I’d say six or seven months at the most. Why? Where is he?”

  Both men glanced around the salon, searching for the lightning-fast figure in the noisy mélange. “He’s gone,” Wynfield said.

  “What of it?”

  “I don’t like him. I mistrust his intentions around you. Did you know that he was French?”

  “I may have heard him speak the language, but then so do I. The fencing terms are in French, and every serious student of the art has to learn them sooner or later, or—”

  “His name isn’t Pierce Carroll. I think he’s hiding something from his past.”

  “I’m not exactly proud of my origins, either.”

  “But you overcame them.”

  Kit shook his head in dismissal. “I’ve been a criminal. I’ve known more sinners than I can count. But for the grace of God and my father’s intervention, I would be in lockup. Who do you think Pierce is?”

  “I saw the name de Soubise on a letter that fell from his jacket the last time we changed for practice. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he hadn’t snatched it up—”

  “De Soubise. Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Kit was silent as he looked up to the sword mounted above the rack of foils on the wall. “My father,” he said finally, lowering his gaze in understanding, “had one bitter enemy: the Chevalier de Soubise, who had a son several years older than me. I should have known the day I saw Pierce throwing knives that he was not who he claimed to be.”

  “Do you think he’ll be back?”

  “Count on it,” Kit said with certainty.

  “When?”

  “When I least expect him.”

  “What can I do to help you?” Wynfield asked.

  “Watch over my woman if I am distracted. Take care of her when I do what I have to do. I will address any threat the chevalier’s son might pose once and for all.”

  Chapter 25

  Violet had fallen asleep that night at the bottom of her aunt’s bed. She opened her eyes and saw her aunt bending over her, her face wreathed in a smile. “Wake up. We have to pick out your wardrobe for the house party. It isn’t too early to start.”

  Violet stretched, feeling like a familiar weight inside her had been lifted, and . . . “Where did all those roses come from?” she demanded, gazing at the vases of long-stemmed blooms that occupied every surface imaginable and filled the room with the heady perfume of romance.

  “It looks like a hothouse in here,” she marveled. “Who sent them to you? Not . . . not Godfrey? Oh, pleas
e, don’t say that he wants another chance.”

  “It was not Godfrey,” her aunt said with a wry smile. “Your secret knight sent them. And, I have to admit, it is a favorable strategy on his part.”

  “Was there a note?”

  “Yes. He has asked to meet me at a house party.”

  “And?”

  “And we shall have to see.”

  Despite the drama of her broken engagement, Violet looked forward to the house party. It would be the reunion that she and her friends had promised one another, even if Miss Higgins could be present only in spirit. Violet had written to her before leaving London and asked if they could take a proper tea together when she returned. But for now she looked forward to hours of dancing and of being with Kit, whose company she craved with a happy desperation that she no longer had to hide.

  She searched for him amid the guests milling around the other gigs, carriages, and post chaises that crowded the driveway to the estate. She sought a glimpse of him in the couples drifting across the lawn to stroll down secluded avenues provided by the tall privet hedges.

  Every so often another carriage rumbled through the wrought-iron gates. Footmen raced forth to attend new arrivals. A majordomo in a scarlet coat stood on the front steps between—Violet stared through the carriage at the gentleman in a top hat and the lady in turquoise silk standing at his side.

  “Is he here?” Francesca inquired as the footmen opened the carriage door.

  There was no point in pretending that she didn’t know whom her aunt was talking about. It felt wonderful to be able to finally share her fondest secret. “No. I think that’s Ambrose on the steps, though. The gentleman in the top hat. Kit wouldn’t be with the other guests. He hasn’t been formally invited to the party.” She subsided against the seat. “And perhaps this will be the last one I shall ever attend.”

  Her aunt reached for her hand. “But you have friends like Mr. Tomkinson, who rode behind us from London. And if you are never invited to another party, it will not matter.”

  “We will have our own parties,” Violet said, smiling at the thought.

  “Yes. And I will dance with Twyford, if I can get out of my chair.”

  Violet turned her head as a footman opened the carriage door.

  She was willing to turn her back on the fashionable world to become part of Kit’s. Besides, if society learned the truth of her low origins, she would be judged, deemed unworthy, and instantly banished from it for the rest of her days.

  “Where is Delphine?” her aunt asked as she stepped gingerly from the carriage.

  “You gave her orders to make sure our rooms are closed off to drafts and drunken gentlemen who might wander about in the dark.”

  “Ah. That was sensible of me. Shall we wait for Eldbert?”

  “He’s parked a half mile behind us. Besides, I am dying to see what kind of man Ambrose has become.”

  Ambrose stared at the man who had quietly walked past the receiving line that started on the steps. Unannounced as yet, unadorned, except for the sword that sat at his hip like a calling card, he attracted the notice of more guests at the party than the host and hostess.

  At last he looked up at Ambrose, who was half tempted to greet him. He saw recognition in Kit’s eyes, but he wasn’t sure he saw any respect. Hadn’t the man learned any manners after all these years? Who did he think had paid him to perform at the party?

  Was it proper for a viscount to acknowledge a fencing master? His guests seemed to think so. Was this the right moment for a public greeting? Suddenly Ambrose hadn’t a clue whether he wanted to pay Kit back for the old taunts or thank him for lessons learned.

  “Who is that?” Clarinda asked in a curious voice.

  Ambrose shrugged. “Must be someone from the fencing academy.”

  “Ask him.”

  “Now?”

  “Please, darling. He is a very fetching person.”

  “We have important guests to greet.”

  “The boys have begged to meet him, Ambrose,” Clarinda whispered. “And he is a looker, I must say.”

  Someone gave a cry from the receiving line. “It’s Master Fenton!”

  “God,” Ambrose said. “How inappropriate.”

  “Yes,” his wife said in a dreamy voice. “I’ll bet he is.”

  His face grim, Ambrose muttered an apology to the guests waiting in line on the steps and made his way down the other side onto the drive. Kit had started toward the garden, but he hesitated as Ambrose approached him.

  “Viscount Charnwood,” he said, his tone deferential.

  Ambrose wavered. He could sense Clarinda—in fact, he could sense nearly everyone—watching this exchange. “My good man,” he said, “you flatter yourself if you think you have ever made my acquaintance. What is your name?”

  He bowed, his face impassive. “Christopher Fenton.”

  “I don’t believe we have met.”

  “My mistake, your lordship.” Kit turned.

  “Fenton, you say?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I have never met anyone by that name.”

  Kit did not reply. In fact, he gave no reaction at all. But at least Ambrose had the satisfaction of the last word, although as he watched Kit bow again and walk away as if he owned the place, he felt an irrational urge to call him back and . . . Well, he didn’t know what he would do. Kit had always been good at taking Ambrose off guard.

  Chapter 26

  “Violet,” Ambrose said, his eyes brightening as he noticed her in the line. “I almost didn’t recognize you. I would never have made you wait if I had known it was you.”

  She smiled self-consciously, as if she were surprised by his warmth. “It is good to see you. What a beautiful estate.”

  “It’ll do, I suppose. Better than the old heap at Monk’s Huntley.”

  “This is my . . .” He turned to introduce his wife, but Clarinda was engaged in conversation with another guest. He glanced to the silver-haired woman who stood in dignified silence behind Violet, a hat adorned with black plumes shading her face. “Lady Ashfield, I did not recognize you, either. How decent of you to come.”

  “You haven’t changed at all,” she said, deigning to give him her hand. “You look just like your father, especially around the chin.”

  “She’s tired, Ambrose,” Violet said, sending her aunt a frown. “Would you mind if we went upstairs to rest before we are officially arrived?”

  He couldn’t stop looking at her. When had Violet become a beauty? She had grown out of her awkwardness into something altogether compelling. “Not at all,” he said, motioning to the footmen in the doorway. “There will be a moonlight supper later if you’re game. The fountains will be filled with champagne.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, not anything like the girl he remembered. “We’ll have to see.”

  “If not,” he said, his gaze following her retreat into the house, “I shall look forward to tomorrow, when everyone is introduced in the great room.”

  She gathered her skirts, giving Clarinda a curious glance. “Until then, Ambrose.”

  Violet saw her aunt to her assigned chamber, where she left her to her maid, Delphine, and walked across the hall to her room. The footman opened the door and disappeared before she could tip him. She walked slowly into the spacious room. Warm sunlight streamed through the leaded casement windows, gilding the man who stood waiting for her to notice him. As if any female could ignore such a handsome figure.

  “Master Fenton.”

  “Miss Knowlton.”

  She took a breath and was swept up against him before she could exhale. His body felt like tempered steel, and, hoyden that she was, she surrendered without any sign of resistance. “This is a surprise,” she said, as she hooked her arms around his neck. “I didn’t think I’d—”

  He kissed her.

  “—see you until—”

  He deepened the sensual attack.

  “—tonight,” she whispered between his dizz
ying kisses.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he said, smoothing his hands down her back, his breath flirting like a flame with her mouth. “You have the sweetest lips I have ever kissed.”

  “Yours are the most sinful.”

  “Compared to . . . ?”

  She sighed, her eyes teasing. “No one. Never. You’re the first.”

  “The only,” he corrected her. “From today to forever.”

  “There’s going to be a moonlight supper in the park.”

  “I don’t need moonlight,” he said, pulling her toward the chair behind them. “I have your love to lead me through the dark.”

  “And champagne,” she whispered. “Ambrose is extravagantly filling the fountains with champagne.”

  “I don’t need champagne,” he said, falling into the chair with her on his lap. “I’m going to get very drunk on you tonight.”

  “I wondered when you’d arrive,” she said, her voice uneven. She combed her fingers through his silky hair. “Eldbert followed our carriage here to guard us on the road.”

  “I know,” he said, his eyes glinting. “I trailed behind him to guard both of you.”

  “How noble of you, Kit. And how noble of you to be hiding in my room like this.”

  His hands stole around her waist and locked her against him. “I have a reason to be here. I have several reasons, actually. Most are pleasant. One is not.”

  “The bad news first,” Violet said, laying her head upon his chest.

  His tapered fingers stroked almost absently down her neck. She felt wondrous shivers in their wake. “It seems I have an enemy,” he said. “A person from the past who wishes to avenge an old offense.”

  “That you committed?” she whispered.

  “No. My father did,” he said, his face composed.

  She lifted her head from his shoulder. “Is this person here?”

  “Not as far as anyone knows. He calls himself Pierce Carroll. That is not his true name.”

  “Oh,” she said, “the man who does not mind his own business.”

  His eyes searched her face. “You have met him?”

  “Godfrey made a remark about him at the breakfast party. It was meant to stir up trouble, as I recall.”