The Dangerous Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Not at all.” The woman cast her a sidelong glance. “You’re here to learn whether I’m really Lord St. Clair’s mistress as you postulated in your column.”

  Heat climbed up Felicity’s neck to her cheeks. “No, I…That is…well, I—”

  “Trust me, I’d do the same thing if I were in your place. But let me set your mind at ease. I am not—nor ever wished to be—his mistress or anything else.”

  An enormous sigh whooshed out of Felicity before she could prevent it. Ian had proclaimed a hundred times that Miss Greenaway wasn’t his mistress. Sara had been nearly certain of it, and Lady Brumley even more so. But until Felicity had heard the words from Miss Greenaway’s own mouth, she hadn’t quite believed it. And though she supposed the woman could be lying, she could see no reason for that.

  “Thank you,” Felicity whispered as they entered a small parlor.

  “You’re welcome.” With a little cooing noise, the woman laid her son in a wooden crib that sat near a large chair. “It would be churlish of me indeed to repay his lordship’s kindness by misleading his future wife.” She gestured to a pretty white sofa. “Please sit down, Miss Taylor.”

  Felicity complied, feeling awkward. The woman was being very gracious, considering the situation. “Before I go any further, I must apologize for my article. I shouldn’t have speculated so publicly about your association with Ian. He’s made me see it was wrong to do so, especially when it might…harm your reputation.”

  Miss Greenaway chuckled. “My reputation?” With a grace and posture only a governess could manage, she lowered her posterior in a vertical line onto the chair beside her son. Felicity had never seen a woman’s spine remain quite so elegantly straight. She certainly had never managed it herself.

  “I thank you for your concern,” the woman went on, “but it’s unnecessary, I assure you. You didn’t mention my name or Walter’s, and my reputation was damaged long ago. Besides, your assumption was logical, given the circumstances. And as you well know, Lord St. Clair rouses speculation wherever he goes.”

  “That’s true.” Felicity swallowed. “It’s the real reason I’m here. You see…I hear a great many rumors in my profession. And…well, I’ve heard some particularly nasty ones about Ian. I was hoping you might tell me what is truth and what is lies.”

  “I see. What have you heard?”

  Under different circumstances, Felicity might have been more delicate about presenting her situation, trying to assess how best to elicit the truth from her companion. But she had no time for such subtleties today; she was forced to be blunt. Fortunately, Miss Greenaway’s earlier frankness made it easier.

  As briefly as possible, Felicity related the two conversations she’d had at the Brumley ball. Though Miss Greenaway’s expression altered somewhat at the mention of Ian’s uncle, she kept silent throughout Felicity’s tale.

  “So you see,” Felicity finished, “I don’t know what to believe, or if either of these tales is true at all. I hoped you might tell me why Ian left England. And why he and his uncle are in conflict over his marrying.” “What does his lordship say?”

  Sarcasm laced her voice. “That I’m merely jealous. That it’s nothing to worry my pretty little head about.” She tilted up her chin. “He won’t tell me anything. And as his future wife, I think I have the right to know.”

  “I agree,” she said gently. “I will say this—his lordship’s uncle can’t be trusted. But beyond that, I can’t tell you anything else. Lord St. Clair swore me to secrecy the day he brought me here, and I owe him too much to betray his trust.”

  No! Felicity thought as despair knotted in her belly. This was like one of those garden mazes she hated, where each turning only led to more turnings. Sheer frustration drove her to her feet. “Then how am I to know I’m not making the biggest mistake in my life by marrying him?”

  The woman’s forehead knotted into a perplexed frown. “Tell me something, Miss Taylor. Two weeks ago, Lord St. Clair instructed me never to speak to you, yet now he’s marrying you. How did that come about?”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” she said glumly. “Apparently, somewhere among our many battles over my column, he came to the conclusion that I’d make him a suitable wife. I can’t imagine how, since we have nothing in common.”

  “No indeed.” The woman’s lips twitched with amusement. “Except perhaps for an incredible ability to find out other people’s secrets. And a tendency to act forcefully to get what you want. And let’s not forget a fondness for children—he did say his fiancée had four brothers he’d be supporting, and he’s always been kind to my son.” She broke out in a smile. “But nothing else, certainly. Whatever do you see in each other?”

  Felicity didn’t like being mocked. She glared at the governess. “You’re laboring under a misconception if you think this is a love match. Ian didn’t choose to marry me for any such commonalities, I assure you. He wants a brood mare, that’s all.”

  “A-A brood mare?” Miss Greenaway choked out.

  “A woman to give him an heir. And in exchange for my marrying him, he’s paying off my debts and providing for my brothers and me.”

  “Ah. So your marriage is nothing but a business arrangement?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And the fact that you’re a beautiful, intelligent young woman has nothing to do with it, just as his attractions have nothing to do with your decision.”

  She colored. “Certainly not.”

  “Then why, pray tell, are you so intent on uncovering his past? If this marriage is merely a business arrangement and he’s keeping his end of the bargain, why do you care what he did ten years ago?”

  “Because,” Felicity said through gritted teeth, “in a short time, I’ll be putting my life and future in his hands, and the man is so bloody secretive I don’t even know if I can trust him!” That wasn’t entirely true, but she had no time for shilly-shallying.

  “You needn’t worry about that. Lord St. Clair is quite trustworthy. He’ll treat you well.” Miss Greenaway rose and approached to where Felicity stood trembling. “But I think you know that. So what really torments you so much?”

  Felicity ducked her head to hide the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. “What torments me is that we aren’t even married and I’m already in love with the scoundrel.”

  She sniffled. Oh, damn—it was true. Why else did she feel sick at the thought of being his wife and not having his heart? And she’d fought so hard against it! She should’ve known fighting was pointless from the first time he’d sauntered into her study and informed her that she would regret tangling with him.

  Oh, yes, she regretted it. She regretted that tangling with him hadn’t made him love her in return. The tears straggled down her cheeks, first singly, then in solid rivulets, forlorn pilgrims streaming to the shrine of unrequited love.

  Miss Greenaway drew out a sensible cotton handkerchief and handed it to Felicity. “There, there, my dear. Surely it’s not so terrible to be in love with a man like Lord St. Clair.”

  “It is when he doesn’t love me,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure of that?”

  She nodded. “Ian has a thorn buried deep inside his heart that prevents him from loving me in return. It needs plucking out. How can I do that when I don’t know what it is?” She lifted a pleading glance to Miss Greenaway. “Can’t you help me?”

  “Oh, Miss Taylor,” the woman said sympathetically. “I’d tell you in a moment if not for my promise. You’re right about the thorn in his heart. It lies so deep, he won’t even speak of it to me, and I know all that happened. Yet he needs to speak of it.”

  “If you tell me what happened, I can make him speak of it.”

  “No. It must work its way to the surface before he can be rid of it.”

  Despair crept over her again. “Is there no way I can help him?”

  With a smile, the older woman chucked her under the chin. “I think you’ve already begun. When he came yesterda
y to tell me of the wedding, there was a light in his eyes I haven’t seen since he was a young man. In the past, his descriptions of women he courted were always unemotional recitations of their qualities. But he called you ‘the most vexing creature in London—headstrong, brazen, and badly in need of a man’s guiding hand.’ It was quite clear to me he couldn’t wait to provide that ‘guiding hand.’”

  “That proves nothing,” she grumbled. “He’s a bully, you know.”

  She chuckled. “Only with you apparently, and that’s because his emotions are engaged. Besides, I find very curious his reluctance to reveal that his fiancée was Lord X. Either he wanted to protect you, or he didn’t want me to think ill of you. Both show that he cares.”

  Felicity twisted the handkerchief. “Or that your opinion matters a lot to him.”

  “We’re friends, yes.”

  Unwarranted thought it was, jealousy seized her again. “So why didn’t he marry you? I-I mean, before I met him. Your station in life is no lower than mine. Some of the women he courted were extremely ill suited to him. At least with you he would have been comfortable and needn’t have feared you wouldn’t accept him.”

  “My dear Miss Taylor, he would never have asked me. You see, I know too much about his ‘thorn,’ as you call it, and though I consider it only a tragic incident in his past, to him it is so deep and black, he can’t imagine any woman wanting him who knows of it. That’s why he won’t tell you: because he fears scaring you off.”

  She laid her hand kindly on Felicity’s. “Besides, even if he’d asked, I wouldn’t have accepted.”

  That surprised her. “Because you were in love with his uncle?”

  “Hardly.” Her tone grew chilly. “I wasn’t Edgar Lennard’s mistress by choice. He made it quite clear after his wife died that I could either be his mistress and continue as his children’s governess or be accused of a crime and transported. At twenty-two, I was terrified of him. As an orphan with no family, I lacked anyone to champion my cause, and it would have been his word against mine. So I stayed on as his mistress. I was only too happy when he discharged me, even if it meant poverty or something equally low.”

  She smiled. “But much as I appreciated Lord St. Clair’s coming to my rescue at that moment, I had no desire to marry him. It would’ve been awkward, considering his ties to Edgar and my son. I’m sure he would have been perfectly kind about it, but I didn’t want such kindness. I’m much like you: despite my ruined reputation, I should like to marry for love.”

  She drew back with a sigh. “But that’s unlikely to happen. Still, I should like to see it happen for Lord St. Clair. And I think it will, if you’re there to heal the wound when the festering sore around his thorn finally breaks open. You will be there, won’t you? I’ve set your mind at ease concerning him?”

  Oddly enough she had. There was something comforting in the knowledge that Miss Greenaway knew all the facts about Ian’s past and wasn’t appalled. Whatever troubled Ian, it wasn’t insurmountable.

  There was the sound of a door opening, and then a young woman popped her head in the parlor doorway. “I’m back, Miss Greenaway. Shall I take Walter for you?”

  “No, Agnes, thank you. He’s napping.”

  “Shall I tell the man to return the gig to the livery then?” Agnes asked.

  Miss Greenaway turned to Felicity. “What time did you say was your wedding?”

  Felicity froze. Damn, she’d forgotten all about the time. She scanned the room for a clock, groaning aloud when she spotted one. “Good Lord, I’m supposed to be at the church in ten minutes! I’ll never make it!”

  “Yes, you shall. We’ll go in the gig.” Miss Greenaway started for the parlor door. “I can let you out at the entrance to the church, and no one need ever know I was there. Agnes can watch Walter, and if we move quickly, we might make it in time.”

  “I still have to dress and everything!” Felicity wailed as she hurried after Miss Greenaway. “The gown is at the church, but we’ll be so dreadfully late…oh, Ian is going to kill me!”

  “No, he’s not. I daresay the man is probably running a bit late himself. We’ll get you there on time, never fear.” Casting an anxious look at the clock, Miss Greenaway grabbed Felicity’s hand and tugged her toward the parlor door. “Come on, Miss Taylor!”

  Chapter 19

  How wearisome are these fashionable December weddings—Lord Mortimer to Lady Henrietta, Mr. Trumble to Miss Bateson, and Sir James to Miss Fairfield. Why do brides drag their friends out into the frigid weather when a nice summer wedding is so much more comfortable?

  LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,

  DECEMBER 24, 1820

  Ian strode to the window of the vestibule in St. Augustine’s Chapel for the tenth time in as many minutes. But the street half a floor below showed only the same spectacle: advertising wagons touting Vauxhall Gardens and Dr. Bentley’s Benign Balm, mistletoe and holly sellers, and the occasional fashionable carriage bobbing among carts and gigs.

  No sign of his recalcitrant bride. His carriage had disgorged its passengers half an hour ago without producing her. A dull thudding had begun in his head like that of an incompetent drummer. He wanted to be sick, but he wouldn’t allow it. Not on his wedding day.

  Not in front of Mrs. Box and especially not in front of Jordan, who leaned stiffly against the plastered wall a few feet away. The two of them felt sorry for him, damn them. Though Mrs. Box peeked often into the church proper to see if her charges still sat quietly beside their idol Gideon, she spent the rest of her time blatantly watching Ian as he paced and cursed. Jordan pretended not to notice anything or anybody, but he, too, sneaked glances at Ian every few minutes.

  Ian planted his fists on the windowsill and leaned out, knuckles scraping against stone as he surveyed the street as far as he could see. Nothing. No hacks with beautiful passengers, no discreetly curtained carriages. Where the hell was she?

  He whirled toward Mrs. Box. “Are you sure Felicity said to meet her here?”

  “Yes. If she weren’t back in time. Which she weren’t.”

  “And she said nothing of where she was going?”

  “Not a word, milord, but she promised she’d be here on time.”

  He took out his pocket watch, snapped it open, noted the time, and snapped it closed. “She’s already broken that promise by twenty-three minutes,” he growled, pivoting back to the window. “If she doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll have to go look for her. You know Felicity. She may have gotten into another argument with a hack driver, or the coach might be stuck or…”

  He trailed off with a groan. He sounded like one of those bloody besotted grooms who slaver over their brides.

  “She’ll be here, milord,” Mrs. Box ventured. “She probably met with a bit more traffic than expected. A mighty lot of carriages are on the road today, its bein’ Christmas Eve an’ all. But she ain’t the kind of girl to—”

  “Leave a man at the altar?” Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that. It made it seem possible. But it wasn’t. Felicity would never act impulsively when her brothers’ futures were at stake.

  Then again, she always surprised him. What if this was a particularly nasty surprise? God knows it was what he deserved for his overbearing behavior. He rubbed his temples with unsteady hands. The drummer in his head had been joined by a cymbal player and a very enthusiastic trumpeter.

  Jordan came to his side. “I suspect that if you asked, the vicar could produce a flask of spirits. Shall I fetch him? You look as if you could use liquid reinforcement.”

  He shouldn’t have invited his friends. In truth, he hadn’t expected them to hurry to London on such short notice for his wedding, especially since Sara and Gideon had just left the city. But they’d come, and now they would bear witness to his humiliation.

  “No, it’s just a headache,” he lied, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “It’s plagued me for two days.” Ever since he’d made the idiotic mistake of trying to force a certain stubborn female into marr
iage.

  “You shan’t improve it by stickin’ your head out in that nasty cold air,” Mrs. Box put in. “Why don’t you come away from the window before you catch an ague?”

  Ian shot her a dire glance. “Mrs. Box, if this wedding actually takes place and you come to work for me, you and I must have a lengthy discussion concerning your bad habit of lecturing your master.”

  “I’m only tryin’ to be useful,” she said with a sniff.

  “‘Useful’ and ‘annoying’ are two distinctly different things. At the moment, you’re—”

  “Ian,” Jordan interrupted, leaning out the window, “isn’t that her?”

  Already half-resigned that she wasn’t coming, Ian pivoted to brace his hands on the sill and look out once more. A gig pulled up below with two women in it. The passenger was Felicity, to be sure. He let out a long breath. Then he sucked in another as he recognized the driver, whose serviceable wool gown he’d paid for himself.

  Bloody hell, he was in trouble now. Why in God’s name had Felicity brought her to the wedding?

  “Who’s the woman with Miss Taylor?” Jordan asked.

  Ian grimaced. “My ‘friend’ from Waltham Street.”

  Jordan’s silence amply demonstrated that he could guess the significance of that. So could Ian. Felicity could have only one reason for bringing Miss Greenaway to the church. His jealous fiancée probably intended to throw his “mistress” up in his face, though it astonished him that Miss Greenaway had agreed to the scheme. She must not have realized what Felicity intended.

  The icy air swirling into the chilly vestibule matched the ice caking his heart as he watched Felicity leap from the gig. She paused to speak to Miss Greenaway. Then to his astonishment, she turned and ran to the steps as Miss Greenaway drove off in the gig.

  What the—He headed for the door at once. His soon-to-be wife would explain this to him or by God, he’d take her over his knee.

  Mrs. Box hurried after him. “Wait, milord!” she said as she caught his arm. “’Tis bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!”