“Hazel,” she said, startled. She had barely known her fellow woman of the bedchamber to the Princess of Wales, until the night they had hidden together in the tiny sitting room from the party—orgy—raging below. By the morning, the four of them had parted as friends sharing the one trouble.
And Hazel had not forgotten. She wrote from Brightoaks in Sussex, where she was the guest of Sir Joseph Sayle’s family. That in itself was odd, for Hazel had been going to her old governess in Essex, and she had always seemed to disapprove of Sir Joseph. However, while her hastily scribbled letter did not explain such matters, it did go straight to the point.
“Bad news?” Christopher asked, and she realized her expression must be betraying her.
“No,” she said, lowering the letter to meet his gaze. “It’s from one of the princess’s other ladies. She has discovered who tricked us, for he is trying to use that night against her. She is warning us against him.”
Lord Hawfield appeared to be listening with interest. At the other side of the room, Dudley was absorbed in his own letter, plucking agitatedly at his lower lip.
Christopher scowled. “Who?”
“Lord Barden.”
“The Regent’s snake,” Christopher said disgustedly. “I should have known.”
“Barden,” Hawfield repeated. “Why does his name keep cropping up?”
“Why, what else do you know about him?” Christopher asked at once.
Hawfield’s eyebrows flew up. “Don’t you remember? He was Rupert’s second in that damned duel.”
Christopher stared, pushing his letters aside. “No. I don’t think I ever knew that. I never even inquired.”
“But the two events cannot be connected, can they?” Deborah asked.
“No,” Christopher acknowledged. “And anyway, I don’t see how a second could have shot Rupert’s opponent, let alone why he would wish to. It must merely be coincidence.” He frowned at her. “But you will tell me of any sign of Barden, any slightest communication from him?”
“Of course.”
Christopher reached out and covered her hand with his. “We won’t let this stand.”
“Where’s your paper and ink, Chris?” Dudley said abruptly. “I need to write a letter.”
“Now?” Faintly amused, Christopher released her hand and sat back. “Before dinner?”
“Yes, at once. Georgianna talks of coming here, and I must put her off.”
“Why?” Deborah asked at once. “She is most welcome. Unless you are planning to leave us?”
Dudley closed his mouth, clearly both anxious and unhappy. And Deborah understood. He didn’t want his wife here because Rupert was under the same roof. Most distinctly, there was an unhealthy jealousy there.
*
As on the previous evening, Lord Hawfield retired early to write letters, saying he would look in on Rupert to say goodnight on the way.
“If he’s awake, we could play cards with him for an hour,” Christopher suggested. “Deborah?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think I’ll just retire, too,” Dudley said. “Look after him for me. But you know he can’t stay here forever, Chris. Word will get out, and he’ll bring the law down upon us. That won’t be good for you.”
“Nor for any of us,” Christopher said mildly.
They found Rupert awake and alert. His earlier sleep seemed to have done him good, for his fever seemed less, and he welcomed a game of cards with enthusiasm.
“The old gentleman just came to say goodnight,” he observed as they sat on either edge of his bed. “Didn’t shout at me at all. What have you done to him?”
“Nothing. I expect he’s just tired.” Christopher shuffled the cards and suggested a simplified form of whist.
“Are we playing for money?” Rupert asked hopefully.
“Why, do you have any?”
“No, which is what I was hoping to remedy.”
“You never had any luck at cards.” Christopher dealt them a hand each. “Isn’t that what your duel was about?”
Rupert wrinkled his nose. “I was winning for once, which Harlow remarked upon. I think he was being funny, but I took it as an accusation of cheating, and one thing led to another.” He shrugged irritably. “You know the rest.”
“Actually, I don’t. What made you choose Barden as your second?”
“He was there. I simply seized on the men next to me. Barden and Fenwick.”
“Then he wasn’t a particular friend of yours?” Deborah asked.
“Lord, no, barely knew the fellow, except from the card table. Fenwick is—was—a friend, though.”
Christopher picked up his cards. “And they did everything they should to resolve the quarrel before it got to pistols at dawn?”
“Yes, for when I woke in the morning, I realized I’d been an ass. However, I must have seriously offended, Harlow, for he wouldn’t hear of any apology.”
“You know this?” Deborah asked. “It isn’t just what Lord Barden told you?”
Rupert eyed her with curiosity. “I had it from Fenwick, who said Harlow didn’t want to look a coward by avoiding facing me. What do you have against Barden?”
“We don’t know yet,” Christopher replied. “But I suspect the man is a snake on more than the Regent’s business. Where was he during the actual duel?”
“With the other seconds, between Harlow and me, standing well back from the line of fire.”
“So you would have seen if he was armed? If he shot Harlow?”
Rupert’s smile was twisted. “I thought about all four of the seconds, over and over. None of them carried overcoats or anything else that could have hidden a weapon. Their arms were visible the whole time. And hung at their sides.”
“Hmm.” Christopher’s fingers flicked distractedly at the corner of a card. “Then who else was present? A surgeon?”
“Yes.”
“Was he with the others?”
Rupert frowned. “Actually, no. He didn’t approve of violence and refused to watch. He stayed in the coach.”
“Did he, by God?”
“Yes, but Chris, he’s a doctor,” Rupert exclaimed. “He wouldn’t shoot anyone!”
Christopher raised his eyebrows. “A doctor who disapproved of violence and took your money to attend a duel? Did he attend Harlow when he fell?”
Rupert rubbed his forehead. “That bit’s something of a blur…but yes, he was there. We were all crowded around Harlow. I could see he was dead. But the doctor took his pulse and declared him deceased. I was stunned. My pistol was wide of the mark, Chris. I was deloping. Even if I had pulled the trigger without knowing, I could never have hit him. But he died.” He raised rather haunted eyes to his cousin. “And do you know what else I think about? I think he was deloping, too. I don’t think he meant to hit me either. And yet, he died.”
“What happened then?” Christopher asked.
“His seconds carried him to the coach. Fenwick and Barden hustled me away to Dudley, who had me down at the docks before breakfast.”
“And the doctor?” Deborah asked. “Where did he go? With you?”
“No. I think he went with Harlow.”
“What is his name?” Christopher asked.
“No idea. Barden would know, though. Or Fenwick, probably. Does this mean you believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Christopher asked evenly.
Rupert’s smile was twisted. “My own brother doesn’t.”
His own brother, Deborah reflected, had conflicting motives.
“Are we going to play?” Christopher asked. “Or jabber all night?”
From then on, he seemed to relax into a mood of casual entertainment, more like the Christopher who had walked with her to the lake and kissed her. He bantered with her and with his cousin, making them both laugh. Deborah was almost surprised to realize that worry over Barden and Hawfield’s dislike and Rupert’s problems had faded into the background and that she was genuinely enjoying herself.
<
br /> It was tempting to stay in this comfortable companionship, but it came to her as it grew late, that the cousins might wish to have a conversation without her, not least about the possible arrival of Dudley’s wife. So, at the end of the next game, she announced, “I am for bed, so I’ll bid you good night.”
“One more game,” Rupert coaxed as she rose from the bed.
“No, I shall only fall asleep. Remember, you need plenty of rest, cousin.”
Christopher rose with her, accompanying her to the door. There, he paused a moment.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“Your company.” He took her hand and kissed it. Sensation flooded out from beneath his lips, spreading heat and a helpless wish that things between them were different. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she managed as she dragged her hand free and fled.
*
Christopher closed the door behind her with a slightly twisted smile. It would not be so easy to win his wife—if and when he decided he wanted to.
Becoming aware of Rupert’s gaze, he dropped onto the bed once more and gathered up the cards. “What?”
“You don’t need to stay. I know you would rather be with your wife.”
Christopher lifted one eyebrow. “No, you don’t.”
“You can stop pretending this marriage of convenience nonsense. No one would marry that girl for mere convenience. She’s beautiful, and she’s funny and kind and clearly worth at least a dozen of…of most other females I’ve ever met,” he finished rather lamely.
Christopher shrugged. “It’s true. I liked her. It wouldn’t have been terribly convenient if we hadn’t liked each other.”
“Oh, stop it, Chris. I’ve never seen you look at a woman as you do your wife.”
“And how is that? With the respect she deserves?” Christopher retorted.
“Yes,” Rupert allowed. “But also…as though she were some precious piece of porcelain that might break. You protect her like a mother hen, watch her like a hawk, and when you think no one is looking, you make any excuse to touch her, and your expression is positively—”
He broke off under Christopher’s dangerous glare.
“Positively, what?” Christopher encouraged.
“Moonstruck,” Rupert said defiantly. “Glare at me all you want. You might have married her for convenience, but you’re more than half in love with her.”
“No, I’m not,” Christopher said, revolted. Am I? Please, God, no.
“Cheer up. She clearly adores you, too.”
I wish she did. “Oh, stop your flannel. This marriage suits us very well, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it. One more hand.”
“Well, don’t hang back too long,” Rupert warned, his eyes gleaming mischief. “Or someone else might just step in and win her from under your nose. I might be tempted to cut you out myself.”
“Ha!” Christopher said derisively. “Stop jabbering nonsense and play.”
Chapter Eleven
The following day was a good one for Deborah. Rupert looked much improved and was up and dressed by luncheon. Lord Hawfield seemed to have withdrawn his hostility, at least temporarily. In among the work of finishing off the library and the terrace room, and seeing off Mr. Gates, who was traveling in search of pupils for the school, she and Christopher found time for a pleasant walk down to the lake.
“Oh, look, there’s a little boat,” she exclaimed in delight, catching sight of the bobbing vessel, which seemed to be tied to the willow tree at the end of the path.
“There’s a tumbled-down boathouse at the far end. I found this among other damaged vessels. I patched it up, and it seems to be water-tight. Would you care to go out?”
“I’d love to,” she said eagerly, and they ran the rest of the way like children.
Unhooking the rope from the tree, he pulled the boat to the edge of the water and handed her in. She sat on one of the two benches. Christopher clambered in and sat on the other. He took up the oars and began to row toward the center of the lake and from there around the bend toward the boathouse.
They did not speak much, but a feeling of contentment stole over her. Her muscles relaxed, and she enjoyed the sensation of floating in the sunshine as if they were the only people in the world. There was only the gentle whisper of the breeze in overhanging leaves and the soft splash and creak of the oars. Birds sang in the distance, and a bee buzzed past her face.
Christopher propped up the oars and let them drift, leaning back and lifting his face to the sun. She basked in his lazy company—another facet of his character, beguiling in its contrast to his usual, constant activity. He looked happy and handsome, and her heart fluttered to think this man was her husband.
She moved her foot from a sudden, uncomfortable chill, and a small splash attracted her attention.
She sat up straight. “Oh, no! Christopher, we’re letting in water!”
He sat up so quickly, he almost lost an oar. Grabbing for it, he caused the boat to rock precariously, and more water flooded in around her feet. Hastily, he kicked a small tin bowl toward her. “Can you bail out the water?”
At once, she began dementedly scooping the water from the bottom of the boat and throwing it out into the lake. At the same time, Christopher was heaving on the oars with such speed that they glided toward the shore.
At some point, she realized she was laughing. Christopher cast her an anxious glance, as though afraid she was hysterical, and then an answering grin lit his face. She laughed so hard it was difficult to bail, and in the end, a few feet from the shore, he gave up rowing and jumped over the side, up to his thighs in water. Seizing her around the waist, he hauled her into his arms and waded to the shore.
There, he collapsed, and they lay side by side on the grass as the boat disappeared into the depths.
“Poor, gallant little boat,” she mourned.
“Never mind. We’ll get another.” He turned his head to look at her, smiling. “Most ladies would be shrieking and telling me off for my unforgivable carelessness and their ruined gowns.”
“Oh, well, this is only my old working gown, and I have always lacked sensibility.”
His brow twitched. Unexpectedly, his hand came up and smoothed her hair. “No, you don’t.”
In surprise, she turned her head to face him, and her cheek came into contact with his hand. His finger moved, idly caressing, catching at her breath. It struck her that she could lie here with him like this forever, saying nothing, just drowning in his warm, intense eyes, melting beneath the sweet, lazy stroke of his fingers.
His lips quirked, and his hand fell away as he leapt up. “Come, we must get you home and dry.”
“It’s you who are soaking,” she protested, ashamed of her selfish preoccupation. She rose quickly. “We should hurry.”
*
An hour later, Deborah supervised the laying of the red Turkish carpet on the polished library floor, and she and Christopher sat on the sofa in the window and admired their surroundings.
“You’ve worked wonders in here,” Christopher said. “I never imagined this room could be so charming.”
“I think I will like to sit in here, especially on winter evenings. But at any time, it is a peaceful room,”
He glanced down at her. “Do you feel the need for peace? Are you troubled?”
She thought about it. It had been a good day, especially at the lake. She smiled and shook her head. “No. I’ve asked them to serve tea in the terrace room, which does still smell slightly of paint, but we can go outside if it’s too much.”
“Excellent idea. Rupert will join us. I’m sure the servants already know exactly who he is and what he’s hiding from, so there seems no harm.”
However, as they approached the terrace room, it seemed the perfection of the day was being torn asunder.
Raised voices quarreled angrily, most notably Rupert’s.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re about!” he
said furiously. “It’s just a repeat of after the duel. You got rid of me then so you could marry Georgianna, and now you want rid of me again because she’s coming here. And yes, I do know she is on her way because Chris told me. Chris, not you!”
Deborah and Chris exchanged rueful glances.
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop shouting,” Dudley said irritably as they walked in. “It wasn’t like that then or now. I forgot to tell you Georgianna is coming. Probably because it makes no difference to you. Now you are so much improved, you need to be away from here for your own safety.”
“Your safety,” Rupert snarled. “Are you afraid I’ll take her from you even now? Or just that I’ll find out what you did?”
“Rupert, sit down,” Christopher said shortly. “You’ll frighten the servants. Dudley, he’s not going anywhere for another couple of days. I know for a fact the excisemen have left the area, so he’s in no danger.”
Rupert sat, still fuming, and muttered an apology to Deborah.
Clearly, the new beauty of the room was not going to get the attention it deserved, but she tried her best, in a desperate effort to change the subject and calm Rupert’s temper.
“What do you think, Christopher? Is it too bare or just elegantly spacious?”
“I like it,” he said. “You have worked magic here, too. I glanced in at the salons earlier, and they are looking quite magnificent. Don’t you think, sir?” he added to his grandfather, who had walked into the room.
“You have taste,” Lord Hawfield allowed. “And you’re not afraid of hard work.”
“Thank you,” Deborah murmured, stunned by the accolade.
Tea was brought in, and Deborah poured it out. She almost hoped the moment of ill-feeling had passed when Rupert burst out, “What is Barden to you, Dudley?”
“Barden?” Dudley said, startled. “Nothing. I barely know the man. You chose him as your second in your ill-advised duel.”
“But you spoke to him, didn’t you? You told him to bring me straight to you afterward, just as if you knew something would happen.”
“Of course I did!” Dudley said, goaded. “You were fighting a damned duel!”
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