by Cheryl Bolen
If he had been in ill humor last week, his grumpiness was compounded tenfold now. He still felt compelled to stay home to guard Maggie’s safety (for despite her excessive dislike of him, he wished her no harm) at the same time as Lord Carrington compelled him to watch her for suspicious activities, even though Edward had pleaded with Lord Carrington to believe her innocent of any ill intentions. Edward was deuced sick of never leaving his house. He was deuced sick of eating alone. And he was bloody resentful that his evenings were so damned lonely.
He was loathe to admit he actually missed Maggie. Not like he missed Fiona, of course. Not at all. Yet he remembered fondly their quiet evenings in front of the fire playing chess. His mood gentled when he recalled her inordinate fear of thunderstorms and how his efforts to protect her and sooth her fears had filled him with a most satisfying sense of purpose. Until those feelings went too far.
Even now he wished to go to her, to allay her feelings of humiliation, to assure her of his affection. Of course, it was not the same kind of affection he held for Fiona.
But it was decidedly different than the affection Lyle, his best friend, elicited in him.
Yes, he consoled himself, this estrangement between himself and Maggie was for the best, after all.
A pity he felt lower than an adder’s belly.
The door to his library began to ease open. His pulse accelerated as he anticipated seeing Maggie’s lovely face peek around the slightly opened door.
But it was not she who entered the room. It was Wiggins. “The post has come,” the butler informed him, crossing the room to deliver the mail.
Edward thumbed through the letters until he recognized Fiona’s lovely penmanship and tore the letter open.
My Dearest Lord,
My own inadequate words cannot express what a buoying effect a letter from your dear self has on the lowness of my spirits since my dearest mother’s death. It was with all-too-infrequent pleasure that I read Wednesday’s letter from you, but seeing that hand of the one I hold in such high esteem only makes me long to see that beloved face again.
My heart goes out to your poor uncle’s widow. It is so very good of you to extend your hospitality to one who has lost so much. Having no sisters of my own, I wish to extend my heartfelt affection to the dear countess as I would to a sister for I think I’m not premature in believing we will soon be related. Please impart to your aunt that she will always be welcome at Windmere Abbey.
The abbey is a most grim place at the present, due to our great loss. The only thing that could bring me pleasure would be to lay my eyes upon your sorely-missed countenance, to hear your voice after so long a silence.
Forgive the maudlin tone of this letter, my dearest Lord Warwick. It is just that I am possessed of such low spirits, spirits than can be lifted only by the presence of one person.
Yours affectionately,
Lady Fiona
Were it not for having to guard Maggie, he would fly to Fiona this very day. How low she must be. How dearly he wished to brighten her dark spirits.
He was ready to be rid of Maggie, to resume his old life, to marry sweet Fiona. Bloody hell but he wished for Maggie to show her hand or for Carrington to call off the dogs--though he knew the latter far more likely.
Was there anything he could do to speed along a resolution? Take her to Almack’s. She had spent an inordinate amount of time with those bloody suitors--neither of which would do at all. Edward’s need to be rid of her was not as great as his desire that she fall into good hands. And soon. Today was Wednesday; tonight most of the ton would descend upon Almack’s. Neither he nor Maggie nor Miss Peabody had left the house since last Friday.
He rang for Wiggins.
A moment later the reliable butler stood in the library’s doorway. “Yes, my lord?”
“Please instruct Miss Peabody and the countess that we go to Almack’s tonight.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Edward’s voice stern, he added, “And assure them their compliance is mandatory.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Chapter 15
After so many days of confinement Maggie was looking forward to getting out--even if it meant she would have to ride in a carriage with the odious Lord Warwick. The prospect of seeing England’s beau monde in their elegant finery and of dancing with well-bred gentlemen filled Maggie with excited anticipation. Most especially, she hoped Rebecca would take. Even if her sister was not ready to marry, Maggie wished to expand Rebecca’s limited interests, wished her sister to know life by living it, not through the pages of a book.
Indeed, Maggie had taken more pains with her sister’s toilet than she had with her own. Her efforts were rewarded when she purveyed her sister’s elegance in the soft ivory gown that gently draped off her shoulders and puddled into a train in the back. With her dark hair swept back in the Grecian mode and adorned with ivory satin rosebuds, Rebecca--sans glasses--was stunning.
“Oh, Becky, you’re beautiful!” Maggie said as she watched Rebecca fasten her gloves.
Rebecca kept pausing to stare into the looking glass. “I’ll own I never thought I could look this becoming. I only hope that I don’t stumble all night for without my glasses I’m quite blind.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, pet. I perceive that you’ll not lack for men’s arms to cling to.” Maggie glanced into the mirror, pleased over her own appearance in a snow-white gown threaded with silver. “I daresay we’d best not keep the ogre waiting.”
“How can you refer to his lordship as an ogre when he’s been so very kind to us?” Rebecca asked.
“He’s only being kind because he was told to do so by the equally odious Lord Carrington. The pair of them believe I’m a spy.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Whoever do they think you’d be spying for?”
Maggie shrugged. “The French, I daresay.”
Even though Maggie intensely disliked Lord Warwick and told herself she did not care what he thought of her, it did matter what he thought. As she came down the stairs with Rebecca, her pulse accelerated. And when she saw him standing there looking up at her with those brooding eyes, her heartbeat hammered.
“You look lovely tonight, Miss Peabody,” he said.
And me? Had the man even given a thought to Maggie? Would he deign to speak to her? “If she doesn’t dance every set,” Maggie said with a sigh, “I shall declare London men most deficient in their vision.” There. She had broken the ice. Now would he address her?
“I agree,” he said. “There can’t be a prettier girl in all of London.” Then, to Maggie’s humiliated consternation, he offered his arm to her little sister.
In the carriage, Lord Warwick sat beside Rebecca. Which meant that he and Maggie faced each other. Uncomfortably. He still had not remarked on her appearance, which she thought quite acceptable and which she knew OTHER men would find exceedingly agreeable. Odious man!
Still, she was happy that Lord Warwick was endeavoring to put Rebecca at ease on the night of her first London ball. If Almack’s could be called a ball. Were his lordship to actually lead Rebecca out for the first dance, her sister’s acceptance would be assured. He was wealthy. He was handsome. Incredibly so. And he was an earl. Everyone at the assembly would have to take notice of the extraordinarily handsome couple.
Maggie tried not to look at him for he was disgustingly handsome in his well-tailored black tailcoat and striking white shirt points encasing an elaborately tied cravat that soared to his cheeks. Then her eyes fell to his black pumps and up along the breeches that stretched tautly over muscled calves. No doubt all the ladies would be whispering about him behind their fans. Unaccountably, the thought of other women vying for his attentions sent her stomach roiling. They could have him! Fiona could have him. Please, take him.
At Almack’s Assembly Rooms Maggie smiled and spoke cordially when Lord Warwick introduced her to the patronesses though her insides trembled as she faced the formidable matrons. To her great relief Mr.
Lyle rushed across the lofty chamber and asked her to dance the first set, a lively quadrille.
During the dance she was able to observe Lord Warwick trotting Becky about the room, introducing her to young fellows who had probably not yet started shaving, then he himself swept her onto the dance floor for the first set.
It did not escape Maggie’s notice that practically every female eye in the room was on him. She frowned. Odious man!
She flicked her gaze back to her partner. At least Mr. Lyle was tall. She rather liked dancing with men who were tall.
When their hands touched he spoke in a husky voice, “I vow, my lady, your beauty has robbed me of my breath tonight.”
Having overheard several debutantes using “la” as an exclamation tonight, Maggie tossed back hear head and said, “Oh, la, Mr. Lyle. Were you truly robbed of breath you wouldn’t be able to be speaking to me now.”
“Ah, but when I first saw you walk in with Warwick I was forced to gasp for air.”
The next time they came together, Maggie asked, “How do you think my sister looks tonight?”
“Ravishing! Her resemblance to you is uncanny now that her spectacles have been removed.”
She started to comment on the differences in the size of their breasts, then (fortunately) clamped her mouth shut. “We are related,” she said with a laugh.
“Warwick’s being an attentive host, given that he has no love for dancing,” Mr. Lyle said the next time they came together.
“But he dances so well,” she said. Of course she would never admit that to his odious lordship.
“Truth be told, he hates Almack’s.”
“Then his consideration of my sister at her London debut is commendable.” Lord Warwick was lavishing his attentions upon Rebecca out of a fatherly sense of charity, wasn’t he? Surely he did not have designs on a mere seventeen-year-old. Maggie’s shoulders slumped. Of course he had no amorous desires for Rebecca! The man was positively reeking of his devotion to Fiona Hollingsworth.
By now Maggie had perused the assemblage of the most elegantly dressed people she had ever seen. The young dancers all seemed so amiable, it quite made her fret. They had the advantage over her in that they had many acquaintances among the English high born. A pity she had turned down Lord Aynsley for she had at one time promised him the second set. She consoled herself that if her popularity at assemblies in Virginia was anything to go by, she would not lack for dance partners tonight.
And she didn’t. Without question, she and Rebecca were the most sought-after ladies in attendance. If Maggie could only remember the names of half the gentlemen who had asked permission to call upon her at Warwick House the following day. There was a rather dandified Sir Percival in kelly green, a Mr. Brighton of too tender years, the promising Lord Heffington, a Mr. Campbell from Scotland . . . oh dear, she had forgotten the names of a half dozen others. She must make careful mental note of them when they called tomorrow.
An hour after the festivities started, Lord Carrington swept into the room amidst a great hum of whispers. As she was dancing a second set with Mr. Lyle, Maggie asked, “Pray, why does his lordship attract such notice?”
“Because he never comes to Almack’s. Misses just out of the schoolroom ain’t his style.”
“Yes, I can see where they wouldn’t be.” She wondered if he had a voluptuous mistress. Weren’t mistresses supposed to be voluptuous?
As Mr. Lyle led Maggie off the dance floor, Lord Carrington strode forward, his steely blue eyes never leaving hers. “Ah, Lady Warwick, permit me to say how lovely you are tonight.”
She offered her hand, and he duly brushed his lips over it. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I beg that you do me the goodness of partnering me for the next dance,” he said.
Seeing that Lord Warwick was coming toward them, she turned a bright smile onto Lord Carrington and said, “The pleasure, my lord, would be entirely mine.”
When the violins began to play, she realized the next dance was a waltz and flicked a glance at her sister to make sure Rebecca remembered that maidens were not permitted to waltz without permission of one of the patronesses. Maggie was satisfied when she saw Rebecca stroll to the refreshments room with a gentleman at each side of her.
Lord Carrington was an outstanding dancer, graceful with regal posture and a fluid step. “You are aware of the nature of Lord Warwick’s work?” Lord Carrington asked.
“I have some idea, though his lordship does not share any information with me, considering that I’m a suspected spy,” she said.
“Oh, my dear woman, you’re no longer a suspected spy. In fact. . .” His voice lowered, “I should like for you to perform a service for our government.”
“Pray, my lord,” she said with some astonishment, “what kind of service could a colonial like me perform?”
“There is a traitor in the Foreign Office,” he whispered close to her ear.
“So it would seem.”
“Four men in our office--myself, Lord Warwick, Lyle and Kingsbury--knew of your arrival in London. One of those four is the traitor.”
She nodded.
His voice lowered. “I wish for you to monitor all of Warwick’s activities.”
It was as if Lord Carrington had thrust a dagger into her windpipe. The traitor couldn’t be Lord Warwick! Despite her recent dislike of him, she knew the worthiness of the man’s character. He would never betray his country.
She could not respond. She could not find her voice. She could scarcely breathe. Surely Lord Carrington was going to laugh and tell her his accusations were nothing more than a joke. She kept watching the man’s narrow face with its sapphire eyes, kept seeing his lips moving, but felt as if she had stumbled into a bad dream. He couldn’t be saying these things about Lord Warwick. It couldn’t be true.
“I understand you’re in dire need of funds,” he said. “I will pay handsomely for any information you uncover that might reveal Warwick’s--or your late husband’s--accomplices, or uncover any documents they might possess. With two hundred a year for the rest of your life, you won’t have to speedily marry, I think.”
Now she understood. Lord Carrington still thought she was a spy, but he was willing to pay her to reveal what she knew. To Lord Carrington’s way of thinking, she might as well take her money from the English as from the French. That’s why the marquess was talking utter nonsense. The accusations against Lord Warwick must merely be a ploy.
Lord Carrington’s mouth was moving again. Her thoughts splintered. Then what he said next affected her even more profoundly than his initial accusation against Lord Warwick. “I have only just come to learn that the man we know as Warwick is indeed an imposter.”
Her face whirled to his, mere inches separating them. “What do you mean?”
“The Earl of Warwick’s title became extinct eighteen months ago. He had no heirs.”
“That cannot be! He was Lord Warwick’s uncle.”
“That’s what the man we know as Lord Warwick said. Due to the fact the old earl was a recluse, no one knew anything about him. When Edward claimed the man as a distant uncle, quite naturally, everyone believed him.”
The disillusionment and hurt she had suffered a few nights ago when she learned why Lord Warwick allowed her to stay were nothing compared to this. She could not have been more stunned, more unhappy, had one of her departed parents dropped into the room and told her Rebecca was not her sister.
Nor was it possible to feel more shattered. For despite her anger with Lord Warwick--or whatever his name was--she had admired him. Even loved him, she realized. He had to be honorable! Hadn’t he offered to marry her out of honor? And hadn’t he murmured, “You can stop me now,” as she felt his engorged flesh throbbing against her naked body?
She would have wagered her very life on his honor. How could she have been so wrong?
“If you please, my lord,” she said breathlessly, “may we go for lemonade?” She had to get off the dance floor, had to gathe
r her thoughts, restore the rhythm of her breathing, stop this wretched trembling.
As Lord Carrington placed a glass of lemonade in her trembling hand, Lord Warwick came strolling up. As soon as he saw Maggie’s face, his composure shifted, his face fell. “Are you all right, my lady?”
No doubt she looked as frightened as she had the day of the thunderstorms. “Yes, quite. I’m just tired.”
“Still not sleeping?” he asked, his brooding eyes locking with hers.
“My sleeping habits are really none of your concern, my lord.” If he is my lord.
A flicker of some emotion flashed in his inscrutable eyes. “I had hoped you were not so angry with me that you would deny me the honor of dancing with you the next set,” he said.
She saw that Lord Carrington inclined his head, a silent order for her to be agreeable to Lord Warwick.
“How could I deny a man who’s been so gracious a host?” she said with sarcasm, offering him her hand.
Once they were dancing--another waltz--he spoke in a gentle voice. “What’s the matter, Maggie?”
Her heartbeat stomped. “What makes you think something’s the matter?”
“I don’t think it. I know it. You’ve the same look you had during the thunderstorm.”
He knew her too well. “I assure you I’m not gripped with terror tonight. I daresay my discomfort is because the room’s so exceedingly hot.”
His step slowed and he solemnly gazed down into her face. “Would you like another glass of lemonade? We could stand before one of the open windows while you drink it.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I daresay it’s just been too long since I’ve been in a ballroom.”
Like that day at the inn, the man was treating her with extreme courtesy. Damn him. Damn all men. Either they were all scoundrels, or she was the poorest judge of character in the entire universe! How could she have TWICE bestowed her affection on completely unworthy men? Was another woman on earth as cursed as she?
