Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  It was an enormous oil portrait, colors bright enough to suggest that the artist might require a physician to check his eyesight, set in a blindingly gilded frame. The only thing that prevented Sesily from believing the painter had been ill during the painting of it was the fact that it seemed to match the rest of the room—wild, brash colors that obviously had been chosen with no interest in the idea of their complementing each other.

  The garish house was bested only by its garish owners on canvas, the aging viscount in a scarlet waistcoat intricately embroidered with gold thread, and his newly minted, third, extremely young viscountess in a wildly patterned silk gown in canary yellow and a shade of green that did not occur in nature.

  “I cannot decide if it is a hideous painting or a hideous subject.” The pair stood there for a long while, taking in the art, before Sesily added, “Perhaps both?”

  “Absolutely both,” Adelaide said, looking at their hostess at her piano. “Poor thing. Imagine being married to him.”

  “Awful,” Sesily said, lifting a tiny glass of sherry to her lips. “Worse than the portrait. But if she bides her time, she might find herself free of it.”

  “If the man would hurry up,” Adelaide said, frustrated, facing the door, on edge with the plan. Eager to start. “Alright then. Tell me the rest. You were in his bed. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.” Sadly.

  Her friend slid a disbelieving look in her direction. “That’s nonsense. We saw how he looked when he came for you in the pub, Sesily.”

  Sesily’s disbelief matched Adelaide’s. “What does that mean, how he looked? How did he look?”

  Adelaide thought for a moment. “Terrifying.”

  In the wake of the matter-of-fact assessment, Sesily looked back at the painting. “You’re mistaking irritated and annoyed with terrifying.”

  “No, I’m not. He became an absolute beast when he saw what happened to you.” A pause. “I like this ensemble, by the way. Somehow both prim and scandalous. How’s the throat?”

  To cover the bruising at her neck from the events of three evenings before, Sesily wore a perfectly tailored black topcoat and a pristine white cravat over a stunning gown of sapphire silk. She expected that next week the scandal sheets would have something to say about Sexily Talbot making waves partially clad in gentleman’s clothing, but she’d rather that than the questions about what happened to her neck. That, and she knew she looked fabulous.

  But in that moment, she didn’t want to discuss her appearance. She wanted to discuss Caleb’s the evening before. Though she did not wish to admit it, she rather liked the idea of Caleb going beastly. “It’s fine.” Waving away Adelaide’s concern, she said, “Tell me more about this beast.”

  Adelaide smiled. “You’ve turned men beastly before.”

  Not men like Caleb.

  Not men she wished to be beastly.

  “What would you like to hear?” Adelaide asked, quietly. “That I would have liked to see him fight a lion? That I’m fairly certain he would have won? That he came tearing across the place, tossing tables like they weighed nothing to get to you?”

  Sesily’s heart began to pound. Yes, all that was excellent information. “He wasn’t terrifying in the carriage. He could not have been more put out when I woke.”

  “Well, he was not put out in the tavern. He was bleeding from the head and he smashed his fist into your attacker’s face and felled the damn ruffian like a tree, then hefted you into his arms and carried you out. We tried to stop him. Told him that we’d see you to a physician if necessary, and home otherwise . . . but he was having none of it.”

  “Truly?” Sesily was having difficulty imagining any of it.

  “Truly. It was exceedingly primitive,” Adelaide said flatly before allowing, “And, I will admit, somewhat engaging. Come to think of it, considering how wild-eyed he was with you, we should have assumed that he’d take you somewhere to—play croquet.”

  Sesily barked a laugh, summoning the attention of the whole room and immediately regretting the way it aggravated her already sore throat. With a wide grin to the assembly, she turned back to her friend. “I’m sorry to disappoint . . . but there was no croquet played.”

  Adelaide looked positively affronted at the revelation. “None?”

  “None.”

  “Not even a wicket?”

  “Adelaide!”

  “Sorry!” she said, shaking her head, her tightly moored red hair gleaming in the firelight. “It’s just—I’m so perplexed!” Sesily cut her friend a look. “I mean, I cannot imagine how you must be feeling. It didn’t seem like the evening would resolve itself with such . . . boredom.”

  Except it hadn’t been boring.

  For some reason, it had been immensely exciting, sleeping in his bed, the smell of him on the sheets, the even rhythm of his breath in the room. Even though he hadn’t touched her. Even though he’d appeared utterly disinterested in her.

  But he’d called her Athena.

  Her chest tightened at the memory. In the carriage, he’d listened to her. He’d understood, or so it seemed. And he’d seen her for more than most did. Not reckless. Focused. Principled. He’d cared for her, seeming to understand what she needed before even she did.

  And then, in the darkness, in the quiet, he’d called her Athena. A warrior. How many times had she played his words, low and dark and private, over and over like a secret in the three days since he’d said them? How many times had she considered taking herself to his tavern or his townhouse and asking him to repeat them?

  “Perhaps he steered clear of you out of some sense of honor.”

  Sesily gave a little sigh. “Possibly. I was in no position to . . . but still . . .”

  Adelaide’s enormous brown eyes, which saw everything, softened with understanding. With pity. How embarrassing.

  Sesily shrugged. “He slept in the same room as me. And it was difficult not to think of all the things . . . all the ways we might . . .”

  “Play croquet?”

  “Yes,” Sesily said, exasperated. “And . . . nothing! I mean any other man in London would have happily played croquet. And . . .” She thought for a moment, lost in the memory. “It was as though he didn’t even notice the field!”

  Adelaide cut her a disbelieving look. “Sesily. It is impossible not to notice you.”

  It’s impossible not to notice you.

  Caleb had said the same thing, when she’d been tending to the wound on his head. When she’d been willing him to kiss her, the idiot man. And still . . .

  “Well, he made a good show of it.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Imagine how I feel,” she said, slyly. Then she added, “At any rate, Caleb Calhoun is not here and I am not interested in letting thoughts of him ruin a perfectly good evening.”

  If Caleb were there, he’d no doubt involve himself in their well-laid plans and do something nonsensical, like toss her over his shoulder and remove her from the building.

  And not for any of the reasons she’d be willing to be tossed over his shoulder.

  Thankfully, at that moment, the door at the far end of the room opened, and the men returned, saving her from imagining just what it might be like to be tossed over Caleb Calhoun’s shoulder.

  “Ah,” she said. “It begins.”

  Coleford crossed the room, tall and slim, his more than sixty years doing nothing to temper the unsettling look about him that women learned early to avoid. And that was when he was not in his cups, where Sesily would wager he was right now. Drunk and disgusting. His rheumy gaze slithered over the women in the room, lips curving in an unpleasant smile no doubt meant to be charming.

  Next to her, Adelaide made a sound of disgust. “Are you sure you’re up to keeping the man entertained?”

  “A few rounds of faro shan’t kill me,” Sesily said as the viscount’s eyes settled on the skin between her cravat and the line of her dress. She would require a bath later. “Just be quick ab
out your work so I never have to sit face to face with him ever again.”

  Coleford turned to the far end of the room where his wife still played. “Do cease that racket,” he said sharply, loud enough for all assembled to hear him.

  The music stopped instantly, the too young viscountess’s back going straight like steel as her chin lowered to her chest. Coleford turned to the men with whom he’d entered with a too loud laugh. “The chit thinks she’s Mozart,” he said, butchering the composer’s name. “Apologies for the assault.”

  Adelaide stiffened next to her and whispered, “I should like to show him assault.”

  “The plan,” Sesily replied softly as an uncomfortable silence fell, followed by a smattering of sniggers. She sipped at her sherry, surveying the room, cataloguing those who took pleasure in the man’s cruel remarks.

  “Come here, then,” Coleford said, waving at his wife.

  She did, standing in the deafening silence and walking to him, all grace—the product of a lifetime of lessons in poise and elocution, embroidery and menu-making and poetry—the kind of girl who was taught every skill required to succeed as an aristocratic wife.

  And somehow never taught the skills that might be required to survive as one.

  Adelaide was vibrating at Sesily’s shoulder, and Sesily reached out to touch her friend’s arm. To remind her that there was a plan for the evening. That, if it was well-executed, they would end the viscount and rescue the viscountess from her terrible marriage in one fell swoop.

  But Adelaide was growing angry, and Sesily could see that the plan was not top of mind.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sesily noticed a gentleman step through the door—the boring dinner companion she’d had earlier in the evening. The Duke of Clayborn had missed the beginning of the scene, the lucky toff. He should have gone home.

  Instead, he was there to see Lady Coleford draw close enough for her husband to reach out and take her chin in hand, lifting it to meet her eyes. “No one wants to hear you plonking about, girl. That’s not what you’re here for.”

  She lowered her gaze and said, softly, “Yes, my lord.”

  Coleford was much louder when he said, “Though I suppose listening to your banging about is better than listening to your laugh. Like a wounded horse.”

  Sesily sucked in a breath at the words, unkind and unnecessary.

  Adelaide’s arm went to stone beneath her touch.

  Not one person in the room moved, except to avert their eyes from the uncomfortable moment. Of course they didn’t. It was the viscount with the power, not the viscountess. Just as it had been Totting with it, and not the girls they all knew he harmed.

  Sesily had read the dossier on the viscount front to back, and she was certain he'd murdered two wives. The first, Fiona, died of “fever” at age forty-three, only months after the death of Mr. Bernard Palmer, Coleford's adult son and heir. The second, Primrose, had perished at twenty-two, two years into a childless marriage, in an "accident" at the lake on the Coleford estate in the West Midlands.

  And still, this roomful of powerful people stood by and watched him mistreat his newest, youngest wife. Catherine, aged nineteen. And not one had anything to say.

  Damn all of them to hell.

  The young viscountess looked up at her husband. “Yes, my lord.”

  Perhaps if her voice hadn’t cracked. Perhaps if she hadn’t been facing them. Perhaps if they hadn’t been able to see the tears in her eyes.

  Perhaps then, Adelaide would have been able to stick to the plan.

  Likely not, though, as when Adelaide was angry, plans were absolutely in the wind.

  Unfortunately, Adelaide was furious. She shook off Sesily’s hand and stepped into the room, toward the couple. “I, for one, enjoyed your playing, Lady Coleford.”

  Every eye in the room swung to Adelaide. Forgettable Adelaide Frampton, lifelong wallflower, known for her stern visage and her meekness . . . certainly not meek that evening.

  Dammit.

  Sesily looked across the room, finding the duchess’s dark eyes already on her. So much for the plan.

  Coleford turned on Adelaide, and Sesily registered the full heat of his loathing as he faced her. “I don’t believe anyone asked you.”

  Ignoring their host in favor of their hostess, Adelaide continued, “In fact, I wonder about that tricky bit in the second movement. I’ve never been able to quite get the fingering right. Would you be willing to teach it to me at some point?”

  Coleford stepped in front of his wife, putting himself between her and Adelaide, who did not waver. “My wife,” he sneered, “will never be seen with you.”

  Adelaide met the man’s eyes then. “Come now, old man, it shall surely be a step up from being seen with you.”

  Oh dear. Sesily’s brows rose in shock.

  Coleford’s face went a shade of red she was not sure she’d ever seen before.

  The whole room watched, agog. And still, no one moved, the cowards.

  Well, no one but the Duke of Clayborn at the door, drawing closer, likely to get a better view. Sesily wrinkled her nose at the man and slid her hand into her skirts, finding the false pocket there—designed only to access the blade Sesily was never without, sheathed at her thigh.

  Across the room, the duchess snapped open her fan, ruby silk over ebony.

  If Coleford took one step toward Adelaide—they would not hesitate to defend her, and then they’d all have a larger problem than the plan going soft.

  “Miss Frampton—” the viscountess said.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Coleford replied. “I shall deal with this . . .” He stepped toward Adelaide, who did not move, holding her ground. A lioness. “. . . ugly . . . common . . . nobody.”

  On the last, a titter spread through the room, and if she weren’t so livid, so occupied by imagining how she would absolutely destroy this old man, Sesily would have laughed at the way the room chose the insult to be the thing they were offended by, as though the rest of the viscount’s behavior was entirely aboveboard.

  Of course, if she weren’t so livid, she would have noticed the Duke of Clayborn had reached the trio, inserting himself between Adelaide and Coleford.

  “That’s enough.” The words were full of smooth power, and Sesily shot a questioning look at Duchess, across the room, who lifted one shoulder in a tiny movement. A barely-there shrug, as if to say, I’ve no idea.

  Neither did Sesily, but the Duke of Clayborn was about to have a file as thick as her thumb at Trevescan House. Thicker, when he shot a narrow look down at Adelaide and said, “It is time for you to leave, Miss Frampton.”

  Adelaide wouldn’t like that.

  She peeked her head around the broad shoulder of the duke and looked to the viscountess, who deliberately did not return the gaze.

  “Now. It is not a request,” Clayborn said to Adelaide. “You overstep.”

  Who in hell did he think he was? Sesily would happily strip him down, too. She took a step toward them, stayed only by a cough from across the room.

  The plan.

  Was there still a plan?

  She looked to the duchess, who was riveted to the scene.

  “Have I made myself clear?” Clayborn asked, his cold, stern disdain raining over Adelaide. “You have forgotten your place.”

  What a proper ass.

  Adelaide lifted her chin, fury pouring off her in waves. “On the contrary, Duke. It would seem I am the only one here who knows it.”

  For a long moment, the two stared into each other’s eyes, and it occurred to Sesily that in that moment, Adelaide might do any number of things, including but definitely not limited to smashing a fist directly into that straight ducal nose.

  At which point there surely would no longer be a plan.

  But she didn’t. Instead, Adelaide stepped back and nodded in the direction of Lady Coleford. “Thank you for the lovely evening, my lady,” she said before she looked Lord Coleford dead in the eye and said, “And you, Visco
unt, I hope you get everything you deserve.”

  With a final, furious glance at the duke, she turned on her heel and left the room.

  Silence fell, thick and unpleasant, as all assembled stood on the precipice of this unprecedented evening. Were they to go home? To pretend as though nothing had happened? To find some middle way?

  And then, across the room, someone clapped her hands and called out, “Well, who is in for charades?”

  The Duchess of Trevescan unlocked the room.

  “Do play on my team, will you, Lord Coleford?”

  Sesily met her friend’s eyes as she crossed the room, unable to miss the way she cast a look at the door where Adelaide had disappeared.

  The plan remained in effect.

  And Sesily was it.

  Slipping from the room, she followed the discreet indications of a footman posted in the hallway beyond, aiming for a salon reserved as a ladies’ retiring room nearby. A salon that, according to the map she’d been smart enough to study despite this absolutely not being the plan, was two doors away from a rear servants’ staircase that led down one flight to a dimly lit corner of the ground floor, where Lord Coleford’s study was dark and unlocked.

  “Excellent,” she whispered to herself as the latch turned easily in her hand. She could pick a lock, but it wasn’t her preferred method of entering rooms. It was fiddly business, and best left to those who didn’t prefer brute force.

  Like putting a boot through a carriage window to procure fresh air.

  Sesily resisted the thought—now was not the time to linger on the impressive strength of a man with whom she had no business being impressed.

  Sliding into the dark room, footsteps silent, she shut the door with a barely-there click and paused, hoping that a shred of the moonlight beyond would make additional light unnecessary.

  Apparently, her luck ran out with the unlocked door. The room was pitch-black, requiring her to collect a candle stub and flint from the pocket of her skirts and, once light was available, make her way to the heavy, forbidding desk that overpowered the rest of the room.

  Moving quickly—imperative for searching an office during a dinner party and doubly so during a dinner party that had just gone sideways—she found a home for the candle, and set to work, opening and closing drawers with careful efficiency until she found what she was looking for.