“This is rather splendid.” She read over the small but tastefully composed announcement without revealing to anyone in the ton that Philippa was Monmouth’s daughter. She was still listed as Miss Wilson, but Emily imagined there would be a fair bit of speculation about Philippa’s background now that she’d captured a notorious bachelor rake for a husband.
“What is splendid, darling?” Godric’s gazed fixed on his wife and Emily blushed. Even after six years of marriage and two children, she still felt like a young woman in love whenever her husband looked at her with his bewitching green eyes.
“Beau is to marry Miss Wilson. You remember what a lovely couple they made at our ball, don’t you?”
“I do. Ashton and Cedric had a bet going, if I recall. Cedric wagered it would take two weeks, Ash believed it would take two days. I never thought I would see Ash lose a bet.”
Emily threw a sugar cube at her husband’s chest. “You men and your wagers. You lost quite a bit of coin on me, as I recall.”
Godric grinned. “True, but I don’t regret it. Not even one shilling.” He brushed crumbs off his chest from the sugary projectile and politely made Emily a cup of hot chocolate, adding a fair amount of sugar to it, just as she liked it.
“Thank you.” Emily leaned over to kiss his cheek, but Godric turned his face at the right moment and their lips met, giving her a scorching kiss that made Emily forget all about wedding announcements for a moment.
“I’m rather surprised Beau is marrying the girl,” Godric said.
“Oh? Why?”
“He’s never been one to look toward marriage. He’s always been outspoken against it.”
Emily perused the paper again. “Perhaps it’s because of who the lady in question is.”
“Who? You mean the duke’s granddaughter? Beau never struck me as a fortune hunter, or social climber. He has money enough of his own.”
“She’s not just any duke’s daughter. She’s St. Albans’s granddaughter.” Emily reminded him. “The man is like a father to Beau. I imagine the duke is overjoyed at the prospect.”
“I suppose you’re right. But Ash is nervous about what the girl’s father will do.”
Emily perused the business section of the paper while Godric buttered some toast.
“Godric, do you think Lord Monmouth is still dangerous to her even after all that’s happened?”
“Unfortunately, I do.” He leaned back in his chair. “Anything that steps between a man and his money is dangerous.”
“But it isn’t as if no one knows. Heavens, the entire League knows because Ashton told them the story.”
“Yes, darling, but if Mr. and Mrs. Wilson died, there would be no evidence left. Ashton has had men scouring the church registries where Philippa and Roderick were born. The records offer no mention of the child that died, which is to be expected. Philippa is listed as the Wilsons’s child and Roderick as Monmouth’s. All we have now is the word of the Wilsons against Monmouth, since the midwife who delivered all three children is conveniently dead.”
Emily cringed. “And the word of a peer against two commoners, yes I see what you mean. What about Lord Sommers?”
“There’s a reason that demon has never been brought to account. His hellfire club was never about worshipping the devil so much as to acquire incriminating material on a number of unsavory but powerful people. He’s rumored to have ties to some of Prinny’s inner circle.”
Emily scowled. “The king? Oh, Godric, you must all be careful.” She still couldn’t forget how she’d almost lost him all those years ago to Sir Hugo Waverly. He and the rest of the League had almost died.
“We will, I promise.” Godric said.
She folded up the newspaper and handed it to her husband. “We are attending the wedding, aren’t we?”
“Most definitely.” He smiled, but the expression was hard and dangerous. “And if Monmouth tries anything, we will be ready for him.”
Emily pushed her chair back and stood.
Godric caught her wrist. “Going so soon? The children are still a bed.”
“Not at all,” she replied as she settled into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I am exactly where I wish to be.” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I predict we have half an hour before they wake up.
Godric chuckled softly. “The last time you said that, our little angels were found awake and drawing on the nursery with chalk. The footmen were scrubbing the walls for hours.”
Emily giggled. “Well, then we mustn’t waste a moment.” She trailed a hand on his chest and delighted in the way Godric’s eyes lit up with heat and desire.
“No, we mustn’t.” He said and dragged her mouth down to his.
* * *
Cornelius Selkirk, the Earl of Monmouth, read the wedding announcement and his breakfast turned to ash in his stomach. Panic rose like a knot in his throat. If the girl was to marry Boudreaux, that meant she’d likely already been introduced to St. Albans, her own grandfather, and it wouldn’t be long before the man pieced things together. He wasn’t blind. He would see Albina in the girl and Cornelius’s careful protection of Roddy’s future would be in jeopardy.
“Boudreaux is getting married? Never thought I’d see the day!” Roddy exclaimed as he leaned over his father’s shoulder to peer at the announcement.
Cornelius jumped. What the devil was the boy doing here? He was supposed to have stayed in the country.
“Roddy, why didn’t you stay at the manor house? I left early and didn’t need you to come back with me,” Cornelius said.
Roddy grinned as he slid into the chair beside his father and helped himself to the breakfast laid out before them.
“I heard you had an unexpected visitor that first night after we left London. I was worried when you left the following morning. Is everything all right, father?”
Cornelius closed the paper and tried to calm his nerves. “Yes, quite all right.”
The girl was to marry Boudreaux tomorrow at St. George’s. A very public affair. This was a prelude to some kind of public revelation; he could feel it. And such a venue would make everything harder, but no doubt that’s what Boudreaux and Lennox intended. Neither of them were fools.
“But neither am I,” he muttered.
“Pardon?” Roddy asked.
“Nothing, ’tis nothing.” He focused on his son. “I thought you were going to stay with the steward and review the accounts.”
Roddy shrugged. “I spent a few days with Mr. Featherstone, and we managed a full review. Nothing to worry about. The tenants are prospering and so are we.”
At any other moment Cornelius would have been proud. Roddy was everything he’d wanted in a son and heir. He was intelligent, easy tempered and despite the wealth at his fingertips, he seemed content to live well within his means. There were months where Cornelius had gone without remembering that Roddy wasn’t truly his flesh and blood.
His own father would have thought Cornelius weak for resorting to buying an heir, but Cornelius only wanted to make sure his legacy went on with a man who’d earned it, a man who valued it. His distant cousin was a fool who spent money on nothing but clothes, women, and horses. If he were to inherit, he would drain Monmouth’s estate in months, and his legacy would be ruined. Cornelius had seen too many men sell their homes when gambling and dangerously high wagers ran them onto the proverbial rocks.
“Father, who did come to the house that night?” Roddy asked. His usually jovial face was solemn now. “They arrived after midnight. I heard the servants in the corridor. It must have been an important guest, so why was I not informed?”
“A simple acquaintance, nothing important. He needed advice and I gave it to him.”
Roddy shot him a look that most distinctly said, I’m not a child. I know you’re keeping secrets. But he didn’t press the matter.
“Well, I’d better have my valet press my best clothes if we’re to attend the wedding tomorrow. Grandfather will be thrilled. He�
��s been trying to marry the man off for years.” Roddy finished his breakfast and stood. “Shall we dine at the club tonight, or will you be attending to business?”
“Business, I’m afraid.” He watched his son’s face fall with disappointment before he left Cornelius alone.
“I’m doing all this for you, my boy,” he murmured when the door clicked shut.
Then he left the dining room and proceeded back to his study. He would call upon Sommers one last time. Taking lives seemed not to bother the man and Cornelius needed Sommers’ lethal talents one last time. The man had killed the midwife without hesitation. Now there were only three loose ends. The girl and her parents. Lennox and Boudreaux knew the truth, but without the Wilsons, they had no proof.
* * *
Alistair read through Monmouth’s letter and frowned. A wedding. Tomorrow. Boudreaux worked bloody fast, but Alastair could work faster. He walked over to a tall bookshelf in his study and reached under the edge of one shelf and found a small rough lip underneath. He pulled on the lip and the bookcase creaked and gave way as he pulled it toward him, revealing a small darkened room beyond.
Alastair lit a candle and carried it into the room with him. Then he set the candle on the table and opened a nearby glass cabinet full of various bottles. He reached for one set of bottles with matching images of snakes etched into the labels by his own hand. He set the bottles on the table and approached a wall that held a dozen daggers. Taking a small, sharp one, he placed it on the table, uncorked one of the bottles, and dipped the tip of the dagger into the bottle. When he withdrew it, he watched the liquid drip off the tip. His murky reflection in the silver blade showed his dark smile.
He would let Boudreaux marry the girl. But there would be no blissful wedding night. Alastair dried the blade with a cloth before exiting the secret room and closing the door. He tossed the cloth into the fire and tucked the dagger inside his coat. There were a few more things to set in motion today to ensure Boudreaux’s doom, but they were easily done. He touched the cut still healing on his face, the pinch of pain a reminder of what that girl owed him. He didn’t care if she was the daughter of the king. She would pay for what she’d done, and so would Boudreaux.
Chapter 17
Berkley’s, Beau’s gentleman’s club, was quiet in the late afternoon. Men were either reading the papers or relaxing in the smoking rooms to enjoy a quiet moment away from the bustle of the streets outside. Beau reclined in his favorite chair in the main salon, watching the men come and go from his somewhat hidden spot in the distant corner of the room.
More than one older fellow had taken to napping in these overstuffed chairs, and had he been in a better mood, Beau would have smiled at the occasional snores coming from the nearest man who had a tea cup precariously balanced on one knee whilst he slept. But Beau was far too distracted to really notice. Lennox’s question about New Orleans left him feeling cornered and conflicted.
“Boudreaux?” A voice drew Beau’s focus from his inner thoughts. The Earl of Lonsdale, Charles Humphrey, one of Lennox’s closest friends, stood in the doorway to the salon.
He raised his chin in greeting. “Lonsdale.”
Lonsdale was just passing by the snoring older man when he grinned wickedly as he bent over and whispered something in the man’s ear.
“Oi! Bonaparte is coming!” The old man bellowed as he jumped up from his chair. The teacup rattled onto the red and black oriental carpet, but fortunately did not break.
“You’re about a decade too late for that, old chap.” Lonsdale clapped the man on the shoulder and settled him back into his chair. “And you’d better order a fresh cup of tea.”
Then Lonsdale joined Beau in a nearby chair and leaned into whisper. “Sorry, I cannot abide it when they snore here in the main salon.”
Beau found himself chuckling despite his cloudy mood.
“I hear congratulations are in order. Saw the announcement.”
“Thank you,” Beau said, but his dark mood was now returning.
“You don’t seem to be full of felicitations, my friend.” Charles noted. “Did St. Albans force your hand on the matter?”
“What? No…not exactly. It was my idea.”
“Then what is bothering you? Lennox said the girl is exquisitely beautiful, kind, and intelligent. Those aren’t exactly terrible qualities in a wife.” Lonsdale teased, but there was an earnest concern in his gaze that made Beau wish to unburden his troubles upon the fellow.
“I don’t want to…lord, this sounds foolish. I’m afraid of falling in love with Miss Wilson.”
“Love is a frightening thing indeed.” Lonsdale agreed.
Beau shook his head. “I doubt you understand my meaning. I do not simply wish to hold onto my bachelorhood like some trophy of personal freedom. I’ve seen how wonderful love is, but I’ve also seen how it can destroy a person if lost.”
“No, I understand. Love leaves you exposed, your heart open and easy to be destroyed. It’s not a thing any person should take lightly.”
“My mother,” he paused as he tried to reign in his emotions. “My mother died inside the day my father was executed after the Terror. She was a living shell for years. She loved me, of course, but there was so much of her missing after she lost him. In some ways I felt as though I’d lost her long before she actually died.” He looked at his friend. “That’s the lesson life taught me. Love is loss. Love is pain. Love is unending sorrow.”
Lonsdale leaned back in his chair and for a moment his eyes closed before he spoke.
“What a load of nonsense.”
“Pardon?”
“Love is none of those things. The pain of its absence does not define what love is, Boudreaux. You have to decide what you what in life. A man who risks nothing gains nothing. I never knew your mother, but I can say with some certainty that she would have preferred half a life with your father to a full life without. To reconcile yourself to never knowing love, is to live half a life, no matter how long your years are.” Lonsdale stood and gently touched his shoulder. “But if you cannot be that man who loves against all odds, then set her free. Don’t tie her to you without love. She deserves more.”
Beau’s throat tightened. He’d tried all his life to be a brave man, but he wasn’t sure he could be braver than his mother. He didn’t know if he could survive being a shell if he lost a wife he loved madly.
* * *
Philippa stared at her reflection in the dress shop. The pale blue silk was exquisite and the Belgian lace trimmings cost more than she could ever dream of paying. But her mother told the modiste to spare no expense for her trousseau. Philippa turned a little on the pedestals as two seamstresses pinned parts of the gown in place.
“Ouch!” She gasped at a little flare of pain in her arm.
“I’m so sorry miss, you moved.” The girl pinning her sleeve in place apologized and went on fitting pins.
“The gown will be ready this evening. We shall deliver it to Lord St. Albans’s residence,” the modiste informed Beth, who observed the fitting with overly bright eyes.
“That will be perfect.” Beth sniffed and then looked at Philippa. “Won’t it, dear?”
“Yes,” Philippa agreed.
“The rest of Miss Wilson’s wardrobe will be ready for her honeymoon in two days.” The dressmaker added with pride.
“Have you spoken to Mr. Boudreaux about that yet?” Beth asked Philippa.
“Mama, I scarcely had five minutes alone with him this afternoon when he came to see me.”
“Well, five minutes was scandalous enough,” her mother declared.
Philippa rolled her eyes. Five minutes hadn’t been enough time for anything at all. Beau had simply asked after her health before the weather was spoken about and they revisited the night of Lady Essex’s ball. There had been no talk of Monmouth or Sommers, or anything else of concern. Beau had been cool and distant in a way that worried her. She didn’t want them to marry if he was going to change or pull away.
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“Well perhaps you may tease the details out of him tonight at dinner. I’m sure he will have something grand planned for you. Perhaps a tour of the continent?”
Philippa listened to her mother speak, but after a few moments, she closed her eyes and tried to regain her calm. Perhaps Beau was just as nervous as she was. It was entirely possible he was having second thoughts. She certainly was. She liked Beau more than she should have, but was it enough? Passion faded. What if what lay between them wasn’t strong enough to sustain a lifelong commitment like marriage?
By the time she and her mother had arrived at St. Albans’s home, it was nearly time for dinner. They changed into their evening gowns and when Philippa came downstairs, she found Beau lingering in the foyer.
“Beau?” She walked over to him and he smiled, but the expression seemed forced.
“Good evening, Miss Wilson.”
Philippa stared at him, hurt and stunned by the sudden civility that had been erected between them in the last day. If this was going to be a marriage, she couldn’t let him do this. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into an empty drawing room. She closed the door, sealing them inside and blocked the way out with her body.
“Beau, we must talk. If you do not wish to marry me, then for heaven’s sake, tell me now. It isn’t too late. No one knows what transpired between us and…” She drew in a breath as she realized she was shaking with nerves. “If this passion is an ephemeral thing for you, please do the honorable thing and set me free.”
Beau was quiet, his whiskey colored eyes intense as they bored into her.
“Is it that way for you? An ephemeral passion that wilts as quickly as it blooms?” He stepped closer, his voice lowering; her body responded instantly. What she’d felt for him hadn’t faded at all.
“Of course not,” she said defiantly, her body flushing with desire as he trapped her against the closed door.
“It isn’t for me either,” he promised, yet she saw hesitation. No, it was fear she saw in his eyes.
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