The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Carmichael smiled at the reference to his age, no more than half a dozen years separating the two. “Very well, on to business.” He stood, his wiry frame taking little time to unfold. “We’ve received intelligence from several reliable resources in France regarding a kidnapping plot about to be put in play.”

  “And the target?” Will leaned forward, instantly focused on the threat, their conversation about his mistress forgotten. “Wellington himself, perhaps?”

  “No,” Carmichael answered as he started to pace. “No, the goal is money, but this time the target is a wealthy young woman. More specifically, the wealthiest woman in England.”

  Will frowned as he began a mental check of who that might be. Despite his own family’s social significance, he paid little attention to such things, and identifying the chit presented a challenge. “You’ll have to give me a clue, here, old man. I’m afraid my years spent cultivating a rake’s reputation have hardly left me on intimate terms with the ton’s wealthiest debutantes.”

  “Lady Lucinda Grey,” Carmichael answered, stopping just in front of the mullioned window. “Daughter of the late Earl of Sinclair. Or course, the title now belongs to a great uncle. But Lady Lucinda inherited a fortune in unentailed property from her father. Not to mention a townhouse and other bits and baubles from her mother.”

  Will let out a low whistle of appreciation.

  “Do you know her?” Carmichael inquired.

  Will relaxed into his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles while still managing to remain decently covered by the gown. “Lady Lucinda Grey? Only by reputation Good Lord, from what I’ve heard of her, the kidnappers should be fearful. Beautiful, charming, and intelligent enough to deny thousands of men the honor of her hand for nearly a decade. Lady Lucinda will have her captors enthralled in no time.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m afraid we can’t count on her charms and ability alone,” Carmichael began. “Fortunately for our purposes, she’s apparently looking for a husband this season.”

  Carmichael paused, and he looked at Will as if he ought to know what the hell he was talking about.

  “This is where you come in,” he finally added.

  Will straightened and tried to look into Carmichael’s face. But the old man was standing with his back to the window, and his face had been cast into shadow, making it difficult to read his expression.

  Will cleared his throat and began carefully, choosing each word with the same precision he reserved for his work. “I’m not sure I understand, especially in light of our conversation a few moments ago. I’ve spent years cultivating a reputation guaranteed to make the ton believe I’m an irredeemable rake. It’s been an excellent cover. I’m the last man anyone would believe to be looking for a wife, never mind the richest, most sought-after woman in all of England.”

  “Your reputation is an impediment in this instance, I’ll admit. But you are, after all, the best actor among all the Corinthians, are you not?”

  Will leaned a bit to the right but, much to his frustration, still couldn’t see Carmichael’s face clearly. “Flattery will get you nowhere, old man. Besides, why not hedge your bets and use someone who actually has a prayer of breathing the same air as Lady Lucinda. Talbot or Wharton would be perfect. They’re such, such …” He waved a hand, searching for the appropriate term.

  “ ‘Gentlemen’ is the word I believe you’re looking for.”

  Will shifted to the left but still could not see Carmichael well. “Yes, gentlemen, or in other words, men who would be allowed within ten paces of the woman. Unless it is your intention to terrify the chit. One look at me and she’d succumb to a fit of the vapors.”

  “Oh, but you have something that no other man in England has,” Carmichael said with calm conviction. “And it’s something she desperately wants.”

  Will stood and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned his forearm on the mantel. “What could I possibly have that Lady Lucinda Grey would desire?”

  He had a clear view of Carmichael now and easily read the satisfaction on the man’s face.

  “King Solomon’s Mine.”

  Will was confused. “Why would the richest woman in all of England want my horse? She could buy a stableful of champions.”

  Carmichael moved around the desk to stand in front of Will. “King Solomon’s Mine, as you well know, was bred in Oxfordshire on the Whytham estate, which borders Lady Lucinda’s Bampton Manor.”

  “But why would a woman want a horse merely because he was bred next door?”

  “You know women. They’re softhearted creatures with minds of steel. And once those minds are made up … well,” Carmichael shrugged “there’s little that can be done to change them. Our intelligence tells us Lady Lucinda was present at King Solomon’s Mine’s birth and she spent much time thereafter with him. Apparently, she developed a fondness for the colt and considered him her special project. That is, until you won him.”

  Will had a brief, swift flash of memory. The look of sheer disbelief on Whytham’s face when he realized he’d lost the son of Triton’s Tyranny had made it a truly unforgettable hand of cards.

  “That’s all well and good, but what does my owning the horse have to do with Lady Lucinda allowing me into her company?”

  “Rumor has it she enjoys a challenge,” Carmichael answered. He glanced at his engraved watch fob and frowned before abruptly tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. “You’re a resourceful man. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Carmichael’s tone worried Will. He’d known the man too long to be fooled by his seemingly casual words. “Surely you don’t expect me to offer her Sol in a wager of some sort?” He didn’t add he’d rather lose a limb than the stallion. The comment would only serve to confirm Carmichael’s suspicion that Will had a much softer heart than he would ever admit.

  “As I said, you’re a resourceful young man.”

  Will would have pressed further, but the look on Carmichael’s face stopped him cold. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Come now, old man, what is it?”

  “It’s Garenne.”

  Will froze. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s involved.”

  “No.” Will shook his head, refusing to believe it. “That’s impossible. He’s dead. I saw the body with my own eyes.” The night the Corinthians had taken the French assasin down on a nondescript Parisian street was seared into his memory. The organization had breathed a collective sigh of relief with the death of Garenne.

  Carmichael cleared his throat. “What was it you called him—the Chameleon?”

  “He had a gift for disguises, that much is true,” Will said brusquely. “But the man’s size, his clothing …” He wanted to convince Carmichael, wanted to convince himself. “We received intelligence. It guaranteed that we had the right man.”

  “We’ve confirmed sightings of him in Paris,” Carmichael said quietly. “And two recent killings of Corinthians involved his calling card.”

  Will felt his stomach roil at the thought of Garenne’s signature. The sadist left each of his victims with a fanciful letter “G” carved into his left breast, the knife strokes revealing the victim’s heart, left exposed by the crude cuttings of a madman.

  Will flexed his hands before curling them into fists, slamming one and then the other onto the polished top of the massive oak desk.

  “He’s rumored to be working for Fouché,” Carmichael added.

  “Napolean must be trying to stick his bloody fingers in every pie on the Continent,” Will said tersely.

  “I’m afraid keeping up with Joseph Fouché’s political loyalties is an exhausting task indeed,” Carmichael answered. “No, it seems the man now supports the House of Bourbon. They’ll stop at nothing to secure control of the continent—perhaps England as well.”

  Will looked up at Carmichael, whose brows were knit together in concern. “I suppose you’ve a starting point for me, then?” he said, car
efully resuming his air of insouciance.

  Carmichael took a pasteboard card from his breast pocket. “I suggest turning yourself over to Smithers. The Mansfield ball is this evening and we’ve confirmed that Lady Lucinda will be in attendance.” He offered the invitation to Will and walked to the door, pausing to look back. A wry smile tilted his mouth as his gaze flicked to Will’s bare toes and back up to his face. “A shave might be in order. She likes her suitors properly turned out. And breeches. Do not forget the breeches.”

  Will moved to the window and looked out at the garden. The sight of hyacinths, pansies, and a whole host of other flowers that he could not name did little to soothe the growing doubts in his mind. Corinthian business was never a neat and tidy affair. Subterfuge demanded an often skewed view of right and wrong—something that had heretofore suited Will’s less than traditional view of life.

  It’s not as if I’ve never lied to a woman before, he thought as he turned from the window and rested his shoulder against the heavy velvet curtain. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but to live as he did and to be an effective agent for Carmichael often made the truth more dangerous than any lie ever could be.

  No, it wasn’t the lie that bothered him, but perhaps the intent. To court a woman for the entire ton to see—Will paused mid-thought, nearly shuddering as he steadied himself before crossing to his desk. For a man to engage in a series of activities with the believed goal to be matrimony … Well, that was a different animal altogether.

  Carmichael had spoken the truth when he reminded Will of his expert acting skills. He picked up a cut-crystal paperweight and addressed it in Hamlet-like fashion. “The woman doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Will knew it. Carmichael knew it. The only individual involved in their scheme who was ignorant of this fact would be Lady Lucinda.

  Gently replacing the weight to its proper place, Will straightened his dressing gown and reknotted the silk sash. Could he win the heart of an honorable woman? Could he do so with the knowledge that he would, in the end, break it?

  Of course he could. A man in his position couldn’t afford a conscience. Why his conscience had chosen this particular moment to come to life, he didn’t know.

  In truth, to leave the woman to the likes of Garenne was unthinkable. He’d rather slit his own throat than allow the madman another chance to kill.

  “Bloody hell,” Will swore, padding across the thick Turkish rug with a newfound resolution. “It’s the horse that has me worried,” he said to no one in particular as he opened the door. “He really is a fine horse.”

  “Bloody hell, Carmichael.”

  Will eyed the elegantly dressed throng from his coach window. The crowd ebbed and flowed, moving at an imperceptible pace toward the Mansfield mansion. Traffic slowed to a crawl and then a halt. Horses whinnied and stamped, gentlemen offered their arms to twittering ladies, who—if the overheard snippets of their inane conversations were any indication—had lost their heads over the excitement of the evening ahead.

  “And I’m not even in the door yet,” he grumbled, pressing his weight against the carriage door and releasing the latch.

  His footman leapt down from the back of the coach and scrambled to hold the door. He gave Will a quizzical look. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?

  Will straightened his coat and took a deep breath. “Nothing, Hugh. Nothing at all.”

  Stepping over a steaming pile of horse dung, he crossed the street and joined the crowd. Almost at once he felt the stares. Then came the whispers, and after that, the urgent conversations clearly concerning him. The crowd parted before him, too stunned to utter a greeting.

  “I am apparently Moses,” he said under his breath, thinking it was a damned shame he hadn’t been able to precede his visit with locusts and flies.

  He would, however, draw the line at the death of the firstborn sons. Even he had standards.

  With cynical amusement, he made his way into the foyer, eyeing the cluster of ladies and gentlemen climbing the wide marble stairs. With each moment the din from the ballroom seemed to grow in volume, and his annoyance peaked again. Carmichael knew full well what Will thought of polite society—and what they thought of him. His reputation as a hot-tempered man with little interest in propriety was well established. It had served his cover well, as it had his personal life, if he was completely honest. No one bothered to look beneath his gruff exterior, a fact Will acknowledged with both satisfaction and an occasional, but rare, twinge of regret.

  And if tonight he actually convinced the fashionable set of his sincere desire to take his rightful place in their midst, what then?

  He’d have to live with the ton’s smugly satisfied belief that he’d acquiesced to his dead father’s wishes and returned, tail between his legs, to assume the mantle of familial responsibility.

  Realizing fortification was in order, he abruptly stopped a footman scurrying past with a tray of empty punch cups. “Brandy. Now. I’ll wait there.” He pointed at the anteroom opening off the foyer.

  The young man promptly jumped to the task, tipping the tray as he went, the sound of clanking cups punctuating his progress.

  Will had just enough time to enter the room and prop himself against the cream damask wall before the footman returned. He drank the brandy in one swallow and returned the glass to the tray with a decisive click.

  “Thank you, my good man.”

  The liveried servant bowed and departed.

  Savoring the slow burn as the brandy snaked its way to his belly, Will forced himself up the stairs and reached the receiving line.

  Lord Mansfield, a portly man whose circumference nearly matched his height, smiled broadly and offered his hand. “Clairemont, welcome. It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure of lightening your pockets at Brooks,” he said with a wink.

  “If memory serves, Mansfield,” Will drawled, “I believe I won the last time we played a hand.”

  “Indeed,” Mansfield chuckled wryly.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Mansfield interrupted, nearly elbowing her husband aside as she inserted herself into the conversation. “You honor us with your presence,” she gushed.

  “Lady Mansfield.” Will inclined his head in an appropriate ducal acknowledgment. “Thank you for your gracious invitation.”

  “Oh, but no, Your Grace, it is we who are honored that you have joined us this evening,” she answered, offering her hand and curtsying to Will before shooting a look of elated satisfaction at the nearby members of the ton.

  “Clairemont, my wife, Lady Mansfield.” Lord Mansfield met Will’s gaze in silent apology. “Priscilla,” he muttered, turning to the woman while carefully avoiding the exuberant lavender plumage protruding somewhat her purple turban. “Do behave.”

  Will tamped down his initial urge, which was to silence her with a cold stare. He thought better of it—for both Mansfield’s sake and his own. If ever there was a moment to establish himself as a changed man, this was it.

  He took Lady Mansfield’s plump, bejeweled fingers in his hand and bowed perfunctorily. “My pleasure, I assure you. In truth, I’ve been absent far too long from an assembly such as—”

  She gripped his hand and gave him a sympathetic look. “Yes, yes, far too long, my dear boy. Why, only last month I happened upon Her Grace while in Bath. She is such a dear woman, your mother. And when I asked after you in passing, I must say that she hastily skirted the subject, offering very little information.” She paused for effect, raising an eyebrow at Will and leaning in to murmur conspiratorially. “It was clear she worries after you.”

  Will froze, hating that he had to remind himself he was playing a part. Hell, hating that he was playing a part.

  The woman interrupts you when speaking, calls you “dear boy” as though she were your doting aunt from Aberdeen, and has the audacity to assume she knows the private thoughts of your mother. Dear God, he thought, she’s a walking trial by fire. Live through this introduction and the remainder of the evening
will be a breeze.

  What was it Carmichael was constantly prattling on about, he wondered? Ah, yes, counting. Count to ten and breathe. Will began his slow ascent to the double digits, his chest expanding and contracting in time.

  “Yes, well,” he said, finding his equilibrium somewhere around thirteen. Smoothly, he extricated his hand from her clutching fingers. “My mother is an exemplary parent.” Will’s voice held only a hint of sarcasm as he nodded and stepped back, determined to extricate himself from Lady Mansfield’s too sympathetic clutches and make his way into the ballroom.

  Laying a restraining hand on his arm, Lady Mansfield began, “Oh, my dear boy, you can be assured that I’ll convey your words to her upon our very next meeting and I’m certain …”

  “My dear, let the poor man go.” Lord Mansfield pulled his wife to his side, removing her hand from Will’s sleeve and clearing his way to escape. “Save me a spot at the hazard table, will you?” he asked Will.

  Will gave Mansfield a look of thanks and nodded. “A glutton for punishment, I see. Just as well,” he continued, smoothly stepping out of Lady Mansfield’s reach. “I always enjoy a sound thrashing at the card table—not mine, of course.”

  He heard Mansfield chuckle behind him as the crowd cleared a path for him. He moved toward the ballroom, the din growing louder as he neared, then paused in the doorway.

  The noise hit him first, exaggerated and grating, bits of laughter and feigned interest, colorful gossip and tart reproaches all competing against one another.

  The heat was next. The combination of hundreds of candles and even more swirling and animated bodies left little fresh air beneath the glittering chandeliers. The sights were as he had remembered from every other ball he’d attended as a younger man, newly on the town. Jewel-toned dresses interspersed throughout the milder tones of pinks, yellows, and blues. Blondes and brunettes, milky-skinned misses and eager young bucks, aged dowagers and graying lords, some dancing, others conversing, while the wallflowers lined the periphery, valiantly trying not to look desperate.