The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “William?”

  He looked to see his mother at his side, her eyes filled with concern. “Yes?”

  “Are you quite all right?”

  For the first time that he could recall, he wanted to answer her honestly, but knew he could not. To confess even a small piece of the truth might put her in danger. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Well …” She touched her nape, smoothing the tendrils there with a gloved hand, “Lady Lucinda and her aunts arrived some time ago and you’ve yet to join them.”

  His gaze followed Her Grace’s and found the four women in question standing together—conversing with Lady Swindon.

  “Bloody hell,” Will growled, his neckcloth growing tighter with each breath.

  He looked apologetically at the duchess. “Forgive me, Mother.”

  “No need, William. Though I spend my days in the country, I am as aware of Lady Swindon as anyone else. Do you plan on rescuing Lucinda,” she queried, her gaze returning to the group. “Or shall I?”

  Will gave his mother an appreciative look then made his way across the large room. Though no crystal had been thrown, nor did any of the Furies appear to be threatening to pummel Lady Swindon within an inch of her life, Will knew immediate action was necessary.

  “Ladies,” he drawled, joining the group and standing next to Lucinda. His arm brushed hers and he felt the swift tensing of her slim body.

  There was an awkward pause, the Furies acknowledging his presence with notable discomfort, while Lady Swindon simply smiled, clearly enjoying the entire episode.

  “Your Grace,” Lucinda replied in a clear, controlled tone, laying her hand on Will’s arm. “You just missed Lady Swindon’s nearly encyclopedic recounting of Iron Will’s adventures.”

  Will looked at Lady Swindon. Perhaps he should have left her to the Furies. “You cannot believe everything you hear,” he commented.

  “Oh, Your Grace, modesty does not become you.” Lady Swindon’s voice was a sultry innuendo, her gaze blatantly traveling the length of him.

  The audacity and inappropriateness of her appraisal wasn’t lost on the Furies. Their eyes collectively widened before narrowing with affront.

  The Duchess of Highbury stepped toward Lady Swindon, her demeanor taking on a decidedly terrier menace. “Lady Swindon, let me tell you exactly—”

  “Dinner is served.”

  Never in his life had Will been more thankful for the readiness of a meal. “Let us adjourn to the dining room,” he interrupted Lucinda’s aunt before she had an opportunity to elaborate.

  The group split up, Will leading the way with Lucinda on his arm.

  He bent toward her, the tantalizing citrus scent of her hair teasing his nostrils. “I apologize.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, Your Grace,” she murmured, the placid nature of her smile in direct contrast to her biting tone. “There are so many things for which you should feel remorse.”

  Will had expected her to reject his apology, though he’d underestimated the strength of the stab of pain her icy tone inflicted.

  “Understand this,” she continued, lowering her voice further as they neared the dining room. “You’ve taken nearly everything from me. But you’ll not steal my reputation.” She released his arm and demurely clasped her hands at her waist. “I’ll continue this charade, but in the end it is you who will bear the blame. Not I.”

  “Of course.” Somehow, he managed to keep his tone light and his expression mild as the room filled with chattering dinner guests.

  Lucinda took note of those around her with a gracious smile, then turned back to Will. “The stage is yours, Your Grace.”

  “I will carve him up and put him in a stew.”

  Lucinda, Charlotte, and Bessie all looked up from their open books and eyed Victoria, their expressions reflecting equal parts surprise and horror at such a statement.

  “I beg your pardon?” Charlotte said.

  Victoria closed her book with an audible thwack and drummed her fingers on the table. “Clairemont. I believe he’d do best in a stew, though I suppose it’s possible that he’d suit a shepherd’s pie as well.”

  They were gathered, as they frequently were, in the library, all four of them seated around the large, square table they’d brought with them from the country. It had been built according to the women’s specifications; thus, its width and length was more than large enough to accommodate all four of them as well as any number of books, writing instruments, paper, and—more often than not—various and assorted tea cups and china plates.

  It was their favorite spot, and this afternoon should have seemed like any other afternoon, and indeed it would have done were it not for the stony-faced Young Corinthian standing just to the right of the entryway.

  Lucinda could not help but glance his way before turning back to her aunt. “Aunt Victoria, do lower your voice. Please.”

  “Pish-posh.” Victoria glared at the agent. “I am quite sure worse has been said of the man—and in much more colorful language, to boot!”

  “Yes, let us all be thankful that you’ve shown a modicum of restraint,” Bessie said sarcastically. “After all, you just as easily could have suggested we fillet the man or stuff an apple in his mouth and roast him whole.”

  “Excellent idea!” Victoria countered, her expression brightening.

  “Really?” Bessie said with interest. “I thought the pig suggestion to be slightly de trop.”

  “Ladies,” Charlotte interrupted, sipping her tea before setting the delicate Wedgwood cup down. “Can we all agree that the carving up and cooking of the duke would hardly be productive—or polite?”

  Her two sisters pondered Charlotte’s request, then begrudgingly nodded their agreement.

  “Thank you,” Lucinda said with relief, turning her attention back to Gerald Hobson’s dry but comprehensive Timing and Rate of Skeletal Maturation in Horses. While Lucinda normally approached such topics with unabashed interest, she had to admit that she was having difficulty mustering the enthusiasm for equine anatomy today.

  Of course, it didn’t help matters that nearly all of Lucinda’s energy had been tapped for more personal reasons, chief among them keeping herself from collapsing in tears in front of her aunts.

  She’d known this would be hard. From the moment Will had told her the truth, she’d known. But somehow she’d thought it would just be when she saw him, that when she was not in the same room with him, it would be different. She’d thought … She didn’t know what she’d thought, just that if she was going to cry, it wouldn’t be in public. It wouldn’t be anywhere but in her own room, with her own pillow muffling the sound.

  But now, every time one of her aunts looked at her, her insides began to shake, and she had to look away, or claim she was about to sneeze.

  It was awful. It was exhausting. She’d half expected to not wake this morning.

  And the night before—dear God, that had been the worst. Why she ever thought she could manage the dinner party at Landsdowne House, she would never know. Lucinda and her aunts had barely entered the drawing room before Lady Swindon swooped down on them like a perfectly groomed vulture. It had been an astounding violation of polite rules, and nearly enough to undo Lucinda.

  And then there was Will. Lucinda had not been so hen-witted to think she could avoid him the entire evening, but when he’d come to her rescue, it had somehow made everything even worse.

  He wasn’t supposed to be her hero. Damm it, he wasn’t allowed to be her hero, not after what he’d done to her.

  It had been a harrowing few days. Learning her life was in danger was terrifying enough on its own, but when paired with Will’s betrayal? It was more than any woman could be expected to bear. Her heart absolutely ached with fear and sorrow.

  And now she had to pretend as if nothing had happened. She’d had no choice in the matter; the Corinthians had made it clear that her cooperation was vital to the successful completion of the mission. He
r aunts’ too. Until this Frenchman—le Comte de Gareene was his name—was captured, none of them could safely go on with their lives.

  Lucinda had agreed that her courtship with Will would continue on, exactly as it had prior to the kidnapping attempt. All of their social engagements and outings would remain on the calendar. From the outside, everything would look precisely the same.

  But Lucinda could not have been more aware that her life had changed completely, the army of Corinthians assigned to her safety hardly allowing for privacy of any kind.

  And through it all, she could not stop blaming herself. It was easier, and far more satisfying, to insist that this was all Will’s fault, that he had used her and lied to her, and that she had been an innocent victim.

  But she knew that she too was culpable. Despite everything her aunts had taught her, she had made the mistake of listening to her untried heart. She had trusted too soon, been far too quick to believe her own daydreams. She never should have entertained such romantic notions, let alone acted on them. And though it was cold comfort that she was hardly the first woman to fall for Iron Will, the knowledge did provide some small measure of relief.

  “Lucinda?”

  She looked up, blinking. Victoria was regarding her with a quizzical expression, and Lucinda did not want to guess at how many times her aunt had called out her name.

  “Did you find the answer?” Victoria asked.

  Lucinda shook her head. “I’m still looking,” she mumbled. On the same page. She’d been on the same page for forty minutes. She looked back down and tried to read.

  Special care must be given to syndromes of the patella.

  She was pretty sure she’d read that already.

  Bloody … stupid … If one of her horses had to be put down because of a knee injury, she was blaming Will. It was his fault she couldn’t concentrate on the text.

  Will.

  He was an awful man.

  Truly, truly awful.

  And he’d never said that he loved her.

  Should she have suspected something sooner? Had she been a fool to believe he simply could not put into words what he felt for her?

  Well, yes, obviously.

  She’d been a complete fool, but worse than that, she’d expressed her love for him, a man who was simply doing his job and nothing more.

  It would be so easy to lose herself in anger, to blame him for taking advantage of her. To hate him for the emotions she’d believed he’d shared with her, all the while he was aware he was only playing a role.

  But Lucinda was never one for taking the easy route. She preferred to do something right or not at all.

  Years from now, she would look back on this as a lesson learned, she vowed. And for now, she would do what was necessary to keep herself and her family safe, even if it meant pretending that she was the woman she’d been before.

  “Lucinda, dear,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Are you well this morning?”

  Her question pulled Lucinda from her thoughts and she looked up. All three of her aunts watched her with varying expressions of concern, the expanse of the cluttered library table separating them.

  Lucinda forced a smile. She and Charlotte had decided to keep the truth of Lucinda’s feelings for Will a secret from both Victoria and Bessie. The two had been so angry over being kept in the dark by the Corinthians that the revelation of Lucinda’s broken heart would surely have forced them over the edge.

  “Yes,” Lucinda said, giving the beloved trio a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

  It was not so hard, after all, to lie, Lucinda realized, turning back to her book.

  Garenne would not leave anything to chance this time. The extreme discomfort he found in failure was a new and unappealing sensation and one not easily quelled. Even slitting the throat of a street urchin who had dared to cross his path that evening had done little to abate the vicelike grip that the pain currently held on his skull.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked the petite blonde sitting across from him, her cold green eyes taking in their surroundings with catlike precision.

  “No,” she said simply, her beautiful face devoid of emotion.

  He drained his tankard of ale and gestured for the serving girl. “Good.” He preferred to keep their conversation minimal. “You will succeed,” he told her. “Or you will die.”

  She didn’t flinch only reached across the table and picked up the soft leather pouch, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her cape, then nodding. “You’ve no need for concern.”

  And with that she was gone, silently making her way to the tavern’s door and disappearing into the night.

  Garenne felt the pressure of the note in his breast pocket. Fouché was growing impatient, even going so far as to question Garenne’s abilities. The imbecile was lucky he was safely in France, with the width of the English Channel between him and death.

  The woman came highly recommended.

  She would succeed, or he would kill her himself.

  A horse race of some importance, the Queen’s Cup took place in late April of every year. The ton made their way annually along the King’s Road to Camden, only a few miles outside London. The queen in question had been Anne, who had, upon delightedly discovering a large parcel of flat land during one of her riding expeditions, purchased the hundred acres in order to establish the yearly event.

  The popularity of the race had grown over the years, and now the crowds nearly overflowed the grounds.

  Will surveyed the noisy gathering from his station near the starting post and grimaced. He’d protested until he was hoarse with the effort, but Lucinda would not yield: She would attend the Queen’s Cup with or without him. Her love of horses, once endearing, was becoming downright irritating.

  “You really must work on a less ferocious facial expression,” Northrop drawled, reining his bay gelding next to Sol and Will.

  “But this one works so well in keeping most away,” Will said sarcastically to his friend.

  The two observed the scene in silence. Excited Thoroughbreds pranced and snorted in anticipation, their owners preening over the prized equines while jockeys prepared themselves mentally for the race. The crowd milled about, enjoying the sun and festive frivolity.

  “Utter chaos,” Northrop remarked.

  Will nodded in agreement.

  “You should have told me.”

  Will gave him a quizzical look. “You’ve attended the Queen’s Cup before, surely.”

  “Not about the race, Clairemont,” his friend replied, “about Lady Lucinda.”

  Will scowled. Carmichael had enlisted Northrop’s help despite Will’s protests, making the already complicated situation even more so.

  “You didn’t really believe I’d reformed, did you?” Will kept his tone light, careless.

  “You should have told me.”

  “You know very well I couldn’t, so there’s no point in belaboring the point, is there?” Will shot back, but he could hear his voice changing, his carelessness unraveling to reveal a darker emotion.

  Northrop heeded the warning and broke their stare, turning to look over his shoulder at his wife, who stood chatting with Lucinda and her aunts. “Amelia fears that Lady Lucinda has a tendre for you.”

  Will kept his eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “What good does it do to discuss this?”

  “And you? Do you love her?”

  Will stiffened, hands tightening on the reins. Sol shifted uneasily; he tossed his head and whinnied. “I have a duty to perform, and it doesn’t include love.”

  A chorus of horns signaled the imminent beginning of the race.

  Northrop turned his mount toward the women, pausing to look once more at Will. “I wasn’t aware that with one you couldn’t have the other.”

  Will reined in Sol and they fell into step next to Northrop and his gelding, the two picking their way across the flattened grass and churned-up ground to join the ladies.

  Amelia greeted Northrop with such
love in her eyes that Will felt a sudden stab of jealousy slice mercilessly through his already fractured heart.

  Lucinda’s look was pleasant enough, but the stark contrast between the two left Will cold.

  The Furies, however, quickly brought him back to reality. The duchess pinned him with a vengeful glare, while the marchioness haughtily turned away with a huff. Lady Charlotte maintained an air of politeness, acknowledging him with a nod of her head. “Your Grace, a lovely day for a race, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Will dismounted, Sol’s reins held loosely in his hand. “Indeed, Lady Charlotte, it is.”

  “One might wonder how you could possibly enjoy the race, burdened with what must surely be an unbearably heavy conscience,” the dower duchess interjected, walking around to face Sol.

  The entire group turned to stare at her, their eyes wide with shock.

  She returned their stares with composure.

  “Surely I’m not the only one to question the sanity of a man who would keep a horse such as King Solomon’s Mine from his destiny?” the woman queried, stroking Sol’s silky mane.

  “Why would one assume Sol wants to race simply because he is fast?” Will countered, barely maintaining his composure.

  “He is a Thoroughbred, Your Grace.” She shot Will a look of utter disgust. “And not just any Thoroughbred, but the son of Triton’s Tyranny. Racing is in his blood. It is what he was bred and born to do.”

  Will had to admit that Sol’s quickness had everything to do with why Will found him invaluable. The stallion’s speed was absolutely essential to Will’s success as a Corinthian. Still, he could hardly point out such a thing, not with Lady Northrop present.

  “He appears perfectly happy to me,” Will answered, standing back to eye Sol critically.

  Lucinda joined her aunt, her affection and admiration for the horse obvious as she reached out to caress his velvety nose. “Look in his eyes, Your Grace.”

  Will walked forward and stared directly into the large, black eyes. They flickered with curiosity and excitement. He’d heard tell of a horse having a kind eye, the relaxed, open nature of the expression speaking to the horse’s state of mind. But this was something different. Sol exhibited an eagerness that was nearly palpable as he looked away from Will and chose instead to watch the ebb and flow of the noisy crowd and the horses.