“Do you see it?” Lucinda asked quietly.
“Bloody hell,” Will said under his breath, stepping back. Did Sol have the same fire in his eyes when racing through the streets of London on Corinthian business?
“Never fear, Your Grace,” the dower duchess said, lovingly patting Sol on the neck. “You may have denied him his first love, but I would bet my carriage and matching grays that he’ll take to his new job with even greater enthusiasm.”
His new job? What the devil was she talking about? Will opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but just then, the crowd around them roared to life as the racehorses lined up at the starting post. The Furies joined the crush of humans, pushing their way through with well-aimed pokes of umbrellas. Northrop took his wife’s arm and guided her safely on toward a spot midway down the circular track.
Sol pawed at the ground with his front hooves, his knicker of excitement growing louder. Head up, hooves dancing, ears pricked forward.
“He’s too excitable,” Will told Lucinda as he tightened his grip on the reins. “I can’t allow him any closer to the crowd. If you like, Weston or Talbot would happily escort you to a more suitable viewing spot.”
Lucinda didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and clasped the saddle. “Lift me up,” she demanded.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve not come all this way to miss the race,” she answered, irritation growing in her voice. “The ideal spot for viewing is on the back of this horse. Now, assist me or I shall be forced to ask one of your men.”
Will reluctantly placed his hands about Lucinda’s waist and lifted her into the saddle. He waited to release her until she found her balance in the seat, sitting sideways in a man’s saddle no easy feat. She straightened her pelisse and held out her hand for the reins, silently demanding he give them to her. “Absolutely not,” Will said in no uncertain terms.
Lucinda stared at him with a stony gaze before she shrugged, conceding. “Very well.”
Horns trumpeted and the race began. The ground rumbled beneath the pounding of fifteen sets of thundering hooves. Will felt the rhythm reverberating through his boots and on up through his body. He looked at Lucinda atop Sol and found her focused on the race, shading her eyes with one gloved hand to take in the progress.
“Do you have a favorite?” he called to her over the shouts from the crowd.
“Number four, Braveheart,” she replied, her head turning as she followed the horses.
Will surveyed the pack of five horses that led the way and located Braveheart, a giant chestnut with amazing speed. “He’s fast.” He watched as Braveheart broke from the pack, his long, powerful stride eating up the dirt track. “And if I’m not mistaken, it looks as though he’s about to win.”
Lucinda let out an unladylike shriek of approval. “Run, Braveheart, run!” she yelled, belatedly checking her unabashed enthusiasm with a palm over her mouth.
Will was riveted by Lucinda as she followed the race, her breath quickening with each stride the giant chestnut took, her arms rising in the air, her hands clenched into fists. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself smiling despite the realization that this time with her, when he was allowed to see her for who she truly was, would be short indeed.
He longed to place his hands around Garenne’s neck and put an end to his threat. But Will knew that day would be the last he’d spend in Lucinda’s company. There would be censure following their broken courtship. But he could bear that. Being blackened in polite society was nothing new to him.
But to be denied the pleasure of Lucinda’s company? That, he did not know how he would survive.
Will stared at Lucinda’s profile as she braced her hands on the saddle leather and stretched taller, her head turning to follow the horses as they rounded the last turn. Will watched the final furlong, Braveheart crossing the finish line some three strides in front of the other horses. The crowd erupted with cheers, men slapping one another on the back and women hopping up and down with joy.
“My first Queen’s Cup win!” Lucinda exclaimed, sliding down from her perch atop Sol.
“I’m sorry?” Will queried. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. His lips tightened as he looked down at her, annoyed that she hadn’t waited for his assistance.
Lucinda straightened her pelisse and gown, brushing Sol’s black hairs off her skirt. “There is a certain confidentiality between you agents and their assigned protectees, is there not?”
“Of course,” he replied, still not entirely sure what Lucinda was getting at.
“Excellent. Then there is no danger in sharing our plans with you.” She finished brushing her gown and turned to await the arrival of the rest of their party. “For some time now, my aunts and I have been building a breeding stable. Braveheart is the sire of Winnie’s foal.” She looked up, smiling brilliantly at the approaching party. “And now that he’s won the right to race in the Ascot, that foal is substantially more valuable.”
Will began to piece together tidbits of conversations he’d overheard while in Brampton. The odd comment by Lucinda’s aunt concerning Sol’s impending enthusiasm for an unnamed employment putting everything into focus.
“You see, Your Grace,” Lucinda said, her voice crisp and clear, “my heart may have momentarily gotten in the way of my goal, but this was always about King Solomon’s Mine.”
She smiled as her aunts’ “huzzah!” reached her ears. “And in the end, I’ll have gotten what I wanted all along,” she added.
Will struggled to reply. “You cannot mean—”
“Your Grace, I do not think even your King Solomon’s Mine could have outrun Braveheart today,” Victoria interrupted, exuberant as the group came to stand next to Lucinda and Will.
He nodded, the weight of not being able to address Lucinda’s painful revelation leaving him speechless.
The inner parlor at the rear of Madame Beaufont’s salon was small, to be sure, but the amenities and comfort of the surroundings more than made up for what it lacked in size. Divided from the front of the store by a luxurious length of the palest of pink velvets, the exclusive enclave was reserved for Madame’s best clients. Those ensconced within its fashionably papered walls were treated to a dish of Twinings best pekoe tea, the most delicate of patisseries, and the melodious efforts of a single female harpist tucked neatly into one corner of the cozy room.
Madame Beaufont, whose colorful history rivaled that of any member of the royal family, stood before Lucinda and Amelia, scrutinizing the sleeve of the deep purple taffeta gown being held up by one of her assistants.
Her lips pursed as she fingered a rosette. “Non, this will not do.”
She waved the girl away and turned to gather up a stack of illustrations. “Why a woman of her age insists on such frivolous touches, I will never know.”
Amelia leaned forward. “Yes, that would be Lady … er, her name escapes me …”
Lucinda shot her friend a look. Her attempt at ferreting out the owner of the purple creation was hardly subtle.
Madame Beaufont sat in the chair facing Amelia and Lucinda, fluffing the pink and cream striped pillow to accommodate her petite size. “Lady Northrop, such tricks will not work with me.” She sighed dramatically. “Though, if one were to take note of a gown just that shade on Lady Swindon at the Foster masquerade ball, well …” Her shoulders lifted in a very Gallic shrug as she shuffled through her lapful of drawings. “It would hardly be my fault.”
Amelia bit into an almond biscuit, the smile on her lips bringing to mind a cat who had just swallowed a parakeet. “I knew it,” she said smugly after finishing her bite.
“Tsk, tsk,” Madame Beaufont remonstrated, while clearly enjoying the gossip as much as Amelia. “Now, ladies, we must choose a design for your masquerade gowns immediately or I fear they will not be completed in time.”
Lucinda nibbled at her petite four. Conversations between Madame Beaufont and Amelia always followed the same pattern, Amelia drawing
out as much information as she could manage, while Madame Beaufont groaned over the impossibility of finishing her unique creations within the allotted time. Week in, week out, Amelia walked away from the shop with five to seven new tidbits of gossip, and Madame Beaufont always finished the gowns on time.
Their lively interaction was predictable, something that, Lucinda suddenly realized, was truly comforting. With all that had happened—all that continued to swirl around her—Lucinda was more than content to sit comfortably in Madame Beaufont’s parlor and watch a scenario play out that she’d witnessed countless times before.
The petite Frenchwoman dramatically whisked an illustration from the stack in her hands and held it aloft. “Lady Northrop, the design for this gown came to me in a dream.”
Amelia’s mouth formed a delicate O of delight as she took in the drawing of the evening gown, a frothy confection of pomona green. “It is truly exquisite, Madame Beaufont,” she exclaimed, poring over the lovely illustration.
“Yes,” Madame agreed as she happily eyed the creation. “One of my best, I believe.”
The mousy shop girl returned, bending to whisper in Madame Beaufont’s ear.
The designer scowled, then furiously nodded at the girl. “Ladies, I will return in a moment,” she said apologetically, setting the illustration down and gracefully rising in a rustle and swirl of skirts. She disappeared through the pink curtain, leaving Lucinda and Amelia alone with the harpist.
Amelia peered after her and the moment the curtain settled, she reached for the drawings, only to have her hand rapped with Lucinda’s fan.
“Ouch!” Amelia squeaked, quickly rubbing her knuckles. “Was that entirely necessary?”
Lucinda arched her eyebrows. “It was either that or allow you to bear the brunt of Madame Beaufont’s wrath when she discovered you’d had the audacity to peek,” she answered with a smile.
Amelia returned the expression. “You are a true friend.”
“The truest,” Lucinda agreed, taking a sip of her tea and contemplating eating an almond biscuit.
“Do you love him?”
Startled, Lucinda gasped and choked, nearly dropping the delicate bone china cup into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered, allowing Amelia to take the cup and dabbing at the few drops on her skirt.
“Am I to take that as a yes?” Amelia teased, pouring a fresh cup of tea for Lucinda.
Lucinda accepted it and sipped, the hot, sweet liquid soothing her throat, though it could do little for her nerves. She had agreed not to tell Amelia about Garenne or the Corinthians. And there was no way to explain how she felt about Will without divulging this information.
But she longed to talk to Amelia.
“You’re referring to the duke,” Lucinda said, maintaining her calm composure by carefully not looking directly at Amelia.
Amelia huffed and sat back. “Well, of course I’m speaking of the duke, unless there is another suitor whom I am not aware of.”
Lucinda answered with a shrug and set the fragile china cup and saucer on the table, next to Madame Beaufont’s illustrations. “What do you think?”
Amelia didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Is he aware of your feelings?” she finally asked, her voice gentle.
“Yes,” Lucinda answered simply. “He knows.” She swallowed, afraid of how Amelia would respond.
She was immediately enveloped in her friend’s arms. “And does he return your feelings?” Amelia asked, releasing Lucinda to sit back, the better to see her face.
The relief Lucinda felt at telling Amelia about Will was overwhelming. She shook her head, tears joining the three tiny tea stains that marred her peach gown.
Amelia produced a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and wiped the dampness from Lucinda’s cheeks. “Shhhh,” she soothed.
“You warned me,” Lucinda murmured, her words nearly lost beneath the dulcet tones of the harp.
“It does not matter now,” Amelia assured her, taking Lucinda’s hands in her own. “I have watched Clairemont in your presence, and he clearly feels affection for you,” she said earnestly, pausing to tuck the now damp scrap of fabric into her reticule. “Where there is affection, there is always the possibility that love will grow in time.”
Lucinda tried to smile, but Amelia did not know the whole truth. If she had, her dear friend would never have suggested such a thing.
“You are right, of course,” Lucinda said, squeezing Amelia’s hand, “and I am a behaving like, well, very much as one who has more hair than wit.”
“You are a woman in love,” Amelia stated matter-of-factly, “and therefore have no need to apologize for your behavior.”
“Is this what you wanted for me? All of those suitors you encouraged in the hopes that I would choose one, fall desperately in love, and lose all hope of retaining any semblance of the intelligent, eminently reasonable individual I once was?”
Amelia reached for an almond biscuit, gave it to Lucinda, then selected a second one for herself. “Er, well … yes.”
The two looked at each other as they nibbled the biscuits, then laughed.
“Lucinda,” Amelia said, once their laughter had subsided, “love embellishes your soul, it does not detract. Do you understand?”
Oh, how she wanted to see the sense in Amelia’s statement. The idea of love’s ability to open up her world rather than destroy all she’d carefully built was nearly irresistible. But it was too late for such flights of fancy.
“Am I to understand you approve of my feelings for the duke?” she teased, hoping to move the conversation toward a lighter tone.
“He is handsome enough, I’ll give the man that,” Amelia countered.
Lucinda mindlessly bit into the biscuit and chewed slowly. “Yes, well, he’s not the only attractive man in London. There will be others.”
“Oh no there won’t.”
Lucinda stopped, a sudden sense of unease settling into her stomach. “Come now, your list of eligible bachelors rivals any of the most determined of matchmaking mamas. You’ll find another one soon enough for me.”
Amelia bit into the biscuit and crunched, her eyes taking on the look of a seasoned general. “The duke simply needs the right opportunity to avail you of his true feelings,” she began, squinting her eyes as she visually laid out her plan. “And we shall give him that opportunity.”
Lucinda’s mind raced to catch up with what had just transpired. “I don’t think that such a plan is—”
“Vauxhall!” Amelia nearly screamed, the harpist tripping over her note in response.
“Amelia, I—”
“It’s perfect!” her friend interrupted excitedly. “In fact, that is where John and I first …” She paused, checking herself. “Well, that is another story for another time.”
Madame Beaufont’s distinctive voice called to one of her clerks, just beyond the doorway.
Amelia placed the remainder of the biscuit in her mouth and chewed quickly.
Lucinda did the same, swallowing just before Madame pulled back the curtain and announced, “Now, ladies, where were we?”
“Are you all right?” Will asked, bending down to look at his opponent. The man was sprawled awkwardly on the floor of the ring, one eye swollen shut. A crimson trickle ran from his nose toward his mouth.
“I’ll live, but I’m going to need some help here.”
Will stood to the side while two attendents picked the man up, one taking him at the shoulders abd the other holding tight to his feet.
“I hope it helped.”
Will tensed at Carmichael’s voice but awkwardly patted the battered man once on his shoulder and wished him better luck next time, before turning. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Pounding a succession of opponents,” Carmichael clarified. “I hope it helped.”
Will joined his superior. “Immensely,” Will said sarcastically, then motioned for Carmichael to follow.
The two made their way in silence across
the club to an anteroom just off the entrance. The room was sparsely but comfortably furnished. Will doubted the proprietor would approve of his sweat-soaked body coming in contact with the elegant furniture, but he hardly cared. The room was empty and would afford the privacy the two men needed.
He pulled a chair out for Carmichael and dropped into the one opposite, mopping at his face with a rough linen towel.
“We’ve run out of time.”
Will stopped and looked at Carmichael, his body tightening at the older man’s grim expression. “Time for what?”
“Simply put,” Carmichael began, crossing his legs and assuming a casual appearance should anyone happen in, “we can no longer afford to wait for Garenne to make his move. We must lure him out of hiding.”
Will gripped the arms of his chair. “What do you mean we can no longer afford to wait? I don’t see how we could afford not to.”
Carmichael fingered his signet ring, turning it once, twice, as he pondered his response. “We have limited resources, Will. And much as I would prefer to tell you our assistance is not needed elsewhere, it is. Nearly half of our agents are working this case. It cannot continue.”
Will ran his hands through his hair before propping his elbows on his knees. “What do you propose?”
“You won’t like it,” Carmichael replied, “but we’ve no choice.”
“You know I have no qualms about putting myself in harm’s way.”
Carmichael stared at Will, his face unreadable.
“Bloody hell, man, out with it already,” Will said impatiently.
“It’s not you we need to use, Will. It’s Lady Lucinda.”
Will’s vision turned hazy as he absorbed Carmichael’s words. “You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly so,” Carmichael responded, the lines at each side of his mouth deepening as he grimaced.
“This is Garenne we’re speaking of, not some pickpocket from London’s stews.” Will’s voice remained level, but anger swelled and grew within him. “Lady Lucinda cannot be expected to hold her own against such a man.”
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