On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  It was easy for Amanda to confide, breathless with relief, that the cloud over Martin’s name would soon be lifted. When the girls, who’d heard whispers of the old scandal, eagerly looked for an explanation, she divulged all they needed to know, skating over the details of the old crimes but ensuring they had a firm grasp of what was to occur later that afternoon and, even more importantly, the expected outcome and all that would ensue.

  Delighted, Emily and Anne declared it seemed just like a fairy tale. Exchanging glances, Amanda and Amelia encouraged them further, confident that both girls would sit in their carriage and happily chatter to their mother all the way home, with Edward sitting by listening in.

  There was no safe way to confirm that Edward had heard all the necessary details. Martin, on horseback, screened by low-hanging branches, watched the unfolding scene, watched Emily and Anne part from Amanda and Amelia and return to their mother’s open landau. Edward climbed in and sat beside his mother. The landau rumbled off along the Avenue.

  It passed Martin, concealed beneath the tree; he heard Anne relate: “It—the diary—is to arrive at five today!” Shaking the reins, he ambled out, following the carriage, not close enough to be sighted amid the other traffic but close enough to keep the Ashfords in view.

  The girls talked non-stop. His aunt smiled, nodded and questioned. Edward sat next to her, po-faced, utterly still. When the carriage reached Ashford House, Edward descended, handed his mother down, then his sisters. Lady Calverton swept up the steps; Emily followed. Anne stepped out in her sister’s wake—Edward stopped her.

  From the corner of the street, Martin watched as Edward interrogated Anne. In sisterly fashion, Anne heaved a sigh and recited answers. Eventually satisfied, Edward let her go; she climbed the steps and went in. Edward remained on the pavement, his expression unreadable, then he whirled and strode quickly inside.

  Martin watched him go, then returned to Park Lane to make his report.

  After that . . . throughout the day, he and Amanda had to play the part of ecstatic lovers, projecting the image of a couple for whom the last hurdle to wedded bliss was teetering, about to fall. As indeed it was, but they were so keyed up, so focused on what would occur later, that billing and cooing was an unexpected strain. In large part, he left it up to her. Plastering a smile on his face, he aimed it at anyone who came up, stayed planted by her side, and thought of other things.

  Until she jabbed him in the ribs. Turned a sweet smile on him. Her eyes sparked. “Your face keeps changing. It starts pleasantly besotted, then gradually gets harder until you look positively grim! Lady Moffat just asked if you’re feeling quite the thing.”

  “Well . . .” He stopped himself from frowning at her. “I’m distracted.”

  “So think of something else—distract yourself with something else. Something pleasant.”

  There was only one thing he could think of that might work.

  It did. The discovery that, despite all, she was still so deliciously flusterable, focused his predatory senses, and after that, an interlude in Lady Carlisle’s music room while all her ladyship’s other guests were indulging in post-prandial discourse on the lawns, seemed the perfect opportunity to distract them both.

  Her shivering sigh as he slid into her was the sweetest music he had ever heard, her soft, smothered, keening cry as he drove her to ecstasy and she shattered in his arms the ultimate benediction.

  When they drifted back to earth, finally caught their breath, she lifted her head, studied his eyes, then her lips, swollen from his kisses, curved in a smug smile. She scored her nails lightly up his nape, an evocative caress that made him shiver. She touched her lips to his. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

  “Always.”

  He kissed her back. Realized they were both still too tense, too wound tight with expectation. Realized her ladyship’s guests had much yet to discuss.

  Decided to give them something more.

  They gathered at five in Martin’s library. Reggie and Jules’s nephew, Joseph, currently acting in Jules’s stead, had rearranged the furniture, swapping the daybed with a chaise from further down the long room.

  “It was too distracting,” Reggie declared when Amanda stood staring at the replacement chaise.

  She had to admit that was true. Noting the daybed, still intact but at the other end of the room, she nodded. “It does make this area more formal.”

  “Precisely.”

  Luc joined them, nodding briskly. “The other four all know, but I saw no sign that any of them might interfere. Quite the opposite—they seemed delighted you were so close to clearing your name.”

  Martin’s lips twisted. “Edward knows at least the vital details.”

  Luc met his gaze. “So the trap is set.”

  They settled to wait.

  The library shared a wall with the front hall; when the front doorbell pealed, they all tensed. Listened to Joseph’s footsteps cross the hall. Listened as he spoke to the caller.

  It quickly became apparent that whoever the caller was, it wasn’t anyone they’d expected; they listened as Joseph strove to get rid of the gentleman. But the voices behind the wall only rose higher; Amanda frowned. The tone seemed familiar . . .

  Then she heard her name. Realized who it was.

  “Good God!” Reggie glanced at her. “Isn’t that—?”

  She snapped her mouth shut, surged to her feet. “I’ll deal with this.”

  By the time she reached the front hall, her temper was on a seriously strained leash. Joseph heard her coming, glanced around, then stepped back and left the field to her. Left her facing the gentleman who had forced his way into the front hall.

  “Mr. Lytton-Smythe!” Eyes narrow, she drew herself up. “I believe you were asking for me?”

  Any wise man hearing her tones would have turned tail and run. Percival tugged down his waistcoat and frowned at her. “Indeed.” He locked a hand about her wrist. “You will please me by leaving this house this instant!”

  “What?” Amanda recoiled. Percival was gentleman enough not to drag on her arm, but neither did he release her; he stepped further into the hall as she stepped back.

  Amanda halted and glared at him. “Mr. Lytton-Symthe, you appear to have taken leave of your senses! What has got into you?”

  “Nothing at all—I have merely reached the limit of my patience. I have been—I am sure anyone would agree—extremely forbearing. I have watched you play games with others”—he wagged a finger at her—“and not sought to curtail such lighthearted pastimes. A last fling before taking on the sober mantle of marriage was reasonable enough, and while I can excuse your motives in assisting the rehabilitation of a relative of close friends, I of course did my duty to ensure that no interaction of a scandalous nature could ensue.”

  Amanda had been following his diatribe, absolutely astounded, but she fastened on that confession like a terrier. “Are you saying that you were the one who sent those girls out to Lady Arbuthnot’s courtyard? And the other times—on the terrace at the Fortescues’, and the Hamiltons’ library? You thought to avoid scandal?”

  Nose in the air, he nodded. She stared at him. “Why?”

  “That ought to be obvious. I could not marry a lady whose reputation had been besmirched, however innocently. Now, given our agreement, I insist that you leave this house immediately. I’d heard you’d gone north, I assumed to visit relatives and so went to visit my aunt, only to learn on my return that you’ve been spending your time even more openly in Dexter’s pocket. I will not stand for it. Now—”

  “To which agreement are you referring, sir?”

  Her tone finally penetrated; Percival stiffened. “To your agreement to marry me, of course.”

  “Mr. Lytton-Symthe, I can with a clear conscience swear that I have never, not ever, given you the slightest encouragement to believe I would welcome your suit.”

  Percival frowned at her as if she were splitting hairs. “Well, of course you haven’t! Not the sort
of thing a well-bred young lady would speak of—quite rightly, too. But I’ve made my position plain, and as there’s no impediment to our marriage, there’s no reason for you to say anything.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh, yes, there is. If I intend to marry a man, I will tell him—you may be absolutely sure of that. I will tell him out loud, in plain words and without the slightest blush! I will make up my own mind who I will marry, and I will definitely voice my decision. If you’d done me the courtesy of asking, I would have told you that in your case, my answer was and will always remain: No.”

  Percival continued to frown. “No? What do you mean: No?”

  Amanda drew a long-suffering breath. “No, I will not marry you. No, I will not leave this house with you. No, I have not been playing games. How many more nos would you like?”

  Percival’s frown turned black. “You have had your head turned. Dexter is a regrettable influence. I insist you leave with me at once.”

  “Aaaah!” Amanda muted her scream through her teeth.

  “It is clearly my duty to save you from yourself.” Percival started to tow her to the door. Despite his soft head, he was stronger than she; she jerked back, looking for a weapon—her eye fell on a pewter jug standing on the table in the center of the hall.

  With her free hand, she grabbed it, hefted it—realized it held liquid. Gave Percival, eyes fixed on the door, one last chance. “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  She flung the water at him—right at his head. It splashed, then cascaded down.

  Percival stopped, shook his head, but his grip on her wrist only tightened. He turned to her.

  She set her chin stubbornly. “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  Her temper erupted. She hit him on the side of the head with the jug—it gave a hugely satisfying clang. He staggered; his grip eased and she twisted her wrist free.

  “You foolish woman! You have to come with me—” Percival lunged for her.

  She hit him again. “No!” She waited until his eyes focused. “Get this through your thick skull: I do not want to marry you. I never did. I am not going to marry you. I’ve chosen a far better man. Now, go!” She pointed to the door.

  He stepped toward her.

  She clobbered him again. “Out!”

  He reeled in that direction; she helped him along with a thud on his shoulder.

  “Go away!” She kept swinging the jug and he was forced to retreat. Joseph, eyes shining with admiration, held the door wide. Percival tried to make a stand on the threshold. Amanda thumped him again, then shoved him out. He stumbled down the steps.

  She stood in the doorway and glared. “I would never marry a dolt who even imagined I didn’t know my own mind!”

  Slamming the door, she turned, nodded regally to Joseph and handed him the jug. “Mop up the water before someone slips.” She stalked toward the corridor to the library, and realized Martin had been standing in the shadows.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you help?”

  He opened his eyes wide as he moved to let her pass. “I would have if you’d needed it, but you seemed to be managing perfectly well on your own.”

  Inwardly astounded, she merely humphed and swept on. The man had actually learned that lesson? Gracious Heaven! Would wonders never cease.

  She walked into the library to find Reggie and Luc doubled over with laughter. Her lips twitched, but she maintained her dignity.

  Luc lifted his head and looked at her with more approval than he usually showed. “What the devil did you hit him with?”

  “The jug on the hall table.”

  That set them both off again. Resuming her position on the chaise, she glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes past the hour; the diary would have reached London and be on its way to them in Jules’ care.

  Luc considered her, then asked Martin what had happened in Lady Arbuthnot’s courtyard. Martin suggested he mind his own business.

  The diary would arrive before six. Sometime between then and now—

  Voices reached them, muffled, but from inside the house. Mystified, they exchanged glances, then heard a barked order, and footsteps, bootsteps—more than one set—striding down the corridor—

  Joseph was first through the door. “My lord—” He gestured helplessly and held open the door.

  Martin and Luc were on their feet.

  Lady Osbaldestone swept in.

  “Aha!” Her black gaze swept them. “As I thought. Well enough, but you haven’t adequately covered your rear.”

  Martin stared, then lifted his gaze to the two gentlemen who entered in her wake—Devil and Vane Cynster.

  Devil nodded, his gaze also taking in those present. “Much as it pains me to concur, I believe her ladyship’s right.” He met Martin’s gaze. “You need disinterested witnesses unconnected with your family.”

  “We have Reggie,” Amanda pointed out.

  Devil glanced at Reggie. “Judging by that bandage about his head, he can hardly be disinterested in bringing the man who wounded him to justice.”

  Martin dismissed Joseph, then turned to the others. “What do you have in mind?” He glanced at the clock. “We have very little time, and if the villain is who we believe, he’ll know this for a trap the instant he sets eyes on any of you.”

  “Which is why we came via the back door.” Lady Osbaldestone had been examining the furnishings. “What a treasure trove you have here. However”—she looked down the room—“that is precisely what we need.”

  With her cane, she pointed to a carved wooden screen of four hinged panels. Then she waved the cane at Devil and Vane, who promptly stepped back out of range. “You two—fetch it and set it just there.” The cane indicated a line angled away from the library windows. “The fool won’t be coming via the courtyard, so he won’t see us behind it. You may set that armchair behind the screen for me, and both of you may stand on either side.”

  They all leapt to do her bidding—there was no time left to argue.

  Luc set the chair in place, Martin helped her into it. Devil and Vane wrestled the heavy screen into place, then took up their positions behind it.

  “Perfect!” Lady Osbaldestone’s disembodied voice rose from behind the screen. “We can see the whole area before the fireplace through these tiny holes. Wonderfully sensible, those oriental pashas.”

  Turning away, Martin and Luc exchanged glances. They returned to their positions and sat.

  The front door bell pealed again.

  The sound jangled through the house, jangled over their nerves. They didn’t look at each other but listened intently, straining to hear.

  A man spoke, his voice reduced to a rumble by the walls. Joseph answered, then, faintly at first, growing more definite, they heard footsteps approaching down the long corridor. Joseph, and one other.

  Like a troupe of actors with the curtain swishing up, they masked their tension, relaxing against the chaise, in the chair, assuming expressions of calm anticipation.

  The door opened; Joseph appeared. Amanda held her breath.

  “Mr. Edward Ashford, my lord.”

  Martin’s expression showed nothing more than mild surprise as he rose from the chaise beside her. “Edward?” Martin extended a hand as Edward came forward, grasped Edward’s without a glimmer of revulsion. “What can I do for you?”

  Edward had noted them—Luc sprawled in the chair facing the hearth, Reggie on the chaise opposite Amanda. He looked at Martin. “Actually, I thought to be of some assistance here. Am I too late, then?”

  It was Luc who answered, swivelling to look up at his brother. “Too late for what, Edward?”

  Edward looked down at Luc; Amanda prayed Luc’s dark eyes would conceal his true feelings.

  Edward’s expression remained supercilious. “I came to bear witness, of course.” His glance swept them again. “I would have thought it obvious, in light of the gravity of the crimes in question, old though they may be, that there ought to be . . . d
isinterested spectators here when Martin receives this diary.”

  His tone carried his implication, the insinuation that the diary was a hoax, that Martin’s innocence was a joke. Neither Martin nor Luc reacted; their faces remained impassive. Amanda bit her cheek against the urge to defend Martin; she forced herself to remain still.

  It was Reggie who stiffened in outrage; she glanced at him as he shifted, disguising the reaction in a querulous movement.

  Edward’s gaze had gone to him; it lingered on his bandage. “You’ve met with an accident, Carmarthen.”

  Stiffly, Reggie inclined his head.

  “Sit down.” Resuming his position beside her, Martin waved Edward to the chaise next to Reggie—the only available seat, facing Martin, next to Luc.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll warm myself by the fire for a moment.” Edward stepped past Reggie to stand before the hearth. “It’s deuced chilly outside.”

  On the words, the doorbell rang. Voices sounded in the hall, then footsteps neared. A knock fell on the door. When Martin called, “Enter,” Jules came in, carrying a brown-paper-wrapped package done up with string.

  Martin rose; Jules presented the package to him. “The old lady wished you well.”

  Jules bowed, then withdrew.

  Martin looked at the package, then tugged at the string. His face unreadable, he spread opened the paper, revealing the girlish diary with its fraying ribbons and faded roses. He let the paper fall, in so doing turning the book so the word “Sarah’s” on the cover was visible to Edward.

  Amanda glanced fleetingly at Edward; he was putting on a convincing performance of being merely—distantly—interested.

  Facing the group before the hearth, Martin opened the diary, read the first page, then started turning pages, flicking to the later entries—

  Edward stepped forward, wrenched the diary from Martin’s grasp, and flung it facedown on the fire.

  The flames flared. Amanda leapt up with a cry. Luc was on his feet, as was Reggie. Martin hadn’t moved.

  Amanda sank back, half kneeling on the chaise, her gaze on Edward’s face. One thing to imagine, another to know. She glanced at the diary; the fire was greedily consuming the old, dry pages, turning them brown, then black.