‘None of my men has heard anything about it.’
‘That is good to know. I am hugely protective of poor Penny and would never cause her embarrassment by spreading such stories.’ Although why would Seb’s men be investigating Penhurst? ‘I am suffered at the house party because I am Penny’s only friend and I dare say the silly label of Incomparable helps, too—but while she has a friend with her he can stay at the card tables or do whatever it is that he does with the majority of his time till Lord knows when in the small hours. Penhurst prefers the company of his cronies. Even at home.’
‘Is that fool Westbridge one of his cronies, too?’
Whilst Seb had no regard for her friend’s odious husband, he obviously had a special well of deep loathing for her Duke. A loathing which sounded delightfully territorial. ‘Westbridge was at Oxford with Penhurst. Their acquaintance is old, but they are not particularly close any more.’ Her Duke held most people at arm’s length, including her. ‘He has little interest in gambling and drinking, thank goodness, therefore he doesn’t see Penhurst in quite the same depraved light as the rest of us.’ To do that he would have to take an interest in another person other than himself. Where had that disloyal thought come from? ‘But then as Westbridge is a duke, Penhurst is mindful not to show him the true extent of his debauchery either. He mostly flatters him. Having Westbridge as a friend enhances his own standing in the ton and Westbridge can be relied upon to attend regardless of who else has been invited. Everyone wants a duke on their guest list.’
At the mention of the word ‘duke’, Seb had become most belligerent. ‘Of course they do. The addition of a duke makes any gathering a resounding success, even if they are fools like yours.’
‘Westbridge isn’t a fool, he’s...’ Self-absorbed, fickle, nowhere near as broad, strong, considerate and impressive as the man sat on the bed in front of her. ‘He’s simply being a duke, Seb. He is actually rather pleasant when you get to know him.’
‘And you know him well?’
‘I do as a matter of fact. Westbridge is a renowned connoisseur. His collections of art and furniture are the finest in Europe. The Regent himself is envious of the Duke’s array of Old Masters.’ Something he informed her repeatedly.
‘Oh, he’s a connoisseur. That is excellent news.’
‘There is nothing wrong with liking beautiful things. Not that you’d understand. But those of us who know him well appreciate his superior taste and faultless eye.’ Clarissa was relying on it because like his collection of Ancient Egyptian relics she was all style over substance.
‘I can see you know him far better than most.’ His head tilted enquiringly and he folded his arms across the very chest she had just been contemplating. ‘I suppose that is why you do not have leave to call him by his Christian name.’
Her mouth opened and then closed. ‘His Christian name is Albert.’
‘Yet I have never heard you refer to him as anything other than Westbridge. The Duke or your Grace.’
Because Seb was right, damn him, her Duke had never invited her to dispense with the formalities. ‘I’m not particularly fond of the name Albert.’
This appeared to amuse him. ‘Will you call him Westbridge after you are married as well?’
Probably. ‘That is none of your business.’
‘How romantic.’
Westbridge wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t the slightest bit affectionate or even humorous. Devoid of all passion aside from that of collecting the unattainable. ‘I am not looking for romance.’ She was looking for a well-fortified battlement to hide behind. They didn’t come much stronger than a dukedom.
‘Or love by the sounds of it. Duchesses clearly need neither. But they are duchesses.’
When he put it like that her future sounded miserable. Seb didn’t understand that being a duchess would be the single greatest accomplishment for the least accomplished lady ever born. The unique achievement only Incomparables hoped for. Not just an advantageous marriage and a secure future, but the most advantageous of marriages. The most secure future. An impenetrable layer of protection against the judgement of all which would render her dirty secret a secret for ever. Clarissa had been a slave to that goal for the last two Seasons. Something the intuitive man before her obviously thought was shallow—because it was shallow, but then so was she. Girls who couldn’t paint or embroider, girls who couldn’t play an instrument or spell or read a sentence without laboriously trailing her finger beneath it lacked hidden depths. She would be a good wife and a good mother, a flawless decoration, content to live in her illustrious husband’s protective shadow.
Her self-absorbed, formal, passionless and fickle husband’s illustrious shadow.
‘Thank goodness you are beautiful else the connoisseur might have missed you. What an asset you will be to his exemplary collection. Unless he decides to add that simpering Olivia to his display case instead. Which I suppose is why you are here. Are you trying to improve on perfection by outshining her from the second you arrive?’
‘I’m sure the simpering Lady Olivia is doing much the same thing in another inn close by.’
The overloud cough outside signalled the return of her maid and thankfully the end of this uncomfortable line of questioning. When he forgot to be shy, his astute and painful honesty could be brutal. Agnes marched through the door, carrying her mistress’s freshly pressed new travelling dress aloft, and scowled at the sight of Seb sat on the bed to such an extent he stood. ‘I’d best be on my way. Will you read this list and appraise me of any details we might have missed later?’ He was back to not meeting her eyes and that was just dandy because she would rather die than let him see how much his insightful observations had bothered her.
‘Yes.’ If she started to read it today she might reach the end of the list by tomorrow. Or the next day. Just thinking about it made the letters swim and dance before her eyes and her tummy churn with the constant fear of discovery. In case he saw it, Clarissa turned her back to him as he walked to the door, both miffed at him and miffed at herself because she knew the source of her irritation was merely his accurate assessment of her situation. This week now couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Chapter Nine
Thanks to the continual arrival of the other guests and the assumption that everyone would need to rest before dinner, Seb was able to freely ride around the grounds of Penhurst Hall unfettered. The house sat high on the South Downs, surrounded by a good mile of rolling pasture before it came to a sudden halt at the steep cliffs which bordered the sea. Those cliffs petered out as they ran down towards Birling Gap—an infamous beach for smugglers of old and one which was now patrolled by the Excise Men. Knowing how stretched that service was, it wasn’t out of the realms of fantasy to imagine the smugglers he was seeking sailing their boats into this secluded little stretch of beach and then hauling their contraband up the shortest wall of the cliff. But then they could do much the same along the steepest walls. The Boss headed a wily and resourceful operation, therefore a steep cliff face was hardly an insurmountable obstacle and less likely to be monitored by the Excise Men. His men were paid well to risk their lives.
But so were Seb’s.
Somewhere in this vast expanse of grass and sheep were two of his Invisibles. Another four were moored offshore in the Channel in a fishing boat. More were dotted along the length of coastline, watching and waiting. Gray was inside the house, ingratiating himself with the servants and mapping the hall while others manned all the possible roads where a cart laden with illegal French brandy might travel. If Penhurst was indeed in league with England’s most dangerous gang of smugglers, and used this land to commit his treason, then the King’s Elite would see it. But catching the boots on the ground was not the point of this mission. Those men could be replaced easily enough. They needed to catch Penhurst and the other leaders, and destroy the foundations of their organisation completely, which m
eant that Seb had to thoroughly infiltrate the core or find enough damning evidence to ensure there was no reasonable doubt as to their guilt.
Viscount Penhurst was intrigued at this stage, nothing more. Each time they met he subtly tested Seb’s supposed morals again and again, and each time Seb dripped in more detail to make the man believe they were kindred spirits. The fact that Penhurst made his blood boil over the simplest things was something Seb was trained to disguise, yet the more he got to know him, the harder it was not to slam his fist into the man’s face. The viscount had little respect for anything except his own pleasures and spending money. He treated his servants like dirt, his wife worse and had a warped, depraved sense of humour which his hideous cronies shared. The stories they told about the perversions they subjected their mistresses to turned his stomach and set his mind wandering to places he didn’t want to contemplate—not when his mother had been a mistress to a powerful man all her adult life. She had loved his father. Seb didn’t fool himself his father had loved her back.
But for those powerful men, like his dear papa, their attitude to their mistresses was commercial and detached. They paid good money to keep the woman in luxury, therefore it was their due to be reimbursed for their investment in other ways. Seb likened it to being press-ganged into the navy. If you took the shilling, you accepted the consequences and did what you were told. Even if that meant debasing yourself. Once they had served their purpose or their owner became bored, they were cast aside without a second thought. Peers like Penhurst didn’t hear the word no. Had Seb’s father abused his mother like that? He sincerely hoped not, but the man had certainly not honoured her with a second thought.
Tonight, no doubt, and over the coming days he would have to listen to more poison. For the sake of King and country he would force himself to laugh alongside them, slap them on the back and congratulate them on their prowess. So far he hadn’t been able to bring himself to invent the sick lies which would convince them that he had committed similar atrocities against a woman. Pretty soon he might have to, unless Penhurst revealed his hand and invited Seb completely into his debauched world. Just thinking about it made him feel strangely violated. Success in this case had a definite drawback.
Two if he included watching Gem pursue her Duke.
That was equally unpalatable.
With a frustrated sigh he turned his horse back towards the house. He had avoided her when she had finally arrived a few hours ago, disgusted at her single-minded determination to become a duchess and his own inability not to care about it.
He had known that when he had agreed to her suggestion. Known it as she had escorted him around those ballrooms, ensured he was not only accepted but welcomed into the ranks of high society, helped him with his awkwardness and his mission. Known it as he had held her in his arms and danced with her. Incomparables weren’t for bastards. He and she lived in two very different worlds. Despite that, Gem had come to mean more to him than a means to an end. Much more. His heart wept that she would sell herself so short and accept Westbridge’s shoddy treatment. All to be a duchess.
If that was what her heart desired, exactly how was Seb to compete?
Perhaps if he had not been so inept with the opposite sex he could seduce her...her blithe denunciation of his lack of seduction skills earlier had hurt. Those words had collided with another unstoppable surge of lust brought about by the sight of her with her hair down in that revealing silk robe, the fabric almost fluid as it moulded against the mounds of her unbound breasts. It had been a wholly unnecessary diversion borne out of a desire to have her to himself one last time before they embarked on a week of hideous socialising. Seb had justified it to Gray as a need to pick her brain about the guests, knowing full well he could just as easily steal her for a few minutes at the house and talk to her then. But at the house would be her damn Duke and Seb was completely, pathetically smitten.
His normally strategic thoughts were constantly broken by images of her, encroaching on his waking mind and laying siege to his night-time dreams. Again this morning he had awoken hot and hard, wanting, the tangled sheets coiled around his body a testament to his restless sleep. Seeing her in the flesh had been paramount. True to form, the moment he had walked into that bedchamber he had been struck once again by the sheer beauty of Gem in her natural state. Her golden hair was indeed straight. The few kinks created by the previous style made it shimmer in the morning sunshine streaming through the window, the usually short, tight ringlets which framed her face hung as loose tendrils past her jaw, softer and more enticing. His fingers had yearned to reach out and touch one close to her freshly washed cheek. That Gem, the real one, was the true diamond. So precious and unique, no other woman could hold a candle to her. Seb was coming to suspect no other woman ever would hold a candle to her in his eyes.
Talk about barking up the wrong tree. Lady Clarissa Beaumont had swiftly, and obliviously, doused his ardour with a bucket of ice water with her talk of her supercilious Duke and Seb had left her in a foul mood, rightly miffed at her desire to become a duchess above all else and at himself for feeling heartbroken because of it.
For a man who found himself so clumsy and clunky around the fairer sex, why had his foolish heart lent itself to her—the fairest of them all? This blasted week couldn’t pass quickly enough. Seb had to endure seven days of torture. Less if he could link Penhurst to the Boss sooner.
Less was always more.
Back in his cramped allocated bedchamber, irritatingly in the front of the house facing the lane and not the cliffs, Seb tried to ignore his simmering anger as they swapped what he had learned since arriving. His second-in-command had hit brick walls amongst the viscount’s servants. They were fearful, distrusting of strangers and some were downright menacing. Things that all encouragingly pointed to secrets, but made the task in hand harder to do. The best lead they had was still Penhurst himself. A long night of work loomed in front of him.
Gray made himself comfortable on Seb’s bed and watched him shave and wriggle into the ridiculously stiff evening clothes, rising only to assist him with the dreaded cravat.
‘What knot am I tying tonight? Might I suggest the Trone d’Amour? It’s excellent symbolism. The mention of love in the title will send your rival mad.’
‘No stupid dandified knots. I’m done with them.’ Complicated and frothy confections were for pompous windbags like Westbridge. Seb snatched the pristine strip of white linen out of his friend’s hands and proceeded to tie the damn knot himself. ‘And if you think I’m stepping outside this room in that waistcoat...’ He glared at the garish monstrosity covered in embroidered peacock feathers with outright distaste. ‘You have another think coming!’
‘Waistcoats are always bolder for evening wear.’
‘I will suffer colours, but not a kaleidoscope.’
Gray gave a good-natured shrug and grabbed another two out of the closet. ‘How about peacock blue to match you lady love’s eyes? She likes blue, doesn’t she?’
‘Give me the red.’ There would be no more attempting to please Gem with daft wardrobe choices. From now on, Seb was going to focus on his mission. What she chose to do was her own business. Now that he was here as a guest, there was no reason why they needed to continue to work together. She could chase her Duke with impunity while Seb got briskly on with what he had been sent here to do. He needed neither the distraction nor the heartache. Let her have her blue-blooded Duke! ‘How do I look?’
‘Furious. Burning with jealousy and borderline scary.’
‘Go to hell!’ He heard Gray’s receding laughter as he slammed the door and stalked down the landing.
The drawing room was crammed full of the twenty or so guests Seb would spend the week with. He was on nodding terms with three-quarters of them now and found his head bobbing like a woodpecker’s as he navigated his way to the trio of men stood at the fireplace while pretending he had not noticed the t
emptress sat holding court on the sofa. In his peripheral vision he saw her try to catch his eye and set his jaw stubbornly in case his traitorous neck turned her way. A passing footmen with a tray laden with champagne provided an excellent excuse to pick up his pace and put distance between them. With a glass in his hand and an ache in his teeth Seb forced a sociable smile, ready to work. ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ A misnomer. These two men were the most debauched of Penhurst’s cronies.
‘Evening, Millcroft. I hope you came with a purse full of money. The cards this week promise to be exciting. Too bad there isn’t a game tonight.’ Viscount Regis. Ailing lands, yet interestingly a no longer ailing fortune. Enjoyed tying his mistress up. ‘This evening we must all suffer the rest of the company, but tomorrow...’ He grinned, displaying a row of crooked yellow teeth which matched his hideous mustard waistcoat. ‘Tomorrow is ours.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Lord Gaines, second son of the Marquess of Rochford and fond of very high, very shiny tasselled Hessians, looked like a weasel and acted like one. His role in this motley group was ostensibly that of sycophant, but he had the ear of Penhurst. Seb had witnessed the pair whispering when they thought no one was looking. If Penhurst was in cahoots with anyone, it was Gaines. ‘Tonight we are stuck with the ladies, although I wouldn’t mind being stuck with yours, Millcroft. Eh?’ Gaines winked, then moulded a female figure in the air with his hands which made the other laugh. ‘I’d pay good money to get my hands on her bountiful charms.’ The urge to break the weasel’s long, narrow nose almost got the better of Seb.
‘I doubt he needs to pay, do you, Millcroft?’ Regis slapped him on the back. ‘Not when the pastry is already headed this way. Act nonchalant, my dear fellow. Treat them mean and keep them keen and you’ll bed her before this week is done.’ Another back slap followed by conspiratorial chortling. Seb’s returning laughter sounded too boisterous and false to his own ears as she came up alongside.
The Mysterious Lord Millcroft Page 10