‘Better late than never, old chap.’ The viscount leaned his head and whispered in Seb’s ear. Clarissa strained to hear, but had to settle for seeing Seb nod and then whisper back. Their covert conversation paused as the servants dished up his food and then it continued in earnest. Once it was done, he concentrated on eating, a tightness about his jaw and brows she had never seen before.
‘Did you have a pleasant ride, my lord?’ It wasn’t strictly polite to talk down the table, but then as it wasn’t polite to whisper either, Clarissa didn’t care. For the first time his eyes lifted to meet hers and burned. But not with passion or longing or shared secrets. The venom in them shocked her.
‘Very.’ And as if she were suddenly as insignificant to him as Penny was to Penhurst, he turned his head and plunged head-first into a mumbled discussion with Lord Gaines. Whatever he was talking about, it had all of Penhurst’s odious cronies chortling to the exclusion of the rest of the diners, Clarissa most definitely included.
It had been a pointed cut, and a public one, although she didn’t know why. Rattled, she went back to her plate and tried to ignore her own hurt at the slight and Penny’s weighted stare. There was probably a very good reason why he was ignoring her. Hadn’t he once cautioned that if he ever appeared rude or obnoxious she should pay it no mind because he was playing Millcroft?
* * *
As soon as the meal ended, he was off as if his breeches were on fire, and his foot was already on the stairs to the east wing before she caught up with him. ‘Seb!’ He stilled, but didn’t turn around at first. When he did, his hostile expression had been replaced by one of bland indifference.
‘My lady.’ No mischievous stare. No warmth. No nothing.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Should there be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was being Millcroft yet there was nobody close by to witness it. Just to be sure she scanned the hallway. Aside from the ever-present footman at the front door they were alone—but the footmen had ears and he was right to be cautious.
‘You are acting very peculiarly... The morning room should be empty.’ She tugged at his arm and felt it stiffen to granite beneath her fingers. The icy coldness made her panic. ‘Please, Seb.’
‘We have nothing to talk about, my lady.’
‘Of course we do...’ How dared he? They had everything to talk about. Their future. Their hopes and dreams. Their wedding. ‘Why are you angry?’
‘Stop playing games. I know.’
‘Know what?’ Now he was talking in riddles and her own temper flared. ‘Stop this nonsense. What happened this morning? What is the plan?’ She was aware she was babbling, but his behaviour was so uncharacteristic it was frightening.
With deliberate slowness he uncurled her hand from his elbow and stepped away. ‘Stay in your room tonight. By tomorrow it will all be over.’
‘Stay in my room!’ Had he lost his wits? ‘No!’ She reached for him and he stepped away. ‘I want to be with you. Don’t you dare try to shut me out! I’m helping you. You need me to help you!’
‘I don’t need you at all!’ He spat it with such venom she recoiled. Seb’s cool, detached composure had cracked and his face contorted into a snarl, one he tempered as the two Dukes entered the vast hallway and began to walk in their direction. He barely inclined his head to them, adjusted his cuffs and turned his smile to her. His usually dark, stormy eyes were dead behind the irises. ‘We are done, Gem. We have both more than served our purpose.’ Then he calmly, cruelly, walked away.
Clarissa wanted to go after him and demand an explanation but a public slanging match—because that was what Seb’s dreadful behaviour warranted—was out of the question in front of witnesses. One of them would let slip something in anger and potentially jeopardise the mission. She swallowed her temper and stalked to the opposite staircase.
‘Clarissa?’
‘What?’ She didn’t bother smiling at Westbridge.
‘If you have a moment I would like a word.’
‘About?’ Not that she cared, her mind was too busy trying to work out why Seb was fuming. What exactly had happened between breakfast and lunch to turn him from an adoring lover to a snarling stranger? It was so out of character. Something must be very wrong.
‘The question I asked yesterday.’
Oh, good gracious—she had completely forgotten about that. Westbridge’s lacklustre proposal was so low on her list of priorities it had not occurred to her to respond. Not when there had been Penny’s woes, smugglers, and scorching kisses in the rain and earth-shattering passion in her bedchamber. ‘Thank you for your proposal.’ Because Lord only knew she had waited long enough for it. ‘But the answer is no.’
‘No?’ The Duke gaped, incredulous. ‘Are you toying with me?’
‘Not at all. I gave the matter careful consideration...’
‘Hardly careful consideration if your answer is no!’
Pompous windbag! ‘I do not love you, your Grace. If I am honest, I am not altogether sure I even like you.’
The ugly blood vessel next to his eye rose and began to twitch with indignation. For the longest time he said nothing, then his face changed. ‘I see what this is about.’ His finger wagged amongst the profusion of lace. ‘I made you wait—ergo, you are getting your own back.’
‘Not at all...’
‘I shall redouble my efforts to court you.’
‘That would make no difference!’ The stupid man wasn’t listening to her at all. As usual. ‘I don’t want you to court me. The truth is...’
‘The truth is as plain as the nose on your face and I will enjoy the chase. What would you like? Flowers? Jewels?’
‘Nothing. I want nothing from you.’
‘Love poetry, perhaps? Something that does justice to your beauty.’
Good grief, she could think of nothing worse. ‘You are quite mistaken, your Grace. I want nothing from you. Not even your company henceforth...’
He grinned. It didn’t suit him. ‘Leave it with me. I shall surprise you.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’
‘And I shall begin at once.’
‘You would be wasting your breath.’ But Clarissa was talking to his back. Imbued with a sense of purpose, the Duke was off on a mission of his own. So be it. She had better things to do than chase after the fool and correct him. He would get the message soon enough when she became Mrs Leatham. And she would become Mrs Leatham because Seb loved her. The real him had said so and he had meant it regardless of the nonsense he had spewed just now. A man who made love to her so ardently and with such tenderness couldn’t fake those feelings. Seb adored her. The real her. And she adored him, too. Something that was far too precious to lose. She would let him cool down, then have it out with him, and if that failed she would knock him over his thick head with her redundant curling iron and drag him to the altar.
Men!
* * *
‘The Excise Men will arrive here at eight just after everyone is seated at dinner.’
The sight of Gray in his bedchamber, diligently cleaning his pistols, was not what Seb wanted. Not yet. He needed at least twenty minutes to smash every stick of furniture in the room before he was truly capable of reason. Perhaps an hour. Three. Twelve. He suppressed the rage and the pain and grunted in response.
‘What’s wrong?’ His second paused, dropped the rag and frowned. ‘Do we have a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Really? Only you look ready to commit murder.’
He was. Westbridge, his long-lost brother. Gem. He wanted to wring her damned neck. He knew better than to expect, to covet what he couldn’t have, yet the ache in his chest was crippling him. ‘I’m merely eager to get this mission over with.’ Which was why Seb was rushing the conclusion when all they really had was more circumstantial evidence. Nothing a thorough search
of the Penhurst cellar wouldn’t remedy if his gut instinct was correct. Nothing had left by road, so the illegal brandy still had to be there. The viscount was probably waiting for all the guests to leave before he shifted it. Most were leaving tomorrow. He had already informed the butler and his brow-beaten hostess he would be one of them. If the contraband wasn’t in the cellar, then he’d deal with the dire consequences later. It wasn’t as if he could feel any worse. ‘I’ve had about as much of society as I can stomach.’
‘Not all society though.’ His friend winked. ‘Dawkins mentioned he saw you kissing a certain lady on the Downs last night.’ The reminder was like a blow that winded him. His grief must have been obvious because Gray’s roguish grin was replaced swiftly with sympathy. ‘Oh...right...well, I’ve cleaned all the guns. I’ll hang around here, watch the cellar, etcetera, until they arrive. The rest of the men will make their way towards the house later. There’s a coastguard vessel anchored in the harbour as plain as day in case they get any ideas of moving the stuff before tonight and, of course, the other ships will flood the bay just before the off. Lord Fennimore has been summoned and should be well on his way by now. Anything I’ve missed?’
Only the complete annihilation of hope. ‘No. We’re all set.’
‘What are you plans for the afternoon?’
To die inside. ‘Act normally. Penhurst has arranged a shooting competition for the gentlemen.’ Which blessedly spared him the sight of her.
‘A timely bit of target practice will warm you up for tonight.’ Gray watched him tear the cravat from his neck and throw it to the ground, then slam the wardrobe door shut after he had grabbed the ‘shooting’ clothes the tailor had made for him. So many stupid outfits. So many stupid rules. Oh, how he hated the aristocracy! ‘Do we trust you to hold a gun? In your current mood...’
‘Back off, Gray!’
His friend’s dark eyebrows raised, but he wisely clamped his smart mouth shut. As Seb quickly dressed, he went back to cleaning the pistol. Just as well. The need to resort to violence to relieve the agonising tension in his body was palpable. But this wasn’t Gray’s fault. It was his. He’d allowed himself to be seduced by the exact sort of woman he loathed the most. The judgemental, spoiled, pampered princesses of society. Gem wasn’t from his world. Didn’t adhere to the same rules of conduct he did. Her blood was as blue as her eyes and his, as far as her world was concerned, didn’t pass muster.
And she had lied to him.
Perhaps not with actual words, but certainly with her deeds. Last night, during all the time they were alone together, while they had discussed her doubts about her Duke and lost themselves in each other, she had omitted telling him one significant yet fundamentally critical detail. Westbridge had proposed.
And she hadn’t said no.
Which explained their lengthy discussion about the pros and cons of marrying the man, yet clearly being pompous, self-centred and devoid of all emotion paled into insignificance because of the lofty fact he was a duke.
It didn’t make Seb feel any better when he slammed out of the bedchamber and stamped down the stairs, but when he saw Westbridge and his awful brother guffawing next to Penhurst and his cronies on the lawn a part of him died inside. It took all seven years of his training to strap on the mask of Lord Millcroft. There was nothing left but to act like Millcroft, as well.
‘One hundred pounds says I can outshoot any man here!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The commotion on the back lawn made small talk with the other ladies over afternoon tea on the terrace problematic. The tea long drunk and the balmy afternoon now definitely early evening and they were still at it while the ladies waited for them. Random gunfire followed by raucous shouting and laughter peppered the air while Seb’s name was mentioned many times. He was in the thick of it which was galling in the extreme. Knowing he was having fun while Clarissa was still fuming didn’t improve her mood.
‘Well, ladies, as it doesn’t look like the gentlemen will be joining us after all, I suggest we all retire to change for dinner.’ Penny stood, signalling the end of their interminable gathering and one by one the ladies drifted off. Clarissa lingered, waiting till she was all alone before vacating the chair which had become part of her backside and marching with purpose towards the furthest end of the garden. Surely the silly shooting match couldn’t go on much longer?
But when she rounded the shrubbery it was apparent it could, although seemingly nearing some kind of crescendo as only Seb and the Duke of Thetford were still armed. The others were all huddled together, watching intently as a pair of footmen heaved a target further away. Spotting her, Westbridge broke away from the pack and strode towards her.
‘You picked an excellent time to spectate. Thetford is about to issue that upstart his well-deserved comeuppance.’
‘Really?’ Of all the opponents Seb could be pitted against in the grand finale, it had to be his brother. That couldn’t be good, especially if Seb lost. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘It’s a tie so far, but Thetford is a crack shot.’
If he was one of the last two men standing so was Seb, although that fact didn’t surprise her. In his profession, his life and that of others probably depended on him being handy with a gun. His skill would have been honed out of necessity rather than picking off partridges and pigeons for fun. As if he sensed her, Seb’s eyes turned to where they were standing. His expression might be blank, but his eyes were shooting daggers. His free hand formed a fist where it hung at his side. To vex him she smiled at the Duke and saw those frozen eyes narrow to slits. ‘Penny sent me to remind you all that dinner is in less than two hours.’
‘I’m looking forward to dinner.’ Westbridge said this with the contrived smugness of a man who knew something she didn’t—or thought he did. It served as a timely reminder to check the seating arrangements with Penny in case she got saddled with him again. Now that there wasn’t a hope in hell she was going to marry the man, Clarissa would be damned if she would endure another one of his self-centred and self-aggrandising conversations. Nor would she suffer through another futile attempt at turning him down. If Westbridge didn’t listen that was his problem, not hers. Clarissa had enough of her own. And one in particular that was still glaring at her with a pistol in his hand.
‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ The timely call from Lord Gaines saved her from Seb’s accusing stare—because it was accusatory, she now realised—despite now being focused on the target. What had got his hackles up?
His half-brother stepped forward, rotated his fat neck and aimed. The bullet hit the target, but it was hard to make out where because of the distance. The two footmen merged from the side, picked it up and jogged with it towards Lord Gaines, who seemed to be the referee.
‘A splendid shot! Bravo!’ Westbridge began to clap his hands next to her, then as an aside said, ‘He’s clipped the outer edge of the bull’s eye’, in case she was too stupid to have seen the gaping hole for herself.
Gaines pulled out a ruler and measured. ‘Two inches shy. Well done, your Grace.’
Thetford inclined his head regally as the other gentlemen cheered and then offered Seb a patronising smile, completely unaware that in doing so he had probably signed his death warrant. Seb wouldn’t allow himself to be beaten by a duke, especially when that Duke was the one he hated the most. The steely determination was written all over his face as the poor footmen did another dash to the furthest end of the garden and repositioned the target in the same spot. He stepped forward. The men immediately hushed when he aimed.
‘Millcroft lacks the finesse of his opponent.’ Westbridge practically bellowed his criticism into the silence, oblivious of his rudeness, but clearly intent on putting Seb off his shot. His dark head whipped around to glare, his eyes narrowed and then it whipped back. In that same moment he squeezed the trigger, barely taking aim. The musket ball whizzed through the air
and exploded through the target. Then he dropped the pistol on the ground and stood arrogantly with his arms folded as the servants scurried to fetch it back.
‘Your plan backfired.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You tried to give the Duke of Thetford the advantage. That was very unsporting, your Grace.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’ Westbridge had the nerve to look affronted at the suggestion.
‘Then let me say it plainly. If Lord Millcroft’s shot is off, then it will be as a direct result of your flagrant cheating on Thetford’s behalf.’ But she could already see that the Duke had failed. Seb’s bullet had gone clean through the centre of the bull’s eye. Lord Gaines pulled out his ruler for effect, then tossed it away.
‘I declare Lord Millcroft the winner!’
Seb was immediately surrounded by every gentleman accepting their hearty congratulations bar the two vile Dukes. In a shocking display of equally unsportsmanlike belligerence, Thetford turned on his heel and stormed off into the trees.
‘How dare you call me a cheat!’
‘I merely say it as I see it, your Grace. You timed your outburst to put Lord Millcroft off. It was a low blow and you should be ashamed of yourself.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Clarissa saw Seb striding across the lawn at a tangent towards the house. Any faster and he would break into a run. The dratted man intended to avoid her again and had plotted his course accordingly. ‘If you will excuse me.’ She picked up her skirts and followed him at pace, but her legs were no match for his significantly longer ones.
‘Lord Millcroft! Wait!’
He heard her, she saw, because he stiffened before he sped up, then darted out of sight behind the shrubbery. By the time Clarissa got there, there was no sign of him. She stopped dead and checked left and right, cursing him silently for his well-honed skills at blending into the shadows. Trust her to fall in love with a spy! And one who headed a group of men called the Invisibles! He was probably lurking in the bushes right now, watching her and biding his time until she gave up. ‘When I get my hands on you, I am going to strangle you!’
The Mysterious Lord Millcroft Page 22