A Wicked Lord at the Wedding

by Jillian Hunter

  She dug her fork into a heaping portion of potatoes lathered in parsley butter. “You’re late,” she remarked pleasantly. “Were you still making designs for the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that family of thirteen?” she asked with a chuckle.

  He steepled his fingers under his chin. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should have a portrait painted of you.”

  “Of me?”

  “Yes. For the house.”

  “Well. I gathered that.” She sliced unmercifully at her slice of minted lamb. “But before we plan our wall coverings, I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I can’t leave London until my obligation to the duchess is met.”

  “That’s very high-minded of you,” he said in obvious amusement.

  She put down her knife. “I know it is within your rights to go through our wardrobe, husband dearest, but really, I must insist you respect the privacy of my only locked drawer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The last letters that we found were not in the same position that I left them,” she said, suddenly doubting herself at his affronted tone.

  He sat back in his chair. “And you think that I unlocked your drawer to read some inane confessions of thwarted love?”

  “You didn’t?”

  He reached for his wine goblet. “Absolutely not.” His eyes glinted with arrogance. “And had I done so, you would never have known it.”

  “I shall bear that in mind.” She hesitated. “There must be something in these letters that the duke does not wish anyone to know.”

  He glanced down at the table, stung by an unexpected moment of guilt. The duke probably didn’t even remember that the letters existed.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He glanced at the fire and then at her.

  “Actually, there is. It’s the matter of that stain upon your gown.”

  Her lips parted. “My gown? The one that you—”

  He gave her a steely frown.

  “There is an explanation,” she said softly.

  “One that I’m dying to hear.”

  “It’s oil paint. From Bellisant’s brush—”

  He stood abruptly.

  She blinked as their wine goblets trembled on the table. He ran his hands through his hair in agitation. “Answer me,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Answer what?”

  “Did this Bellflower person paint a portrait of you?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Then where is it?” he demanded, leaning over her.

  “I think he has it,” she said in a small voice.

  “Ah. Of course.” He closed his eyes briefly. “And just one more question—which I know is absurd, but do bear with me—are you wearing your gown in this painting?”

  She sprang up from her chair, practically bumping her head on his chin. His hand shot out to steady her. She pushed it off. “How could you even ask?”

  “You were clothed?” he queried, bracing for another outburst of indignation.

  “I shall not answer such a demeaning question!”

  Two footmen knocked at that dangerous moment, asking whether his lordship required more coals on the fire, and another bottle of German wine.

  “No. And yes,” he snapped as he and Eleanor returned to their respective places at the table.

  One must keep up appearances.

  Even when appearances deceived.

  “One would think,” he said, steering to another subject, “that the women who received Viola Hutchinson’s letters would value the integrity of England above their petty correspondences.”

  “Or that they would value themselves,” she said absently, spearing her lamb again. “I cannot fathom how any man or woman could take pleasure in exposing an adulterous affair. It seems a mortification to admit one indulged in the first place, let alone to expose that fact with others.”

  He studied her face. “Assuming there was an affair to begin with,” he said guardedly.

  Their eyes met across the table.

  The light from the silver candelabra glittered darkly between them. “Do you think the duke was unfaithful to his wife?” she asked in a thoughtful voice.

  He drank his wine. “No.” He shook his head for emphasis.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he’s a moral person for one thing, and I can’t picture him wasting his spare moments when the peace of the world is at stake.”

  “But opportunity—”

  “Of course.” He could not deny that. “They have been apart—for longer than us, even.”

  “I suppose,” she said in a reflective voice, “that one could even argue to justify an affair in such a case.”

  He hoped he wasn’t about to learn of such justification.

  He frowned. “Do you think he was disloyal?”

  “It seems naïve to believe otherwise,” Eleanor said.

  Two of the candles had gone out. He thought he heard the patter of rain, perhaps even hail at the windows. He’d have to see about hiring a glazier. He’d ignored the basics of maintaining a fine house. One could not take anything of worth for granted.

  Neither windows. Nor wives.

  “I think the duchess doubts him,” Eleanor mused, dabbing her finger at the drop of wine that had spilled on the tablecloth. “He’s been gone such a long time, and princesses and parlormaids all over the world adore him. Would it not be normal for him to fall prey to temptation when no one is looking?”

  “Not if his heart has been captured as mine has.”

  She smiled cryptically. “How lovely of you to—” She broke off as he rose from the table, his food untouched. “Where are you going? Did I say something wrong?”

  “I have a little matter that must be dealt with,” he said amicably. “Don’t worry if I’m late. And no masquerades tonight.”

  Her mouth opened. She started to object, but then he came to her side, bending to kiss her as if they were any other husband and wife parting for a few hours. Her lips tingling, she heard him summon the footman Burton for his coat. And then he walked out of the house into the wet night. She sat at the table for a few moments longer, recalling all the other times she had dined by herself. He didn’t really think she had been unfaithful? She pushed back her chair and rose, running out into the hall. As she flung open the front door, she spotted Sebastien striding down the street, his greatcoat over his arm.

  “I don’t believe he betrayed her!” she called after him. “He’s above such behavior! He’s as trustworthy as … as you,” she finished quietly.

  She glanced up as a sudden downpour hit the street.

  The rain swallowed up Sebastien’s receding figure. She huddled back into the doorway.

  “Madam!”

  She turned as the trim figure of her maid emerged from the dark hallway behind her. After years of dedicated service, Mary always sensed when something was wrong. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, hurrying to the door.

  She had no idea how much Mary had heard, or what she thought. Not an aristocrat by birth, her upbringing rather unconventional, Eleanor oftentimes neglected to observe the distance a lady must put between herself and those she employed. Still, it was Mary who had supervised the preparation of the special supper dishes that Sebastien barely tasted and who orchestrated the undercurrents of domestic life. Eleanor would be lost without her.

  “There’s no need to worry,” she said gamely, backing into the hall, her hair already damp. “I’m meeting his lordship later. Would you please lay out my evening wear? And have the carriage brought around. My husband appears to have walked to his destination.”

  “But, madam, this damp—”

  She went straight to the stairs; if she paused to consider her position from her maidservant’s perspective, she might lose her nerve. “I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.”

  She barely caught Mary’s response. “And here I thought that the situation had changed.”
r />   Chapter Eighteen

  By the time Sebastien reached Sir Nathan Bellisant’s rooms in St. Martin’s Lane, the rain had lightened to a drizzling fog. The walk in the damp failed to extinguish the doubts that simmered inside him. This time he would be the one to pay the surprise call. He knew of no better way to judge a man’s character than to visit him unannounced at his home. It seemed only fair. Bellisant felt comfortable calling on Eleanor at all hours.

  He ought not to complain when the insult was reversed.

  By Eleanor’s husband.

  He knocked hard at the door and heard shuffling, a woman’s voice from within. He had just left his wife at home. It was irrational to think she’d read his intentions and had rushed to warn Bellisant before him. What would he do if the impossible presented itself and he found her here? Would he even have the heart to fight them?

  Yes. He decided he would.

  Dear God, he wasn’t thinking straight.

  Eleanor wasn’t here.

  But an intimate portrait of her was.

  An elderly house keeper opened the door, her expression harried as if she’d been turning away unwelcome callers all night, and didn’t care for any of them. Sebastien did not bother to introduce himself.

  A macaw screeched from a perch in the corner. He thought he heard men conversing in muted voices from the back of the house. A door closed.

  He saw Bellisant standing at the bottom of the staircase, his white shirt splotched, his fair hair tied back in tangled negligence at the nape.

  “Lord Boscastle,” he said, his astonishment genuine. “It’s all right, Mrs. French. You may leave us alone. Please, come in, my lord, but mind where you walk.”

  Sebastien nodded, following Bellisant’s slender figure up the stairs to a drawing room studio. The air bore the mingled scent of linseed oil, spirits of turpentine, and—his nostrils flared—of absinthe. He felt Bellisant’s dark eyes regard him as he looked around the room.

  Sketching easels stood before the tall sash windows. There were candles burning in at least a dozen girandoles upon the walls where paintings did not hang. Jars of paint sat upon several tables of mismatched veneers. Well-worn books tottered in piles upon the unlit hearth. What a bloody mess. He reassured himself that there was no evidence of his wife.

  And then he saw her.

  His gaze lifted to the painting that occupied the place of honor above the mantelpiece. Shock fired his nerves. It felt like a violation and privilege at once, to view a painting of Eleanor in such an unguarded pose. She reclined on a royal-blue couch, a black velvet band upon her tousled hair, a black silk half-mask in her hand. Her smile struck him as hauntingly sad. He recognized the gown.

  But who was the lady who both tempted and held herself aloof from the beholder?

  He was not an artist. Even so he could not deny Bellisant’s genius of delicacy and perception. The texture intrigued the eye. The balance of dark and light brought Eleanor so alive she might have stood between the two men who flanked the fireplace.

  “She refused to take her portrait,” Bellisant mused.

  “I’ll take it,” Sebastien said without thinking, and his voice warned that it would not be in exchange for his wife.

  “I shall have it sent to you in the morning.”

  Sebastien turned. Bellisant was still studying the portrait, mesmerized by either his work or the woman who had inspired it—Sebastien did not give a damn.

  “Do you love my wife?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “I would not have kept her portrait where I could see it if I didn’t.”

  Anger swelled in Sebastien’s throat. “But she doesn’t love you.”

  Nathan edged around a sketching easel as if he thought it would protect him. “I wouldn’t be letting this painting go if she did,” he said cautiously.

  “Bloody hell. You do realize that nothing is going to stand between me and my wife?” He glanced down. “Not even an easel.”

  “I do not believe it is me you have to convince.” Bellisant swallowed. “If you challenge me to a duel, I shall grant you the first shot. I’m—I’m frightened of guns.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said in disgust.

  “It’s true,” Bellisant said quietly. “I saw my father shot to death. I grow faint at the sight of a pistol.”

  Sebastien grunted.

  “Are you still angry at me?”

  “Angry? Oh—what’s the point?”

  Sebastien strode from the room without another word. Had he gotten what he’d come for? How poetic to think that in claiming possession of the portrait he could reclaim what he might have lost. Was it too late? Something about the smile of that Eleanor in the painting conveyed a message he should have noticed a dozen times before. How had he missed the sadness in her eyes?

  Even worse, had he been the cause?

  He walked through a labyrinth of small streets toward the Thames. He wasn’t sure what he would say to Eleanor, or whether he’d say anything at all.

  Should he apologize and let the matter mend itself as many issues between a man and wife were wont to do? He wasn’t sorry he’d confronted Bellisant, only that he had doubted her.

  And perhaps that he hadn’t clipped her amorous painter in the jaw for good measure.

  The evening fog seemed to thicken by the moment.

  Easy for a man to lose himself in the maze of London at this hour.

  He knew he was being followed shortly after he hailed a hackney to take him to the waterfront where he docked his boat.

  So did the ruthlessly cheerful driver, who warned him to “’Ang on fer dear life. We’ll lead the blighter right into the river, eh, my lord?”

  “As long as we don’t end up there ourselves,” he said dryly.

  The driver broke into hearty laughter. “Running away from a wronged husband? I see we’ve got company.”

  Sebastien glanced around instinctively. A small carriage rattled behind with neither links nor running footmen. The fog rendered identifying it impossible.

  “I know London,” the driver chatted on, oblivious to the fact that his passenger was more concerned about getting his throat cut than with conversation. “You won’t be the first gent I’ve helped escape a cuckold’s wrath. Tisn’t ’ard to elude a person in this soup.”

  “True enough.”

  In this fog, practically anyone could materialize or disappear. Sebastien glimpsed a gypsy girl in a doorway, calling at him to have his fortune read. His lip curled.

  What had Eleanor been hoping to see in her palm? Four. Including the one lost. What had she lost? Their child? Four children. Not four lovers, you nitwit. The start of their cricket team. God, how thick he was. Thicker than London fog.

  Almost at the river’s edge.

  “Slow down,” he said.

  A pair of oars creaked in the mist. The muddy water in the unseen craft’s wake bubbled up like a witch’s cauldron. By day the ribald cries of the watermen, the flapping sails of East Indian merchant ships, enlivened the wharves. Late at night, the penny wherries and cockle boats, the soap boilers and potteries, lay at rest. He thought of the mudlarks who slept in the tents below the tunnels, dreaming of a decent meal. Sooner or later every broken heart in London came to the river’s edge.

  Here and there a voice from the ale houses drifted through the shadowed arches of the river. Sebastien heard a whore singing a drunken ballad to her audience of sailors. Further down the shore stood the secluded estates of the aristocracy. If he listened hard enough, he would probably overhear a husband asking his wife for another chance.

  “Stop here,” he said to the driver without warning.

  “’Ere? This ain’t the fanciest part of town—”

  “Well, I’m not the fanciest gentleman, either.”

  “It’s your funeral. I ’ope she was worth the trouble.”

  Sebastien smiled darkly and paid him thrice the fare. “She’s worth more than I ever realized.”

  “Good luck then, my
lord.”

  Eleanor had attempted several suggestive poses with which to surprise her husband. In the end, given the limited space afforded by the small vessel, she had settled for a half-recumbent position on the red-satin couch that occupied most of the cabin’s space. Unless he had already come and gone, Sebastien ought to have been here by now. She didn’t fancy waiting here alone until her coachman returned to collect her.

  She was starting to wish she hadn’t sent him away at all.

  She had unashamedly checked for signs of another woman’s presence. Thankfully her search proved fruitless. But if the cabin revealed no incriminating evidence, the black oaken panelwork, lavishly carved with ample-breasted mermaids being chased by lustful seamen, certainly did not match the Sebastien she knew.

  Nor did the delicate tulipwood desk that was embellished with ormolu scrollwork and gilt marquetry seem compatible with his masculinity. The contents of its drawers appeared innocent enough—a pen, a few charts, an almanac of the tides, and a sketch she had once given him of a ruined Spanish castle.

  She realized that in the course of secret service he might have been forced to assume various identities. It was challenging, however, to picture him at a desk more suited to Marie Antoinette than to that of an English baron. She tapped her forefinger on a gold flower and a hidden compartment slowly opened. Her heart quickened.

  Nothing in it, either … except one of her old hair ribbons.

  Which meant that either Sebastien really did love her or he’d been dressing up as a lady to mislead his enemies.

  What a thought.

  She closed the compartment and returned to the couch, startled to realize that she couldn’t see a thing through the cabin window. A bank of pearlescent fog engulfed the shallop. It seemed unlikely she’d be able to implement her ambush on the boat’s absent master, or to even make her way back onto the wharf.

  Suddenly all the newspaper reports she’d read of dismembered bodies discovered in floating tobacco hogsheads took on a personal significance.