Sebastien looked from his wife sitting resolutely in the carriage, to Mary standing on the front steps with an expression of black doom that could have stopped the sun from shining.
Superstitious?
Had he been a sailor about to embark on a voyage, he would have pulled his boat back to shore and waited for calmer seas.
But he knew that Eleanor was resolved to deliver this last letter to the duchess. Therefore, come heaven or hell, he intended to help her keep her promise—and keep her safe at the same time.
After their auspicious departure, Eleanor could not shake off her dour mood. She studied the metallic sky through the window as if waiting for the clouds to unleash calamity upon the earth. She kept wondering whether she had forgotten to do something before they left.
She complained that the carriage interior smelled unpleasantly of ashes and vinegar, the very concoction the footmen always used to refresh the squabs. She noticed a smudge on her glove and refused to believe Sebastien’s reassurances that no one would care.
“Take my word on it,” he murmured, not looking up from his newspaper, “no one who meets you is going to notice the condition of your gloves.”
She laid her head against his shoulder. “The duchess is right. You are a rogue.”
“I take umbrage to that accusation,” he said mildly. “Even if it is true. Which reminds me, when am I going to see what you purchased at that naughty dressmaker’s?”
“When it’s delivered to our Sussex home.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The carriage rumbled past Apsley House with its multiple chimneys puffing smoke into the surly November sky. Bustling London would soon fall behind.
“We’ve almost escaped,” he said, putting his paper aside. The relief on his face made her smile. But then, lately, she had only to glance at him and feel an incredible lightness come over her.
“Her grace is leaving in another week to go to the country with the children,” she said, restraining herself from taking one last look at the mansion that the duchess loved. “I think she’d have gone sooner but Bellisant asked for a few more days to finish his sketch.”
He smiled grimly. “I ought to finish him.”
“I’m glad that you have restrained yourself,” she teased, enjoying his possessive streak.
“Barely.”
“By the way, she was grateful that you retrieved Mrs. Watson’s letters without causing another uproar.”
He smiled. “They practically fell into my hands.”
“The duchess dislikes being in London for Guy Fawkes night,” she said, changing the subject. “Of course the boys adore every moment of it. I cringe every time I hear one of those Roman candles set off in the street. Last year Will and I were returning home from a play when a carriage was overturned by a drunken crowd. It started in fun. Then someone threw a burning effigy at a gentleman walking to his club, and his coat caught fire.”
“How fortunate I shall be close by to protect you from those vulgar people. In fact”—he tugged at one of the tiny white bows that adorned her bodice—“I’m close by right now.”
“Yes. And you’re always unfastening me one way or the other.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
His laughter filled her with poignant warmth. “No. I’m not.”
She gave a small sigh and closed her eyes, the creaking of the coach wheels, her husband’s deep voice, relaxing her. “I hope Teg doesn’t get out again while Burton is walking him.”
“I think you frightened the staff into vigilance.”
“Mary did seem flustered when we left.” She opened her eyes as she felt his teeth sink lightly into her earlobe. She struggled to remember what they were talking about. “Will,” she went on, distracted by the dark head that had nestled between her breasts, “was quite put out, too, until he received that invitation to the castle.”
His head lifted. “What invitation?”
“I think it came from the earl himself. He’s apparently asked Will to give a few readings at the party. Will is very excited about it.”
“I was excited about finally having you to myself.”
“Does that mean he can’t stay with us over the winter? I know his heart is set on it, but if you want me to rescind the invite—”
“You didn’t.”
She chuckled. “No. Only teasing—” She glanced up at the light pinging from above. “Is that rain?”
He listened. “I don’t think so.”
“A good downpour tomorrow night would put out all those awful bonfires.”
His mouth thinned. “Pity it wouldn’t put out conspiracies at the same time.”
Chapter Thirty
Castle Eaton’s historical notoriety had existed for centuries before its current owner began hosting his popular masquerades. Beneath the castle keep lay a torture chamber that boasted five oubliettes. Inside these hidden cells, medieval prisoners had moldered, having been forgotten after months of interrogation. These heartwarming premises now served as a stage for the Earl of Eaton’s opening entertainment.
The lords and ladies of the ton loved a good scare. The earl’s midnight tours of the oubliettes, complete with a display of genuine torture instruments and servants moaning behind the walls, guaranteed that at least one guest would faint dead away.
Lord and Lady Boscastle made only a token appearance at this uplifting spectacle on the evening they arrived. Eleanor provided all the uplifting that Sebastien required. He, in turn, could make her faint dead away without even leaving their room.
Mr. Will Prescott, however, arrived in the nick of time to give a candlelight reading from Othello in the banqueting hall. Sir Perceval had accompanied him from London, having been employed by Lord Eaton to tell fortunes in the torture chamber and lend an air of mysticism to the party.
Unfortunately the fortune-teller dropped his crystal ball in fright when a beheaded ghost popped out of a trapdoor to greet the other guests. Sir Perceval read palms afterward in an aggrieved mood.
The next morning, Sebastien and Eleanor lingered in their bedchamber to brace themselves for the formal breakfast and the rigorous demands of intermingling with the other guests. Eleanor had become more at ease in this situation than was her husband, who’d never had much patience for parties to begin with. After all, she had pulled the wool over the eyes of an entire town. Still, it was Sebastien who received the first invitation for a social connection.
A chambermaid brought a message to the bedchamber from a gentleman who’d asked to meet Sebastien on the beach after breakfast. He had not given his name, but claimed that he and Sebastien were acquainted.
“It could be a hundred men,” he said, hunting for his coat.
Eleanor handed his coat to him. “I’m coming with you.”
“No. It might be news concerning the plot against Wellington.”
“It might be another woman,” she said tartly. “I know perfectly well what goes on at these parties.”
His mouth pursed in objection. “This could be my personal contact. I don’t want you getting involved in my work.”
“I didn’t want you involved in mine, either,” she reminded him.
He curbed his impatience. “You don’t understand. Some matters can only be dealt with by a man.”
“I’ve been a man,” she said. “I think I understand quite well.”
“And I’m supposed to explain that to another agent?”
“Of course not. You may introduce me as your wife. After all, a good operative should be the last person one suspects.”
The castle perched upon chalk clifftops that eclipsed a bay. They walked down to the beach, he in his long black coat, Eleanor wrapped in a red cloak that reached her ankles. Their breath huffed out in the cold. Where the mist met the water on the horizon, fishing boats sailed in defiance of the unstable sands and storms that often arose without warning.
They waited over an hour for Sebastien’s anonymous cont
act to appear. He never did. The only persons in sight were another couple who had sneaked from the castle to stroll along the beach.
“I knew it,” Eleanor said. “It was another woman. When she saw me with you, the hussy lost her nerve.”
He shook his head amusedly. “Then it is a good thing you came.”
“Does that mean I can come with you the next time?”
“Absolutely not.”
Her teeth were chattering as he guided her to a sheltered spot between a crop of boulders. She plopped down in the sand, her cloak drawn around her.
“Well,” she said, with enforced cheer. “Here we are.” She picked up a piece of driftwood and drew a castle in the sand. “Isn’t this a nice day to contract a lung ailment? Are my lips blue yet?”
He grinned at her. “I’ll revive you when they are.”
“How long are we going to wait?”
A gust of wind blew across the boulders. He shielded her from an onslaught of wet sand, glancing up at the cliffs. “Another minute or so. The sea is best this time of year. There’s no one else around.”
“I don’t wonder why. The sensible people are sitting by the fire taking tea with—”
“I have a confession.”
Confession. A chill chased down her spine. Finally. She schooled herself to look surprised, the driftwood slipping from her fingers. “Do you?”
“I meant it when I said I wanted us to start over,” he began somberly.
She gave him an encouraging nod. “The truth is a good place to start.”
He nodded, his gaze inscrutable. “When I was gone, I did things in my work I’d never done before, things I did not dream myself capable of.”
“You’ve hinted as much.”
He smiled without humor. “There were times when I realized what I’d become and wasn’t sure that I should come back to you.”
“What changed your mind?”
“For one thing, I could not live any longer without you.”
She didn’t speak. She was afraid he would stop.
“And for another, I realized what you had become and knew I was responsible.”
He subsided into a long silence.
Suddenly she couldn’t endure the suspense. “And that is all that you wanted to confess?”
He frowned at her. “I wish to make it perfectly clear that my confession concerns acts of love, not those of war.”
“Love?”
His unflinching gaze gave her another chill. “The duke did not order me to interfere with his wife’s affairs. I asked to be put in charge.”
“Did you indeed?” she asked, swallowing over an unexpected tightness in her throat.
“I deceived you,” he said simply. “And I did not know how to tell you.”
She expelled a sigh. So much for making him suffer. “I know what you did,” she admitted. “I have known for some time now.”
He studied her in disbelief. “And you allowed me to go along feeling guilty?”
“I kept waiting for you to tell me the truth.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know the whole time.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you weren’t upset?”
“Because you cheated? Because you played your duke against my duchess?”
“Your work for her placed you in danger,” he said. “I never realized how much until I returned.”
“I assure you, I was never in as much danger as you are now.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I think you have.”
“Did the duke approve of this deception?” she asked.
“Well, he heard me out and didn’t offer much of an opinion one way or another.”
The sea breeze lifted the dark red strands of her hair. “But he didn’t stop you.”
“No.” He smiled. “He didn’t.”
“Then in my opinion, the pair of you are—” She restrained the urge to vent her thoughts. While she might feel justified calling her husband names, she could hardly state that the duke was a stinker. The duchess would assuredly do that. “I hope you’re sorry.”
A grin crept across his chiseled face.
“You aren’t,” she said. “In fact, I think you’re proud of yourself.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I won you back,” he said, his voice strong and yet gentle. “It was worth the risk for that.”
She felt her eyes mist. In a few minutes the sea would wash away her castle. The princess who stood on the battlement walk, waiting for her prince, would either pull him up beside her or watch him drown in the moat he had built to protect her.
“I have always been a faithful husband,” he said with a smile that went straight to her heart. “And I’ve always loved you. The question, I suppose is, do you still love me?”
She shook her head at him. “I think I must.”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”
“Forgive me,” he said, bending on one knee, the color of his eyes irresistible Boscastle blue, “I thought I’d lost you. I would have done anything to make you love me again.”
“It’s getting late,” she said, not because she cared one way or another, but if they did not return to the castle, she would fall onto her knees beside him and stay until they were covered in kelp and kisses. “We’ve got work to do before the masquerade supper.”
“I was late to my own wedding,” he said with a rueful grin.
“And a wicked disgrace into the bargain. My aunt still mentions it every time she writes.”
“What can I do to make it up?”
She shook her head helplessly. “Not get yourself killed over this conspiracy.”
“I can’t let Wellington be killed.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she whispered. “Why did someone try to lure you here today?”
“He might have mistaken me for one of the other Boscastles. Perhaps it was an innocent error.”
A clap of thunder rumbled suddenly above the castle turrets. He glanced up at the sky and grasped her hands, rising from the sand. Then they were racing up the path to escape the rain with the other couple who’d been on the beach behind them. The four of them were drenched by the time they reached the drawbridge. Sebastien brushed a hand through her damp hair.
Their bedraggled appearance raised eyebrows as they attempted to sneak past the more dignified guests who headed toward the great hall for brandy and gossip.
“Quickly,” he said, squeezing her hand before they disengaged. “That’s Will and Sir Perceval coming our way. Let’s avoid them until I find that last letter.”
“And make a few inquiries about the man who wanted to meet you while you’re at it,” she said, hastening up the stairs before anyone noticed the puddles they had dripped everywhere.
Sebastien watched his wife’s white shoulders disappear into the steaming hot water of her hip bath. Her genie costume lay across the bed—a coin-decorated veil and peacock blue headdress, a tapestry vest with a scarf that draped around her midriff. He wasn’t sure what to make of the mysterious message he had received. The chambermaid who had delivered it could not be found. Nor did the majordomo remember a girl of that description in his employ. He suggested, as Eleanor had, that perhaps Sebastien had a secret admirer who had been hoping to meet him alone.
The whole thing disturbed him.
But probably not as much as the fact that at the party his wife would be wearing a pair of loose trousers almost identical to his. She was a genie. He was Aladdin.
She looked beguiling.
He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror.
“I didn’t realize that your costume was so revealing,” he said, pacing around the room. “Do you have any idea how many men will ask you to make their wishes come true?”
“I wish you would cease pacing and complaining. It’s wearing on my nerves. What happened to Sebastien, the spine of steel saboteur? You can’t have been on ed
ge every time you carried out your own assignments.”
He sent her a dark glance. “I did not have a wife draped in veils to distract me then. At least not of which I was aware. Had I known what you were up to, I doubt I could have concentrated at all.”
She stepped out of the tub, squeezing the water from her long rope of hair. Her breasts shone, her nipples dark and prominent. He stared at her glimmering form and thought of a nubile young goddess and naughty pleasures and starting a family.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said. “I promise to remain inside the castle. Will can play the cavalier for an hour or so.”
“It shouldn’t take me that long.” He wrapped the towel around her damp shoulders, promising himself he’d have her back in his arms before midnight. “Lady Eaton’s suite is directly off the staircase.”
“All the better for sneaking in and out, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said innocently. “Well, not the sort of sneaking you mean.” He turned from her with a sigh. “Speaking of sneaking, I—what is that smell?”
“I beg your pardon. I just bathed. I thought you liked my lily soap.”
“That’s not soap. It’s smoke. I smell something burning.”
She pushed around him. “I hope it isn’t the candle in my magic lantern. I lit it to see if the wick was still good. I thought I put it out, though.”
He picked up the lamp that sat on the nightstand. “You did.”
“Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to burn down the castle.”
“Perhaps it’s the bonfire being lit in the hall to celebrate Guy Fawkes.”
“Bonfires make me uneasy. I believe one of my ancestors was burned as a witch.”
“You have certainly inherited your powers of bewitchment from someone.”
“Be careful, Sebastien,” she said softly as he went to the door.
“You, too.” He frowned at her over his shoulder. “And put on a cape over those veils. You look too appealing in that costume. I, on the other hand, feel like an idiot.”
He would have searched and exited Lady Eaton’s bedchamber in under three minutes had her ladyship not decided on a costume change at the last moment. A full-figured woman with frizzy orange hair, who displayed more of her assets than he cared to see, had likely realized she wasn’t the only Venus to bestow her beauty on the other guests.
A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Page 21