He nodded decisively. “I shudder to think of what will transpire if your father gets wind of you staying overnight before I make a formal offer for your hand—let’s get that done this morning.”
“As for the rest…” She settled, warm and secure, in his hold, and they ran through the immediate steps they needed to take—notifying his parents being the next highest on their list. “As to exactly when we should wed, I’m sure Mama will have thoughts on that head—best leave that until we speak with her.”
He was silent for a moment, then murmured, “Given the season, if we time our announcements, we should be able to hold much of the ton and their sure-to-be-avid, not to say rabid, interest at bay.” She felt him shift to look into her face and turned her head to meet his gaze. He searched her features, her eyes, then said, “At least until this mission of Drake’s is over.”
She nodded, entirely at one with that sentiment. “Yes. Let’s keep the news under our hats for as long as possible, at least until the gunpowder has been found and made safe.”
Sebastian was relieved she’d agreed. No matter the distraction, ten barrels of gunpowder and the havoc that could wreak in the heart of London was difficult to block from their minds.
Chapter 17
“Am I allowed to say it’s about time?”
Sebastian hid a wince. He’d just made formal application for Antonia’s hand in marriage. “As you wish” didn’t seem a wise response to make to the gentleman seated on the other side of the desk in the study of the Green Street house. Gyles Rawlings, Earl of Chillingworth and Antonia’s father, was one of Sebastian’s father’s oldest friends.
“I suppose I should ask,” Chillingworth continued, clearly unsurprised by Sebastian’s silence, “what Antonia has to say to this.”
“I’ve asked her, and she’s agreed.”
“Excellent.” Sitting back in his chair, Chillingworth smiled. While Sebastian felt the earl was enjoying himself—thrilled to have a Cynster metaphorically at his mercy—he nevertheless appeared to be genuinely delighted. “A wise move on your part, and a highly satisfactory one on hers.” He eyed Sebastian indulgently. “I suppose I should confess that your father and I long suspected it would come to this.”
Understanding that Chillingworth was not inclined to even pretend to be averse to the union—not that Sebastian had anticipated rejection, but the earl could have made his approval much harder to gain—he tested the waters with a disgruntled grunt. “You—or he—might have warned me.”
Chillingworth opened his eyes wide. “Where would be the fun in that?”
It was, Sebastian discovered, a touch disconcerting that Antonia had inherited her gray gaze from her father.
That gaze was currently fixed on him in a far-too-knowing fashion. “Besides,” the earl said, “we each of us have to find our own way into and out of the morass.”
Sebastian nearly asked “Which morass?” but suspected he knew. Then it struck him that Chillingworth had to have faced many of the same issues—along with the same intense and rather fiery counter-response—he himself was now facing; it was widely acknowledged that Antonia had inherited both her black hair and the wilder, more dramatic side of her nature from her mother. “Apropos of that”—he rapidly searched for the right words, but in the end, settled for a man-to-man appeal—“as Antonia takes after the countess in many ways, do you have any helpful hints about how to manage the usual hurdles men of our ilk face?”
Chillingworth regarded him impassively, then, somewhat to Sebastian’s surprise, the earl leaned forward, clasped his hands on the blotter, and fixed him with a serious look. “I’m sure your father would agree that the most critical aspect to understand in order to enjoy a long and happy marriage is to realize that power isn’t entirely ours. Not with respect to wives—or at least not to our sort of wives. We might rule our roost, but only with their acquiescence. As long as we play by those rules and give them due deference, all goes smoothly. Try to lord it over them, and you will very quickly wish you hadn’t—you really don’t want to test them, or more to the point, plumb your own emotions, believe me. ”
Sebastian considered that, then asked, “You mean that continues…forever?”
Chillingworth sent him a shark’s grin. “To the grave. Ours, most likely.”
The look Sebastian sent him clearly made the earl’s day; Chillingworth laughed, then gestured to the door and made to stand.
Sebastian stayed him with an upraised hand. “One moment. There’s something else you need to know.”
Chillingworth sank back into his chair. There was nothing wrong with the earl’s ability to read other men. His “What is it?” held a sharper edge.
Succinctly, Sebastian described Drake’s mission, and how Antonia as well as he was now involved. “The intrigue is ongoing, and it’s possible that I, and even Antonia, may have a further role to play.”
Chillingworth didn’t look thrilled. He stared at Sebastian for several seconds, then stated, “I can’t order her out of it, any more than you can.”
Sebastian grimaced. “So it seems.”
Chillingworth studied him, then said, “Your father and I, and the others of our circle…when we were your age, we stepped into the fray when we needed to. When we were called on. We can hardly argue against you—and even Antonia—stepping up to the same mark in your time.”
Sebastian held the earl’s gaze, then arched a brow. “Like a baton being passed on?”
“Precisely.” Chillingworth rose and waved him to his feet. “I could wish Antonia wasn’t involved, but now she is…” He met Sebastian’s gaze as Sebastian straightened to his full height. “I’ll have to place my trust in your abilities to keep your marchioness-to-be safe.”
Sebastian formally inclined his head. “You may be sure I’ll accomplish that—come what may.”
Chillingworth grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent. Come. Let’s find the ladies.”
Together, they left the study. Chillingworth led the way to the back parlor.
When Sebastian and Antonia, with Beccy in attendance, had arrived nearly an hour ago as if they’d just returned from Kent, the earl and the countess had heard their voices in the front hall and had come to greet them. On learning that Sebastian wished to speak with the earl in private, the countess had blinked, then smiled delightedly. She’d linked her arm with Antonia’s and had borne her daughter off to the back parlor, leaving the earl and Sebastian to confer in the study.
Sebastian followed the earl through the parlor door and saw Antonia seated on the sofa facing the long windows that gave onto the rear garden. The countess, Francesca, was perched on the window seat, her emerald eyes candidly and very shrewdly observing her daughter, her husband, and Sebastian.
Antonia swiveled to look at her father; she swiftly read the earl’s expression, and her features eased, then she transferred her gaze to Sebastian.
He nodded to assure her all had gone well.
That short of the official announcement, they were now formally betrothed.
Francesca read that message in their faces. Her features lit with exuberant delight. She sprang to her feet and clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Champagne, Gyles—don’t you think?”
“I do.” Chillingworth walked to the bellpull. “Not every day one gets to set a ball and chain on a Cynster’s leg.”
“Papa!”
“Gyles, you will not say such things—especially not in front of Honoria!”
Having tugged the bellpull, the earl turned a bland gaze on his countess. “I do have some sense of self-preservation left to me.”
The butler, Withers, appeared, and orders were given; while that worthy hurried to fulfill the request, Francesca congratulated her daughter and Sebastian warmly. As he’d known the countess from his earliest years, he wasn’t taken aback by her ebullience; when she grew excited, her Italian upbringing tended to overwhelm her Englishness. Not that a proper English reserve had ever been a true part of Francesca�
��s makeup; haughtiness was a façade she adopted only when it suited her.
Looking from mother to daughter, Sebastian accepted that the reserve expected of an earl’s daughter that Antonia effortlessly maintained when in public was only a veneer, one barely thicker than her mother’s.
He wasn’t about to complain.
The champagne arrived, carried in by a beaming Withers; glasses were poured, and several toasts—some serious, others less so—were duly drunk.
Then Francesca called them to order. She resumed her position on the window seat. Sebastian joined Antonia on the sofa and stretched one arm along the sofa’s back behind her shoulders, while the earl tugged an armchair to a spot between the end of the sofa and the window seat and sank into it.
“Now”—Francesca fixed her gaze on Sebastian—“I take it you have yet to inform your parents.”
He nodded. “They’re at Somersham, but I assume they’ll be returning to town shortly.” He glanced inquiringly at the earl.
Chillingworth stated, “Your father intended to be back for the next sitting of the Lords, so I’d expect them in a week or so.”
Francesca waved dismissively. “They’ll be back before that. Once Honoria hears your news, she’ll be packing within the hour.”
No one disagreed with that prediction.
“So,” Francesca continued, “we should consider the where and when of your wedding. It will be a major affair, and with you both being who you are, I warn you there will be no way of avoiding that.” She fixed a challenging look on Antonia and Sebastian. When they returned her regard meekly, Francesca humphed softly and continued, “As I have already mentioned to Antonia, a wedding at Lambourn Castle would be most appropriate. The castle is large and grand enough to do full justice to the event, the chapel there is lovely, and it is where Gyles and I married as well.”
Sebastian glanced at Antonia, caught her gaze when she looked inquiringly at him, and deduced the plan met with her approval. He looked at Francesca and nodded. “That sounds…perfect.” He was immensely relieved to be spared a full court wedding held in the bosom of the ton at St. George’s in Hanover Square.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the earl’s lips twitch mockingly; Antonia’s father could very likely read his mind on that score.
But Francesca looked upon him with approval. “Good. You may leave the rest of the details to your mother and me to arrange.”
“We wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” the earl murmured—and earned himself a narrow-eyed glance from his countess.
Then Francesca returned her gaze to Antonia and Sebastian. “With that settled, the only other point that, at this time, we need to discuss is the timing.” The countess arched her brows. “When do you wish your wedding to be?”
The earl shifted and caught Sebastian’s gaze. “I gather this intrigue of Drake’s that these two were assisting with is still ongoing.”
“It is?” Francesca’s brows rose. “I’d forgotten about that.” She looked at Sebastian. “Did you not deal with whatever it was down in Kent?”
“We did.” Sebastian heard the grim note that had returned to his voice. He glanced at Antonia. “But the matter in Kent appears to have been only part of a greater whole, one with the potential to be a wider threat, possibly even to the country.”
Francesca frowned. “How long will it take for this intrigue to be resolved?”
Ten barrels of gunpowder somewhere in London. Sebastian arched his brows. “Two—possibly three—weeks. I doubt it will drag on for much longer.”
Francesca’s face cleared. She waved dismissively. “Three or even four weeks is of no moment.” She paused as if calculating, then focused on Antonia and Sebastian again. “Given the current season, you have a choice. You could be married in mid-November—not later than the third week, or we would risk early snows. But it’s that, or late February or March next year.”
That didn’t sound like much of a choice to Sebastian. He glanced—hopefully—at Antonia.
She met his gaze, smiled easily, then turned to her mother and stated, “Mid-November.”
“Excellent!” Francesca looked enthused. “Then that, too, is settled.” Her emerald gaze fixed on Antonia. “But with the wedding so soon, we will need to start on your gown without delay.”
Immediately, the conversation swung to consideration of the weights of various sorts of silks and the virtues of different types of beading and lace.
Sidelined, Sebastian glanced at Chillingworth.
The earl caught his eye and grinned. “You see? The first lesson you need to learn is that it’s best to simply smile, surrender, and let them run.”
Sebastian noted the contented expression on his soon-to-be father-in-law’s face.
He looked at Antonia and her mother, both now animated to much the same degree. Knowing his father’s counsel would be the same, he smiled, relaxed against the sofa, and followed the earl’s advice.
If smiling, surrendering, and allowing them to run was another part of the price men like him had to pay to have women like Antonia, her mother, and his mother in their lives, so be it; in all matters social, it was a price he was entirely willing to pay.
* * *
In the parlor of a manor house deep in the quiet countryside, a man stood before a many-paned window. His upright posture that of the army officer he once had been, he looked out at the nearly leafless trees in the wood on the other side of a short stretch of poorly tended lawn, and in a deep, authoritative voice, succinctly reported on the progress of the mission he had agreed to undertake. “Boyne, most helpfully, stepped in and silenced his older brother, Lord Ennis, before Ennis could pass on anything of our plot to anyone.”
From deeper in the room came a creak, and the old man seated in the Bath chair parked in the dimness into which the weak autumn light did not reach grunted. “By which you mean Boyne panicked and acted to save his own skin, as such men are wont to do. I did warn you he had overestimated his brother’s commitment to the Young Irelander cause. Like many an Anglo-Irish peer, Ennis paid lip service to the notion of a free Ireland, and while he might have contributed to the cause’s coffers, blowing up some government building in London would not have been something he would have condoned.”
The man before the window frowned, safe in the knowledge that the older man couldn’t see his expression. His lips compressed, then he relaxed them and said, “Regardless, Boyne got the money he needed from Ennis and was at the rendezvous to receive the gunpowder and pay off the captain.” He hesitated, debating his next words, but the old man would probably hear of it anyway; his ability to learn of actions and details all the way down to minutiae despite being buried in the country and barely able to move from his chair was nothing short of miraculous. In an even tone, the ex-guardsman reported, “Boyne also killed his sister-in-law. He feared Ennis might have mentioned something to her, so he tied up that loose end for us, too.”
The old man grunted again. “At least the man was thorough.”
“He was, as you rightly guessed, panicked. But in the end, he played his part well enough—he did what we needed him to do.”
A moment elapsed, then the old man asked, “Are you sure no one knows of the barrels?”
“Quite sure. As per your plan, we only left the barrels on the estate for a few days. We moved them out on the second night after they’d arrived, and no one was any the wiser. Boyne and I saw the barrels on the road to London, and I instructed him to ensure there was no evidence of any sort remaining of the barrels’ existence.” The ex-guardsman crossed his arms over his chest and settled, his feet apart, his legs braced. “When I met with Boyne yesterday afternoon, he confirmed he’d been to the cave, and that there were no traces there or elsewhere to alert anyone even to the existence of the barrels, much less of any plot.”
“Excellent.” Rich approval colored the old man’s voice.
The ex-guardsman wasn’t immune to the effect, even though he understood that that tone—an
d its effect—was one reason the old man had once been such an influential manipulator in the more rarefied circles of government.
The old man continued, “I take it you’ve eliminated Boyne.”
“Yes.” Again, the ex-guardsman hesitated, yet it wouldn’t pay to step out of his role of subordinate, not at this point. “But he’d already been winged by someone and was desperate to drive off with me. I asked, and he said he was being chased over his brother’s murder.”
“By whom?”
“An inspector from Scotland Yard and the local magistrate.”
The old man snorted derisively. “So no real threat to us, not now Boyne has been silenced.” After a moment, he went on, “Given the circumstances, I assume you left his body where it would be found.”
“Yes. If they were pursuing him, his trail would have led them to it.”
“Good. The inspector and the magistrate will, in all likelihood, be grateful to be able to close the file on Lord Ennis’s murder.” The old man gave a dry chuckle. “It might even be said that you performed a civic service in killing Boyne and sparing the courts the trouble and expense of a trial.”
The ex-guardsman allowed himself a thin smile.
“So the barrels are safely stored in London?”
“Yes.” Unfolding his arms, the ex-guardsman turned away from the bleak view. He hunted in his coat pocket and drew out a piece of paper and a ring with two keys. He glanced at them, then crossed the room and offered them to the old man, who raised a partially palsied hand and took them. “That’s the address of the warehouse and the foreman’s keys. The barrels are sitting there, sweet as you please, and no one knows they’re there.”
His head bent, the old man studied the address, then he fumbled and folded the paper and slipped it along with the keys into the capacious pocket of his brown velvet smoking jacket. From beneath his shaggy white eyebrows, he shot a sharp look at the younger man’s face. “What of the Young Irelander hotheads who transported the barrels and arranged their storage?”
The Lady By His Side (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 4) Page 32