With His Lady's Assistance (The Regent Mysteries Book 1)

by Cheryl Bolen

  She knew Jack could never be attracted to a woman who was a courtesan. Well, Daphne amended, perhaps attracted enough to lift her skirts for a quick mating, but not attracted enough to ever fall in love with her.

  Daphne gave a bittersweet smile. His prudishness was just one of the things she loved about him. The breath suddenly trapped in her chest. Loved? This was the first time she had allowed herself to admit that she had, indeed, fallen in love with the dashing captain.

  Her shoulders sagged, her heart skidded. Sucking nectar from marble would be easier than loving him.

  She watched him and the comtesse move fluidly on the dance floor and gave thanks for the pride which spurred him to act toward Daphne with indifference. She could not have borne it had she to witness his hurt.

  Even after Daphne entered the dance floor on the arm of Lord Merriwether, she continued to watch Jack and the comtesse--and continued to harbor the most uncharitable feelings toward the comtesse. Not only was the Frenchwoman's dress indecently low, Daphne would vow she could see through its fine fabric. And the way she lowered her lashes when she directed her attentions at Jack was seductive in the extreme.

  As Lord Merriwether whirled Daphne from one corner of the ballroom to the other, Daphne perused the cream of the beau monde. Caro Lamb was there, along with her mother and Lady Hertford. Reginald St. Ryse looked vastly bored as he danced with his own wife.

  Daphne's glance slipped to Cornelia, who danced with Lord Vane. Though Cornelia would never admit it, Daphne knew Lord Vane was her sister's latest lover.

  Everywhere Daphne looked she saw adulterers. And she frowned. Until Jack, she would never have deigned to cast judgment on those of her circle. Until Jack, she'd been complacent about the decadence that defined her rank, but now she suffered the shame of her class.

  Her lashes lowered as she threw her head back and allowed Lord Merriwether to lead her across the ballroom floor. The oddest vision rose in her mind. She pictured a colorful thatched cottage like the one in a picture upon the wall of her maid's tiny bedchamber. Flowers spilled onto the curving path that led to the cottage's curved door, and smoke curled from its chimney. Daphne was swamped with a potent desire to live in that cottage, away from her family and friends.

  With Jack.

  * * *

  Just because he was determined not to dance with Daphne did not mean he wished for the comtesse to claim all his attentions.

  He needed to circulate more among the attendees. He needed to find Lord and Lady Ponsby. He needed to be introduced to George Lamb. And he needed to satisfy his curiosity that Lord Melbourne held no animosity toward the Prince Regent.

  But he had the devil of a time extricating himself from the Frenchwoman. "You and Lady Daphne have fought?" she asked.

  Determined to make no admissions, he stiffened. "Why do you ask?"

  "Women they are exceedingly perceptive about these things."

  "My feelings for Lady Daphne have not changed." Which was a lie. He'd never been angrier at a woman before. Why had Daphne flirted with him and kissed him so thoroughly when she had no interest in him?

  He would try to stem his anger by telling himself it was a very good thing Daphne had backed off from the familiarity that had been developing between them. She was no more accessible to him than that non-existent diamond mine in South Africa.

  "But, my dear Monsieur Rich, you have not answered my question. You and Lady Daphne have quarreled. No?"

  He shrugged. "There has been some difficulty about where we would live, were we to marry." The comtesse's scent was almost overpowering.

  "A pity." She gazed up at him. "If you should need . . . comfort, I will come to you anywhere, anytime, my dear Monsieur Rich."

  "You're too kind."

  "Kindness has nothing to do with my offer, Monsieur Rich."

  He stiffened when he saw Mr. Bottomworth enter the ballroom and scan the dance floor until his eyes met Jack's.

  Bottomworth nodded, and Jack inclined his own head.

  After the dance, Bottomworth cornered him. "Just the man I've been wanting to see!"

  Before Jack could respond, Daphne strolled up and greeted Bottomworth with bubbling enthusiasm. How in the blazes did she do that? "Where is your lovely wife?" she asked.

  "I believe she's procuring refreshments," Mr. Bottomworth said.

  By his observations of the man's wife that afternoon Jack thought she looked as if the procurement of refreshments was excessively important to her.

  As they stood there on the precipice of the dance floor, Lord Sidworth joined their group. "I see you and Rich are discussing mutual interests, eh, Bottomworth?"

  "Indeed. In fact," Mr. Bottomworth said, eying Jack, "Mrs. Bottomworth and I desire to further our acquaintance with Mr. Rich. Will you do us the goodness of dining at our house tomorrow evening?"

  Daphne saved Jack from having to reply. Plopping her hand upon his sleeve, she said, "A pity you cannot go, my dear Mr. Rich, but you've promised to dine with my aunt that night."

  "What aunt would that be?" Lord Sidworth asked, staring down his aquiline nose at his daughter.

  "Mama's dear sister," Daphne replied, effecting effrontery that her father had failed to remember so important an engagement.

  If Jack recalled accurately, Daphne's mother, like Daphne, had five sisters--all of whom possessed townhouses in London.

  Daphne linked her arm through Jack's and bestowed a dazzling smile upon him. "At last I'm free to stand up with you as I promised."

  "Before you go, Rich," Lord Sidworth said, "you must say farewell in hottentot."

  Jack's gaze locked with Bottomworth's, whose brow arched. "Do you speak hottentot, Mr. Bottomworth?"

  The older man shook his head. "A few words in Bantu are all I've been able to manage."

  Jack shrugged. "Uga wen dum." Then he strolled to the dance floor with Daphne.

  "You were wonderful!" Daphne gushed. "Uga wen dum! How completely brilliant!" she praised.

  "I felt like a bloody fool." He looked down at her. Though she wore another new gown, her breasts seemed to have disappeared. Must have something to do with the blasted stays! His gaze climbed, settling on her bushy hair. She had obviously made no attempt to dress it. His first reaction to the drabness of her appearance was relief that other men would not be attracted to her; his second reaction was disgust at himself for still possessing powerful feelings for her.

  As they were flawlessly executing the steps of a quadrille, they heard a woman's scream come from downstairs. Then a cry of anguish. Everyone froze. All at once people began swarming like scattered ants, and voices thundered.

  Fear in her eyes, Daphne looked at him. "What is it?"

  He strained to isolate strands of conversation, then he set his mouth into a grim line. "I believe Princess Charlotte has been gravely injured."

  He looked up to see the Duke of York standing in the doorway of the ballroom, tears clinging to his cheeks.

  Then they heard the word assassin.

  Chapter 21

  Daphne pushed her spectacles up to the narrowest part of her nose and eyed her father. "I beg that you and Mama run on up to your bedchambers. There are important matters that Mr. Rich and I must discuss." Her parents need not know the matters to be discussed had nothing to do with the botched betrothal.

  Lord and Lady Sidworth exchanged amused glances. No doubt they clung to the hope their hopelessly spinsterish daughter could work things out with the sublime specimen of masculinity who stood before them. Barely hiding her delight, Lady Sidworth addressed her husband. "I daresay, dear, Mr. Rich is all that's honorable."

  "'Pon my word," said Daphne's father, nodding, "he's a true gentleman."

  If only her parents would think as highly of the penniless Captain Dryden as they did of Mr. Rich.

  After her parents left the saloon, Daphne sank into the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. What a night it had been! Thankfully, before they had left Almack's they had learned that the p
rincess's surgeon expected a full recovery. There was not a soul at the assembly who did not rejoice at that announcement.

  Those at Almack's had been able to piece together the details of the attack on Princess Charlotte. An unknown sniper had shot the regent's daughter in the neck while she was visiting friends in Windsor late that afternoon. Guards immediately closed in to protect her but were unable to determine from where the shot had come.

  The queen, who had been with her granddaughter when she was felled by the musket ball, collapsed in hysteria--in no small part due to her granddaughter's excessive loss of blood. In a very short time the surgeon was able to determine that despite the copious amounts of blood lost, the musket ball had merely grazed the young princess's neck.

  Reverting to her native German, the prostrate Queen Charlotte had hysterically asserted her belief that it was she--not her granddaughter--who was the assassin's target.

  The attendees at Almack's tended to agree that a foreign-born queen would certainly be a more likely target than dear Princess Charlotte.

  But Daphne was certain the princess was the intended victim.

  "My dear captain," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "you must realize this attempt on Princess Charlotte puts things in an entirely different light."

  He gave her a quizzing expression. "In what way?"

  "It's obvious the assassin wishes to clear the path to the throne."

  "So you're saying this would-be assassin wishes to do away with the king, then the regent, then his daughter . . . who, pray tell, would be next?" Jack looked at her as if she were a candidate for Bedlam. "The Duke of York?"

  Daphne bit her lip as she absently nodded. "You're right in that Freddie is next in line, but I'm beginning to think our would-be assassin might be desirous of placing Freddie on the throne for his--or her--own purposes."

  A deep, bellowing laugh rose from Jack's chest.

  "Ssh," Daphne said, her brows drawing together. "We don't want my parents to come cupping their ears to the door."

  His laugh abruptly stopped. "And upon what, my lady, do you base this opinion that the Duke of York is annihilating his family?"

  "I would never suggest such a thing!"

  "No, of course, not against your dear Freddie," Jack said, frowning. "Who, then, are you suggesting?"

  "I'm suggesting that someone close to Freddie wishes for him to be King of England."

  She could tell Jack did not agree. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, he could only barely manage to stifle his impatience. It was to his credit that instead of completely discrediting her out of hand, he had the courtesy of asking her to explain. "Could you enlighten me on the thought processes that brought you to such a conclusion?" he asked.

  "Female intuition."

  He didn't speak for a moment. "Forgive me for saying this, my lady, but generally you do not think like any female I've ever known."

  "Nothing to forgive," she said with a shrug of resignation. "It's the truth. Nevertheless, I do have dead-on instincts. And I tell you I believe the Comtesse de Mornet is behind these attempts."

  "Now see here, Lady Daphne, just because you don't like someone doesn't mean you can go around accusing them of the most vile crimes."

  Daphne crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. "So the trollop has made a conquest of you, too!"

  "She certainly has not!"

  "Not for lack of trying," Daphne mumbled.

  He shook his head. "I must say until this conversation I'd always given you credit for intelligence."

  "How dare you! I am intelligent."

  "My dear Lady Daphne, think of the improbability of your accusations! You believe your so-called assassin is going to mastermind three murders in order to place on the throne a man she . . . serves--a man who's married to a legitimate wife!"

  "Not three murders."

  Jack hiked a brow.

  "The old king's not expected to live out the year."

  "That's what they said last year. And the year before."

  "Surely he can't last much longer."

  "I shall humor you and say the king will shortly die. You truly believe the diabolical comtesse plans to murder the regent and his daughter?"

  "Someone most certainly does, and my first suspect is the odious comtesse."

  "See, there you go--maligning the comtesse merely because you dislike her. Now you're behaving like a woman!"

  Her eyes narrowed. "And you're behaving like a man smitten!"

  "For God's sake, I'm certainly not smitten by that woman."

  "Then why is it you never perform the quadrille with her--only the waltz?"

  He did not answer for a moment. "If you must know," he said with some reluctance, "because she asks me."

  Daphne's eyes narrowed to slits. "That's exactly the sort of thing the odious woman would do."

  He burst out laughing again. "Spoken like a true woman! Forgive me for discrediting your feminine sensibilities."

  "I'll vow, Captain, you know me well. Surely you realize a man's analytical mind and a woman's sensitivity are combined in this one very unfeminine body."

  His glance lazily traveled over her unfeminine body from her bony neck to the tips of her toes, causing her many vexatious physical reactions. "If you imply your body's masculine," he said in a husky voice, "you err."

  The very air was trapped in her lungs. She wished he would quit looking at her like that! How could a girl even think when his black eyes burned into her? She finally found her voice. "Perhaps you could procure us some Madeira. I daresay it might settle our nerves after the upsetting events of the evening." And the perusal by one very virile man. She had the feeling that dumping an entire bottle of brandy straight into her veins wouldn't quell her vexatious physical reactions to this man.

  A moment later he returned with two glasses of wine. She sipped hers, then asked, "Now what were we discussing?"

  "You, I believe, were maligning the comtesse."

  "Oh, yes. You must think about what I'm suggesting. The old king is practically at death's door, the regent hasn't left Carlton House since the last attempt on his life. The would-be assassin would have good reason to believe that the regent will not recover. So--to this person's wretched way of thinking--the only person standing between Freddie and the throne is Princess Charlotte."

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. "I'll own there's some merit to what you're suggesting, but you yourself said that Fred--, er, the Duke of York, has a legitimate wife. Why should his mistress go to so much trouble if she can never be queen?"

  "King's mistresses are infamous--and exceedingly wealthy. As it is now, Freddie's forever smothered in debts."

  "So is the regent, and I believe his portion is much larger than his brother's."

  "Ah, but the king's is a great many times larger than all his children put together."

  "Whether the Duke of York is in debt or not, his mistress appears to live quite comfortably at present," Jack said. "You saw her fine equipage at the park, and she appears to dress in the first stare of fashion."

  Daphne shrugged. "In addition to owing all the tradesmen and modistes, the comtesse has run up enormous gambling debts and is into the Jews for vast sums."

  "Supposing you are right," Jack said, cocking his head to glare at her, "how would you go about proving it?"

  Her eyes trailed over Jack, a dreamy smile settling on her lips.

  "Oh, no, not that again!" he said.

  She nodded. "Yes, that again. Only now we don't have time for proper wooing."

  "I'm not making love to the comtesse."

  "I daresay there's not enough time for that." Daphne began to nibble at her lower lip. After a moment she looked up at him. "Pray, tell me, Captain, has the comtesse ever indicated that she would be receptive to you . . . in that certain way?"

  His eyes locked with hers, then he slowly nodded.

  Her hands flew together to clap. "Excellent!"

  "I fail to see what's excellent about it," he grumb
led.

  "Don't you see, silly, that saves us a great deal of time. You merely take her up on her offer."

  "I'm not making love to her."

  He was so noble, so noble he would make love to the woman if it meant saving his sovereign's life. She certainly hoped it would not come to that. "You may not have to."

  His brows arched.

  "If my hunch is correct, she'll turn down your noble offer."

  "You've lost me."

  She looked down her aristocratic nose at him. "Being the puritanical man you are, you will go to the comtesse and tell her you've fallen in love with her but that you would never allow yourself to make love to her as long as she's another man's mistress."

  "I think I begin to see."

  She favored him with a smile. "You will ask her to give up the duke and promise her that as your mistress she will be lavished with money and jewels." She paused. "Don't forget to emphasize that you're an exceedingly wealthy man."

  He grinned. "How could I forget such a thing?"

  She loved it when he grinned like that. How could the comtesse turn down such a sinfully handsome man? Unfortunately, Daphne found herself babbling about his sublimeness. "Even if you are incredibly handsome, I'm betting that she will flatly turn you down. Why settle for a mere mister when she could be a king's mistress? Besides, she'll be so proud of her vile scheme she could not possibly reject it."

  "Let's just suppose," he said, "the comtesse should find my offer attractive?"

  Daphne had to think on this for a moment. What woman wouldn't wish to belong to Jack? Especially if that woman thought he was exceedingly rich? Unless . . . "I've got it!" she squealed. "You'll demand that she live in South Africa. What good would beautiful gowns and jewels and extravagant carriages do her if she was forced to live in South Africa? Yes, Captain, I believe such a demand would ensure that you won't have to make love to the odious comtesse!"

  Several minutes passed before Jack responded. She had begun to wonder if he had gone deaf and not heard her, then he nodded. "We can't afford not to give your plan a try."