Not ever.
Yet . . . yet . . . what harm would he do? He could look and not touch.
Leaning over, he smoothed a lock of hair off her cheek.
He could want but not take. He would have to, for if he sent her away, he had no way to trap Stanhope, and as long as she stayed at Blythe Hall, Ellery would be in pursuit. So Throckmorton had to make the effort to keep her out of Ellery’s grasp. If Throckmorton suffered the occasional odd flashes of conscience, as well as this ridiculous surge of tenderness and the inconvenient heat of desire—well, it was probably no more than he deserved.
12
A whisk of wind lifted the tendrils of hair off Celeste’s forehead. The cloudy afternoon smelled like rain. Targets stood in a row on the far back lawn.
“I’ll wager you twenty pounds she strikes dead center.”
“Nice try, chap, but you’re not the only one who’s been watching her shoot all afternoon.”
Celeste overheard Colonel Halton and Lord Arrowood’s exchange behind her with a mixture of satisfaction and triumph. Throckmorton had suggested that she find a way to keep her identity secret and so allow Ellery his position in society. She had done so, and the hunters had straggled in from the marsh to find a most unusual contest proceeding.
Celeste lifted the rifle to her shoulder and shot once more.
The bullet struck the bull’s-eye.
Lord Townshend, her last competitor, dropped his own rifle in defeat.
A burst of applause followed, with a few hurrahs from the younger gentlemen who cared nothing for her prowess with a rifle and everything for her air of mystery and her physical attributes. That was fine. Count de Rosselin had told her to enjoy the blindness her beauty afforded, but to depend on her wits. She thought she had done so very well when she suggested a shooting competition.
Lady Philberta’s eyebrows had raised. “Among whom, Miss Milford?”
“The gentlemen who don’t care to hunt,” Celeste began.
“Capital!” Colonel Halton said.
“And those ladies who can shoot,” Celeste finished.
“Unfeminine,” Lord Arrowood had snorted.
She had unmanned him with a touch on his sleeve and a low-voiced plea for tolerance of youthful spirits. “Besides,” she had told him, “no lady has a chance of winning against an expert such as yourself.”
He’d imagined she spoke true.
To Lady Philberta’s obvious gratification, Celeste eliminated him in the first round, then fluttered her eyelashes so winningly he’d actually laughed at himself, settled back to watch the fun, and collected a rather large bank of winnings from the weary hunters who returned in groups of two and three.
Now Celeste dimpled and dropped a curtsy first to her able opponent, then to the cheering crowd. They were really very nice people when you got to know them. She was an unknown, the underdog, and she had won, so they took her to their hearts.
“Brava!” Hyacinth called to Celeste.
Celeste forgot herself enough to smile at the girl. Their brief acquaintance of the previous day had been unsettling for Celeste. She’d rather liked Hyacinth, when before she’d cherished a conjectural dislike to the girl. That was the trouble with getting to know people. The truth did not always support one’s aversions.
Still clapping, Lady Philberta came to Celeste’s side. “An amazing performance, Miss Milford. Tell us where you learned to shoot like that.”
“In Russia.” Celeste accepted Lady Philberta’s embrace, and wondered at her easy acceptance of Celeste’s intrusion. Celeste wouldn’t have thought the aristocratic Lady Philberta would care to have the gardener’s daughter pursuing her son, but she had been genial. Perhaps Celeste had braced for obstacles that never had been there. Projecting her voice to be heard all over the lawn, Celeste said, “When I traveled there in the company of the Russian ambassador and his wife, I discovered the country rife with wolves and other, more human, threats.” With a smile that downplayed the threats of highwaymen, of murderers, and of the occasional revolutionary whose eyes glowed with the strength of his convictions, she glanced about her.
A movement off to the side caught her attention. Newly returned from hunting, Throckmorton subjected her to a thorough scrutiny. Mud spattered him from boot to thigh. His damp, black hair stood at attention over his forehead. Tiredness ringed his eyes, and grimness bracketed his mouth.
She lifted her eyebrows at him, wondering what she had done to cause such intensive observation. She wanted to go to him, to ask what she’d done wrong, to assure him she’d been all that was discreet. “Russia is a country of madmen,” she added.
Another man stepped out of the crowd. “Hear, hear!” he called. “Well said, Miss Milford, and well shot.”
It was, she realized with a shock, Ellery.
Ellery, whose blond hair was cut in a shorter style, but who appeared breathtakingly handsome next to his weary, dirty, older brother.
“You’re . . . well!” she exclaimed.
“Limping a bit.” He directed at her a smile so bright each one of his teeth might have been a lit candle. Lifting his sling, he added, “And I wrenched my arm, but they’re remodeling a bedchamber up by the nursery. One of the maids was up on the ladder hanging wallpaper, and I heard her scream, and . . . well . . . she would have been badly hurt if she’d fallen.”
The younger guests had swarmed around him, so no one noticed Celeste’s start of skepticism.
“You rescued a maid?” Hyacinth asked, stars in her eyes.
He barely glanced at her. “Someone had to.”
“But you were hurt doing it,” one of the other debutantes exclaimed.
He lavished a smile on her, too. “Just a bit. One doesn’t think in a situation like that, one just gallops to the rescue.” Turning toward the house, he walked, and such was his power everyone walked with him. “But enough about me. What excitement has been happening since I went into seclusion?”
Hyacinth trotted alongside him. “Nothing, Ellery. Without you, there was no excitement at all.”
* * *
“You look tired, sir.” Stanhope came to stand beside Throckmorton as he watched Celeste walk away with Ellery.
Throckmorton took three long breaths before he answered. “Absolutely. I was up half the night.”
Perking up like a setter going on point, Stanhope said, “Not because of your special business, I hope.” Glancing around, he ascertained that no one stood near, then in a lowered voice said, “You could have woken me at any time.”
Throckmorton turned to his secretary, his friend—his betrayer. Stanhope wore the marsh’s mud like a badge of honor. The brown wool hunter’s hat proclaimed him to be an English gentleman, and its rakish angle proclaimed him an adventurer. He had shot the most birds, and his back probably ached from the constant slap of congratulations from his fellow hunters. Complacency clung to him even more deeply than the mud.
But soon, Throckmorton would strip everything from him. Everything but the mud. “I don’t think you could help me with this. I was with Miss Milford.”
There was nothing simulated about Stanhope’s astonishment. “Sir?”
“She and I have discovered we have . . . a great deal in common.” Throckmorton had never before noticed how deliberately Stanhope cultivated the combination of polish and a hail-fellow-well-met manner. Stanhope had been riding on his reputation of a dashing explorer since they’d arrived back in England.
“In common? You and the gardener’s daughter?” A nobleman’s scorn filled Stanhope’s voice.
It was time for Stanhope to grow beyond his youthful exploits, and take responsibility for his activities. Throckmorton would make personally sure of that. “Come, Stanhope,” Throckmorton said, “you wouldn’t be a man if you hadn’t noticed that she’s changed since she returned.”
“Damme, yes.” Stanhope took the opportunity to leer at Celeste’s slender back.
Throckmorton wanted to smash his smug face into the grass.
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Then Stanhope dismissed her with an aristocrat’s sniff. “But she’s still the gardener’s daughter.”
“She’ll always be that.” And better than you.
Colonel Halton strode past. “Capital entertainment, Throckmorton! That girl’ll be the talk of London.”
“Thank you. Yes, won’t she?” Throckmorton called after him. Almost every guest had passed, so he started toward the house. He wished for no one to hear this conversation, and he dawdled convincingly.
Stanhope looked ahead where Ellery and Celeste climbed the stairs to the veranda. “From the looks of it, she’s still in love with Mr. Ellery.”
“Not at all.” Too emphatic, and sounding rather as if he doubted her fidelity. Throckmorton tried a friendly smile. “She came back for Mr. Ellery, and of course he’s always ready to indulge in a little light flirtation.”
Although Ellery’s head might have been stuck in that angle of looking toward Celeste, and his fatuous smirk never faltered.
Throckmorton lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “What can I tell you, Stanhope? You came from a noble background. I did not. It’s only lucre that defines the difference between your station and mine.”
“Yes.” Stanhope thought himself so secure in his circumstances and his treachery he allowed bitterness to bleed into his tone. “I don’t have any.”
Throckmorton kept his voice genial. “I pay you a fair salary, I would say.”
“Of course, sir. I meant no criticism.”
“Of course not.” Throckmorton rubbed at the mud on his jacket.
Apparently, Stanhope read something in Throckmorton’s manner that warned him to return to the original subject. “You were telling me about Miss Milford.”
“Oh.” Throckmorton allowed a smile to cross his face. “My mother, of course, is from a great family, but my father’s common as dirt, so there’s no great difference between Miss Milford and me.”
“I would disagree, sir. She hasn’t a ha’penny.”
Aristocrats arranged their marriages for monetary increase. Sometimes Throckmorton was proud to be common. “She has beauty beyond price. She is kind, good with the children, and she kisses . . . pardon me. You don’t want to hear this.” Throckmorton let Stanhope wrestle with the tidings before saying reflectively, “Although I’m surprised you haven’t heard the gossip.”
“Why . . . no, sir, I haven’t heard a word.”
Lying, Throckmorton diagnosed, or distracted. Too enthralled in the dangerous game he played to pay attention to the rumors swirling around him. After Throckmorton’s confession, he would seek out the scandal, and there existed just enough to convince him.
“It’s sheer nonsense, of course,” Throckmorton said. “I would have swung on that swing even if she hadn’t urged me.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Stanhope stumbled on the first step up to the house. “You swung on a . . . swing? As in—” Stanhope made a pendulant motion with his hand. A ruby set in gold glinted on that hand; a gift from Throckmorton for years of faithful service.
“Yes. What’s so odd about that?” Throckmorton wrinkled his brow as though puzzled. Actually, he was puzzled. His mother had accosted him with his “bizarre behavior,” as she called it. Surely she realized he could kick over the traces occasionally. Although if he doubted she would call his early morning visit to the nursery “kicking over the traces.” More like—madness.
“And you kissed the gardener’s daughter?” Stanhope clarified.
“There was a great deal more than . . .” Throckmorton caught himself again, smiled like a man with a secret, and climbed the stairs. “Beg pardon. I just haven’t felt this way for years. Maybe ever.” That was true, at least. He had never felt like he wanted to throttle his secretary before.
Stanhope didn’t bother to hide his astonishment.
“Your disbelief fails to flatter,” Throckmorton said dryly.
“Not at all, sir, but compared to . . .” Stanhope gestured feebly at Ellery as he walked ahead of them with Celeste.
“You’re referring to the fact I’m not nearly as handsome as Mr. Ellery.” It had never mattered before. Throckmorton didn’t know why it should now, but in fact he was getting dreadfully tired of having Ellery’s comeliness thrown in his face. “But I freely admit it. I’m infatuated with Miss Milford, and I’m as ruthless in my courting as I am in my . . . business.”
Celeste, for no reason Throckmorton could see, curtsied to excuse herself from Ellery and his group, and hurried away.
Ellery watched her, but when she turned the corner he rejoined the merry group.
Throckmorton glanced toward Hyacinth. The poor girl stumbled along, trailing ever farther behind the pack of fashionable youths and mincing debutantes. Her stricken gaze never left Ellery.
Throckmorton would have to fix that situation. He had to fix every situation, and exhaustion tugged at him.
“I see,” Stanhope said.
“I gave Miss Milford strict instructions she was not to linger for fear we would betray ourselves.”
Clearly unconvinced, Stanhope protested, “But Miss Milford doesn’t seem your . . . she seems so . . .”
“Young? Exquisite?”
“Improper. I haven’t understood why you allow her to mingle among the guests. That is to say—I understand you have needs, just like the rest of us, but it surprises me that you’ll indulge yourself with the gardener’s daughter. I know how well you think of Milford and how considerate you’ve been of him all these years. To dally with his daughter seems—”
“You misunderstand, Stanhope!” Throckmorton was almost having fun, dragging Stanhope along the conversational path he’d designed. “I do not dally with innocent young ladies. I am quite serious about Miss Milford.”
“Serious? As in . . . marriage?”
“She is mine.” Throckmorton experienced a wave of intense satisfaction as he laid his claim.
This playacting was sweeping him away. He had to cease.
With a touch on the arm and jerk of the head, he indicated Stanhope should follow him to the office. In there, drama had no place. The serious business of espionage reigned within, and in less than a week, Throckmorton would destroy Stanhope. Without preamble, he shut the door and said, “I’m in trouble.”
Stanhope fixed a polite expression on his face. “What kind of trouble, sir?”
“There have been problems. Problems for our men in the field.” In a voice weighty with trouble, Throckmorton said, “It would seem that someone among us is selling information to the Russians.”
Stanhope took a deep breath. “No!”
“Yes, and I’m the prime suspect.” Without waiting to see Stanhope’s expression of disbelief or relief, Throckmorton walked to his desk and drummed his fingers on the dark, shining surface. “I don’t have to tell you that’s not true.”
“Of course not, sir!”
“But I don’t know who is guilty.”
“You have your suspicions, though.” Stanhope’s voice warmed to oily invitation.
“Indeed I do.” Flattening his hands, Throckmorton leaned on them and stared at Stanhope so fixedly Stanhope’s hands bunched into fists. Then Throckmorton declared, “It is Winston.”
“Winston?” Stanhope’s fingers sprang open and his forehead knit with incredulity. “Why Winston?”
“We started having little slips about a year ago. About the time he joined the team.” Throckmorton seated himself on one of the uncomfortable chairs before his own desk. “I know you like him, but he has betrayed us.”
“It doesn’t seem possible.”
“It could be someone else. I’m open to any suggestions.”
“But of course you must be right.”
You would say so.
“The betrayals did start when he joined our organization—or at least, if that’s the truth, it must be him.”
“Exactly.” The chair really was as uncomfortable as everyone said. But Throckmorton didn’t want to sit behind his desk. He
wanted Stanhope to see him stripped of confidence, of dignity, of the badges of his office. “The bad news is . . . although I will continue to receive dispatches about the plans for the newest troop movements in India, the home office in London demands that I keep those plans secret.”
Stanhope paused in the act of seating himself on the chair opposite. “I thought you said you were a suspect.”
A misstep. “Not necessarily me. But one of my men, and that makes me an incompetent, doesn’t it?” Throckmorton smiled with cold brilliance. Indeed, even though Throckmorton knew every director lost men to perfidy, Stanhope’s betrayal stabbed at the heart of his pride.
“You’ll need help proving Winston’s guilt.”
“Didn’t you listen? London made it very clear my organization contains the prime suspect. They’d never allow me to provide proof. They have sent their own men to follow him and, I’m sure, to watch me. You’ll see them on the grounds.” And indeed they were there, pretending to follow Winston while in truth watching Stanhope, trying to see who his accomplices might be, and guarding the children. “So until we have proved Winston’s culpability, I have no use for you as a secretary. I do beg your pardon for this breakdown in trust, and beg that you weather the storm at my side.”
“Of course. Whatever you wish, but . . .” Stanhope traced the swirl of wood on the arm of his chair. “It seems to me that someone needs to, um, write up the answers to London and such. You can’t be expected to do that on your own.”
“I’m not,” Throckmorton said briskly. “Dear Celeste will help me.”
Stanhope’s eyes bulged. “Celeste? That little . . . girl?”
“Exactly! A female with no more knowledge of the Great Game we play in Central Asia than that of an English setter puppy, but who speaks French and Russian. I tell you, Stanhope, she’s a gift from heaven, and good on the eyes, too.” Throckmorton chuckled. “I probably wouldn’t have thought of it, but last night I slipped with a bit of information about the impending invasion. She didn’t understand me at all.”
In My Wildest Dreams Page 12