She didn’t believe for a minute such was the case, but then, he didn’t know Edgar like she did. She’d seen, and experienced, how vile and determined her stepbrother could be. Edgar didn’t know where Vangie lived, but a coin or two in the right hand would loosen many a reluctant tongue.
Yvette remained silent, mulling over the viscount’s words. Her gaze dipped to the wadded handkerchief in her hand. Merciful God in heaven, she’d made a cake of it. First venturing into his lordship’s chamber, then agreeing to their feigned betrothal.
A thought rudely shoved its way into her mind. Oh bother. There would be no dashing off to Somersfield today. “I don’t have a chaperone. I can’t travel with you.”
“Shh.” Lord Sethwick laid a long finger across her lips. “We’ll secure one before we leave.”
The contact dammed her words. It also softened her body to the consistency of warm, creamy custard. Swallowing, Yvette, with strength of will she didn’t know she possessed, forced herself not to pucker her lips against his finger. Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with her?
“Evvy, playing the role of a couple soon-to-wed will lessen any gossip or rumors about this morning events.”
“What happens afterwards?” She wrinkled her brow. “How will we explain our deception?”
“Seeing you safely to Somersfield is our priority right now. With Edgar in Town, we should leave this afternoon—” He stopped short. “Do you think Mrs. Pettigrove would agree to chaperone?”
Yvette shook her head and cast him a censured look. “Another week of her company?”
Lord Sethwick grinned, “No? Ask Mrs. Quimby if she knows someone then. If not, I’ll send a missive to Mr. Dehring. Surely he can retain a suitable female.”
Nibbling her lower lip, Yvette contemplated his words. If she and Lord Sethwick pretended to be a betrothed couple, then traveling together with a chaperone was perfectly respectable. She stopped worrying her lip and sighed.
Truth be told, she wasn’t the least upset about continuing their ploy. No, playing the role of a betrothed woman was somewhat of an adventure. It was the lying about their troth that plagued her conscience. There was no help for it now though. The seed was sown, and she had no choice but to reap the consequences.
Shrugging her shoulders she agreed. “Yes.”
“Yes?” came the deep rumble of his voice.
Smiling, feeling a sense of relief, she nodded her head. “I agree to continue to act as your betrothed. Only until the need for the deception isn’t necessary, of course.”
Yvette was tempted to revoke her consent when his eyes darkened, and his mouth slid into a self-satisfied grin. He appeared far too pleased by half.
She drew her brows together. Perhaps she needed to clarify her position. “You do understand, I’ve only agreed to a faux engagement? I haven’t agreed to marry you.” It wasn’t as simple as that, simply agreeing to wed. Goodness, there was the betrothal contract, the reading of the banns, the dowry settlement. And love of course. She insisted upon love.
He stared at her, an extended unnerving moment, before drawling, “And I haven’t asked you to.”
She averted her eyes. The color heating her cheeks was brought on by relief, of course, not embarrassment or disappointment.
The sun’s rays had grown bolder, filtering through the curtains and bathing Lord Sethwick in amber light. One ray slanted across her fingers. She could almost envision a slender gold band where the beam lingered.
“Have you changed your mind?” Was that wariness in his voice?
Yvette met his probing glance. His eyes bored into hers.
What would be the point? Chagrined, she lowered her gaze to stare at her hands. She had to get to Somersfield with her reputation somewhat intact, and she needed protection from Edgar. Lord Sethwick was able to help with both. She’d made it clear their betrothal was a calculated ruse, and it was obvious from his succinct response, he echoed her sentiment.
He needn’t have been quite so blunt about it though.
She sighed and dared to meet his concerned eyes. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Then ‘tis official—almost.” His voice dropped to a deep purr, his gaze riveted on her mouth.
“Almost?” She licked her suddenly dry lips.
Ewan lifted her higher in his lap, his eyes trained on her damp mouth. Yvette’s gaze drifted to his parted lips. She glimpsed the row of white teeth they nearly concealed.
“A betrothal should be sealed with a kiss, no?”
Chapter 9
“I . . .” Yvette had no chance to respond.
His dark head lowered, ever-so-slowly, until his firm lips met hers in a tender, reverent kiss. He lifted his head a half-inch.
Yvette’s mouth parted on a gasp when he traced his tongue along the seam of her lips. She sensed his smile against her mouth. She gasped again when he licked her lower lip, his tongue flicking inside her mouth and retreating. Once. Twice. The third time, she met his tongue with her own.
Dear God, she was sure her bones had turned to liquid. A fiery, sizzling liquid. She was in danger of sliding off Ewan’s lap into a molten puddle at his feet. How could a kiss hold the power to tilt the world so? He rained kisses on her forehead and face, before lowering to nibble her neck.
Sweet Jesus.
Yvette clutched his forearms to keep from slithering to the floor. Her arms found their way to his shoulders, then traveled to clinch behind his neck. She drew his head closer, her breath quickening. Their mouths met on a mutual sigh, tentative at first, then deepening as desire pulsed through her. The kiss became voracious, tongues dueling and slanting across slickened lips. Stars burst behind her eyes, and new sensual awareness coursed through her veins.
Ewan suddenly raised his head and cocked it to the side, listening. He lunged to his feet, setting Yvette on hers at the same time. She could no more stand on her own than a newborn foal. She wavered before his hands steadied her.
Was he chuckling again? Dratted man. She couldn’t think straight, let alone stand her legs wobbled so, and he was laughing at her, again. Beast.
“Tidy your hair and take a seat. I fear we’re to be interrupted.” Ewan straightened his coat and neckcloth, then smoothed his hair.
She reached for her hair and secured several errant strands. No sooner did she sit, than the door burst open. The Duke of Harcourt, Lord Ramsbury, Mr. Carmichael, several soldiers, and a couple of other well-dressed gentlemen crowded into the dining compartment.
Yvette’s lips pulsed from Ewan’s kisses. She held her breath. Would anyone notice? They’d only to look at her flushed face and swollen lips to know what had transpired. Ewan moved to stand behind her chair, and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. She released a delayed, slow breath, as the moment for discovery passed without detection.
Whatever is going on? She turned her head to look at him.
He met her questioning gaze. The narrow line of his mouth curved encouragingly before he turned his attention to their unexpected guests.
“Yancy?” Ewan’s deep voice was demanding and expectant.
Yancy was blunt. “Belvidere’s dead.”
Ewan’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “How?”
To her surprise, the secretary ignored Ewan’s question. Instead he angled his head and stared at him. His green eyes were intense, a message in their depths. “Lords Rothingham and Fielding insisted upon accompanying me here.”
Ewan’s grip tensed once more.
The Duke of Harcourt ambled to the window, shoved aside the lacy curtains, and looked both directions. A goldfinch and his mate, hiding in the purple lilac, took to wing in frenzied flight. His Grace nudged the curtain over farther. He seemed to be searching the bustling street.
Yvette noticed a dark scarlet splotch at the base of the duke’s head
, and the telltale blood smattered on his pristine shirt. Good Lord, what happened to him?
“Your Grace, have you need of a physician?”
Half-turning away from the window, the duke crossed his arms and rested against the frame. “Thank you, no. ‘Tis naught but a bump.”
A bump? Not with that much blood. Her disbelief must have registered on her face.
One side of his handsome mouth tilted into a wry smile. “Truly, I’ve suffered far worse.”
Yvette stopped gawking at the Duke, and scanned the other men in the room. Such serious expressions—except for His Grace. He appeared bored.
She searched Ewan’s eyes. “Who’s Belvidere?”
Her soft question hung in the air. Why were they staring at her? It was a perfectly logical question. Clasping her fingers, she crossed and uncrossed her ankles.
Ewan stirred behind her, his hand burning through the light material of her gown. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us. I wish to speak with Miss Stapleton in private.”
One of the newcomers, a paunchy man with a red-veined nose, voiced his objection. “Here now, Sethwick. Rothingham and I didn’t rush over here to be banished like errant schoolboys.”
“There is a matter I need to discuss in confidence with my intended, Fielding.” Ewan’s voice rang with irritation.
“Eh, wot’s that? Your intended?” His water gaze darted between Ewan and Yvette. “You’re affianced?” Fielding sputtered, his face turning purple. “You can’t be. It’s impossible.”
What audacity. Whether Lord Fielding’s objection arose from deplorable rudeness or genuine surprise, Yvette couldn’t be sure. But she had to bite the inside of her cheek to mute the sharp retort that rose to her lips.
“I wasn’t aware you were betrothed.” The other gentleman—he must be Lord Rothingham—said.
Yvette tilted her head to see Ewan’s response. He smiled and winked at her before turning a steely gaze on Lord Rothingham lounging against the table, calmly taking in the whole scenario.
Coming round the side of her chair, Ewan took her hand in his. “Miss Stapleton and I have just made known our engagement. You’re aware of mourning protocol, are you not, Rothingham? She’s grieving the loss of her parents.”
Lord Rothingham had the decency to look abashed. “My deepest sympathy, Miss Stapleton. We heard of your unfortunate loss.”
He had? How? Ah, the Earl of Clarendon no doubt.
Yvette’s attention was yanked back to Lord Fielding. He had turned to Carmichael demanding, “Did you know about this? His,” Lord Fielding jerked his head Ewan’s direction, “betrothal to the heiress?” He spat the word.
Mr. Carmichael’s gaze met Ewan’s before skimming over her. He slouched in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and smirked at Lord Fielding.
“So, you did know,” Lord Fielding sneered, his hands fisted at his flabby waist.
Lawks, Lord Fielding wasn’t one to let the matter go, though why it was any of his business, Yvette couldn’t imagine. Her eyes narrowed as she stifled her rising ire. The man was an ill-mannered jackanape. She clasped Ewan’s hand tighter.
Before Mr. Carmichael could respond, Lord Fielding faced the Duke of Harcourt and the war secretary. “And you two . . .”
“Enough!” Raising his hand, Yancy silenced him.
Yvette almost smiled as Lord Fielding’s face reddened in frustration.
Leveling him with a blistering glare, Yancy snapped, “‘Tis none of our affair, man. We’ve much more important things to discuss than Sethwick’s upcoming nuptials.”
Yancy’s gaze met Ewan’s head on. “You’ve ten minutes. Use them wisely. When I return, I have need of a private word with you.” His gaze measured Yvette for a moment.
She shivered. He was not a man to cross.
Swinging his gaze from her, Yancy stalked to the door. “Clear the room.”
His booted heels echoed as he stomped from the compartment. Giving Yvette a seductive smile, Harcourt sauntered after him. The sound of their footsteps was swallowed by the others as they shuffled their way out the door. The last red-uniformed soldier started to close the door. He hesitated, his kind gaze sweeping over Yvette. Bowing smartly, he turned on his shiny, black heels, and disappeared from sight, leaving the door gaping behind him.
Ah, propriety even in the midst of chaos.
Yvette smiled at the irony. Her gaze riveted on the empty doorway, she said, “Ewan, whatever is the matter? Why are those men here? And, who, pray tell me, is Belvidere?”
“Yvette,” Ewan began, then hesitated.
At his lengthy pause, she lifted her gaze from the door and leveled it at him. Arching an eyebrow, she waited.
Shifting forward in his chair, his posture tense, he explained, “Belvidere is—was—a spy. He was captured last night. He’d been in Boston and just returned to London, within a day or two of your arrival. I believe he’s working with, or rather more likely for, your stepbrother.”
She crinkled her nose and furrowed her brows. “With Edgar, my lord?”
He suppressed a smile. She was addressing him formally again. He studied her face. Her freckles were more pronounced. How much should he tell her?
“Edgar is a spy. We—Yancy, Harcourt, and others connected to the War Office—know, beyond a doubt, he committed acts of treason during England’s campaign against Napoleon.” Ewan crossed his legs and began drumming his fingers on his bent knee. “Because we want to expose everyone involved, we have allowed him to remain a free man. Someone in the War Office was giving your stepbrother orders.”
Does she understand how serious this is? Damn, she’s already frightened. This will only make her more so.
With deceptive nonchalance, Ewan relaxed against the chair, giving Yvette time to process the information. Other than a slight paling of her face, she remained poised.
Her guileless eyes met his. She spoke plainly. “What has this to do with me? Until Edgar came to Boston, I’d no contact with him for over two years, and only on rare occasions before then.”
Ewan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it disheveled. He rose and began wandering the room with measured steps. “He fled to Boston months ago. Something frightened him enough to send him hotfooting it to America. We think he’s being blackmailed, possibly by another spy, and that’s why he’s after your fortune.”
Yvette nodded her head. “Edgar acted most peculiar in Boston. He was at odds with Papa from the moment he arrived. I interrupted a heated argument between them one day.”
She darted Ewan a hesitant glance. “Later, he began to try to court me.” She wrung her hands in her lap, her distress tangible. “After I rebuffed him, and Papa and Belle-mére died, he assaulted me, twice.” She whispered the last painful words.
Ewan clenched his teeth. If Marquardt were here, he’d run him through. Twice. Stopping across the table from her, Ewan placed both palms flat on the crocheted surface. Leaning forward he prodded, “Twice?” The harsh edge to his voice revealed his controlled fury. Would she notice?
She shook her head, the fair curls about her face spinning with the motion, and rubbed her palms over her dress. “The morning he trapped me in the study, he vowed I’d marry him after he . . . um . . . after he finished with me. He tried to—”
Ewan’s breath caught as rage crashed into his gut.
The bastard.
The dark blush sweeping Yvette’s face revealed what she couldn’t voice.
Sucking in a deliberate, controlled breath, he nodded, encouraging her. “Go on.”
“I cut him with my dagger before Fairchild, our butler, and his sons broke the door down. Edgar fled through the terrace entrance. The other time, he snuck into my bedchamber in the middle of the night and said the oddest thing.” She plucked at her skir
t, and then stopped to stare past Ewan. “Something about, at first he only wanted my money . . . but now he had to have me too.”
“He intended to abduct me.” Her voice wavered, then grew a bit stronger. “But my dogs and Josiah stopped him. Edgar escaped again though, out my bedroom window.”
Her soulful gaze met Ewan’s. “I believe he’s completely mad.”
Resuming his pacing—it always helped him order his thoughts—Ewan forced calmness into his tone. “Anything else? Even something you mightn’t think is important may be helpful.”
Shoulders slumped, Yvette stared at her hands. “I fled for England that very night. I was supposed to sail on a different ship, the arrangements were already made, but Fairchild didn’t want me to wait. We realized we’d underestimated Edgar. He was . . .” Yvette raised her gaze to Ewan, “is, ruthless and dangerous. It wasn’t until that night Fairchild told me my mare had been shot. She didn’t slip on the ice as I’d thought.”
Ewan’s brows swooped into a vee. “Why didn’t he tell you before?”
“Papa had forbidden it.”
Her lips tilted a fraction. “Papa was very protective of me.” Her gaze fell to her lap again. “Too protective. He nearly smothered me.”
Across the room, Ewan paused. “Do you think Edgar shot her?”
Yvette shook her head. “No, he was with my father when Aphrodite was, when I . . . that day. He couldn’t have shot her, but I suspect he might have hired someone to do it—mayhap your Belvidere.”
Ewan stopped beside her chair. Lord, how he wanted to gather her into his arms and promise he’d keep her safe. That Edgar, the filthy blackguard, would never trouble her again. Only he couldn’t make those promises.
“Is there anything else?” Ewan suspected she’d not spoken of her fears or concerns to anyone. He tilted her chin upward until her poignant gaze met his. Her haunted eyes had dimmed to a shadowy slate-blue.
Shifting her gaze away, she nodded. “Edgar was irate when the wills were read. He expected Papa to leave him an inheritance. A large one, even though he was only his stepson.”
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