“Father, Miss Kingsley and I have agreed to be married.”
Lord Shaldon’s shoulders dropped with a grand exhale of breath. And he said nothing, only walked to the window, and turned his back to the room.
Charley felt the quiver that ran through Gracie’s body. That look that had crossed his father’s face, for but a moment, that turning away, he recognized and his own heart pounded.
Father was pleased beyond punch, and by the habit of years, did not wish to show it. Happiness revealed made a man vulnerable.
What kind of life was that?
Gracie gazed up at him, eyes wide and worried. So unsettled and unsure and unsafe her life had been, and not just these last few months.
What had happened to her? Something very bad indeed, bad enough for Captain Kingsley to yank her out of her safe world and convey her here.
His heart opened at the thought. Nothing in life could be totally settled, yet she could be sure of him. She could. Her heart, if he could win it, would be safe, no matter where they traveled, and as for the rest of her—he would give his life to keep her safe, and the child, no matter where their journeys took them.
Father turned back, his face placid again. “I am gratified to hear it, and gratified that you have informed me before the event.”
Unlike his brothers. That part remained unsaid, but he saw the look that Bink, who had eloped to Scotland, and Bakeley, whose nuptials had been equally hurried, exchanged. Though in fairness, Father had pretended to die before Bink’s marriage, and had proclaimed Lady Sirena an unsuitable match for his heir.
Charley was finally doing something right. Bakeley had always been the paragon, and Bink was the war hero. He was the feckless younger son.
But Father knew of his service, he reminded himself, even if it only involved chasing women, and even if it was Kincaid and Farnsworth who guided him. There wasn’t much Father didn’t know.
“My dear, I know your father,” he said. “He is a brave and stalwart man. What are your marriage plans?”
“We haven’t got that far.” He studied Gracie’s face. The blood had drained leaving her a picture of ivory porcelain, and her lips pressed tightly holding in all her doubt. “What would you prefer, Gracie?”
She cast her gaze down and her grip on his arm tightened.
He leaned close to her ear and breathed, “I beg you, do not break my heart.”
A distant shriek pierced the silence. Shaldon sent Bink a pleased glance. Though Father had abandoned them all to dash off in the service of England, he’d embraced his first grandchild with enthusiasm.
“That’s not Bink’s progeny,” Charley said. “That is the tiny despot under Gracie’s care, appropriately named Reina.”
Gracie struggled out of his embrace. “I should go to her. My lord, will you excuse me?”
And then she was gone. She didn’t want to speak of the wedding details. She didn’t want to marry at all.
Which meant, he would have to put his mind to the right way to convince her. Sensuality had brought a strong response—good, that. Gracie was no cold, thorny rose. In that regard, there were no thorns at all. It was her heart that he’d have to win.
He knew what to do. He’d done it a few times for Crown and country, bastard that he was. This girl’s heart, however was a tight bud with steel petals.
A sensual girl who guarded her heart. That sensuality had led her to be well and truly hurt by some bigger bastard than himself.
And…a sensual girl, who’d been hurt, with a small child of questionable parentage? She had denied Reina, too emphatically perhaps. There was an art to lying that required aplomb. Gracie would never have that.
“I should like a word, Charles,” Shaldon said, intruding on his thoughts. Bink and Bakeley ushered the two ladies out.
Chapter 18
“Sit.” Shaldon pointed at the armchair matching his own.
Charley sat.
“Tell me everything.”
He did, starting with Gracie’s engagement ball at Kingsley House, omitting only the scandalous interlude in the library, which somehow he thought his father must suspect anyway.
Shaldon listened without interruption, his gaze taking a journey to some place Charley could not follow, and for long moments, there was silence.
“What of the Duquesa?”
“A lovely woman. I have a letter safeguarded for you. Shall I just go and get it?”
Father waved a hand. “He’ll be asking for funding or arms. No other intelligence?”
He leaned back in his chair. “There was a tale about Mother’s painting.”
Father’s eye twitched. “You’ve strayed beyond the scope of your mission.”
“The lady offered.” Is it true? He wanted to shout the question, but one must wait out the spymaster.
“And you trust her?”
Trust a woman willing to let the world see her cheat on her husband in order to spy for her father’s faction? “Perhaps if you told me more, I could judge better. But I do not think she is the key to any active plot against the English Crown.”
Shaldon grunted. “Yet we may not be finished there, for the letters alone.” He turned his full gaze on Charley. “But you are finished. The tasks were not too onerous, I hope.”
“Was it ever for you?”
“I found your mother’s feelings always made it so.” That steady gaze pinned him. “It was chivalrous of you to agree to this marriage. You do not have to marry her, you know. It’s enough that you’re threatening the act. Kingsley will be in a frenzy. He always was that sort.”
His heart clacked loudly in his ears. His father’s interference had driven his brothers into marriages that had turned out to be quite happy.
If they were present, they would parse Shaldon’s words looking for the interfering spymaster’s twist.
He should also, but he only detected…love. A father’s love.
Love. It was a strange word, and yet so common an emotion now in this household, with Bink and Bakeley so happy in their marriages.
He cared for Gracie. Could she ever love him?
He inhaled deeply. “I’m willing to help her, and not for the money. I don’t intend to settle into some grand estate here, and Gracie wishes to go home, back to Mexico. I’m willing to escort her there, and then I’d like to find a posting in the Americas somewhere. Her money will be hers. I can live well and good on my present income.”
“I see. And what of her, while you are posted?”
“She may go where she is happiest.”
“And what of your children?”
His heart picked up its pace. Blast it, but he wanted her. But there must not be children. He must see to it somehow.
“It’s not so easy to be separated from a wife you care for.”
His father had spied out his damned feelings—well, of course he had.
And wait—he’d cared for their mother? Mother hadn’t been the sentimental sort, nor was Father by any stretch. In fact, because of Shaldon’s long absences, there had been rumors about his own paternity. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen his parents together. Whoreson. Kingsley’s use of the word had touched on old wounds.
He barely breathed, waiting for more.
The silence stretched.
Father tapped the chair arm. “Carvelle’s smuggling stretched all the way to the Yorkshire coast and was damned clever. His operation leaned to a bit of piracy, theft of military supplies, and anything else that would bring in a shilling. He knew the state of the coastal patrols and the schedule of shipments. He’d happily steal from one army and sell to the other. He had a contact—perhaps more than one—in the government who we could not uncover, try though we might.”
Charley sat up. “Lord Kingsley?”
Shaldon gazed into the empty fireplace. “We don’t know. The wars of independence have taken their toll on Spanish shipping. Their ships were always a target, but now…piracy is proving to be very lucrative there
. We’ve had men there reporting.” His mouth firmed. “There is something else. One of our men in that part of the world has not made contact in a very long time.”
“Was he sailing with Captain Kingsley?”
Father’s fingers curled around the chair arms. “Perhaps.”
I know your father. He is a brave and stalwart man. Not knew. Not was.
“Captain Llewellyn reported Captain Kingsley’s demise off Tortuga,” Charley said.
“Yes.”
“Lord Kingsley was pockets to let, and now he’s helping himself quite freely to Gracie’s money.” If Kingsley was engaged with Carvelle’s smuggling, he should be just as wealthy. Unless both men had experienced a loss. No reputable insurer would guarantee a smuggling cargo.
And just where did Llewellyn fit in?
“Llewellyn is in town,” Charley said.
“At Kirkham’s Hotel.”
Only a few doors away from Mivart’s where the Duquesa was staying. Charley stood. “If you will excuse me, Father.”
“Take one of your brothers with you.” Shaldon struggled to his feet. “Meanwhile, I shall look in on our nursery guest.”
Charley spent wasted moments as the dutiful son looking for Bink and Bakeley. One had gone off for a parliamentary meeting—Bink took his position most seriously. Bakeley had slipped away with his wife.
Charley had been sent to pound on their bedchamber door once. It was not something he would do again.
Consequently, a great deal of time had passed by the time he’d armed himself and reached the stables. Too much time. If Gracie had learned he’d been talking to Father, she’d expect a report on their chat. If she sought him and learned he’d gone out to speak to Llewellyn...
He must hurry. It was no betrayal of her. He would question Llewellyn. He would assess the man and his words and decide how to proceed.
In the stable, a groom went off for his horse, and a figure slipped out of the shadows.
His hand gripped the hilt of his knife and then his breath caught on a groan. “You are not coming with me.”
“You are not going without me.” Gracie’s ungloved hands outlined the small waist under her coats. This set of clothing was cleaner, and newer, and fitted better than Roddy’s.
“How did you...Never mind.” How she’d found out didn’t matter. Neither did the who of who told her.
“I like your father.”
She moved closer, her chest heaving against the tight coats.
He yanked her cap lower over her ears and hailed the groom. “Change of plans,” he said. “I’m taking the carriage.”
Charley sat opposite her on the ride to the hotel. In truth, they might have walked the distance there and back in the time it had taken to harness the horses, assemble the guards, and make their way through the late afternoon traffic.
“Do not worry,” she said. “I have brought my dagger.”
“Have you indeed.” He let his gaze trail over her person and watched as a pink blush flowed over her.
She pursed her lips tightly. “Do not forget, it was the veil and the weeds that tempted them to attack. They will not think it is me in this clothing. They did not yesterday when we returned from the solicitor’s office.”
He turned back to the window. The busy street teemed with carriages and riders, and the pavements were filled with walkers. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the hotel was nearby, and that, if his father knew of Llewellyn’s lodgings, he probably had men in place there.
“When we arrive, you must let me do the talking,” she said.
“Must I?”
A fellow stood on the street, parting the waves of pedestrians who walked around him, watching their carriage. When a woman and her maid approached the man, he smiled.
Charley’s breath eased.
“I know Captain Llewellyn.”
Heat colored her words. He’d spiked that Spanish temper. Too bad.
“He is an old friend who dined with us many a time. I’ve known him all my life.” Her breath hitched and her eyes had gone shiny. “He reached us in Veracruz before my father, when I was ill with the fever.” She took another ragged breath. “Mama...that is, my mother, and Consuela...Reina’s m-mother...when I recovered, they were gone.”
Hold her. He battled down his heart—letting her succumb to weepy grief would do them no good. “I see. And I’m sorry, but that means nothing now.”
Her head shot up, her eyes burning.
“I am not trusting you and Reina to this fellow, if that’s what you’re planning.”
She inhaled sharply. “You are not my master.”
“No, but I am your fiancé. Or...are you planning to throw me over for Llewellyn?”
Her face contorted in a way that told him she had no romantic interest in the other man.
You jealous fool. Gracie was certain to run if he tried to hold her too close.
“Of course not. He’s as old as my father, and he already has a wife. And our engagement was, as you know, a ruse, to get Mr. McCollum to talk.”
“So our engagement began. It doesn’t have to end that way. I care for you, Gracie.”
Deep rose flooded her cheeks and she looked away.
She didn’t believe he could care for her, or she wouldn’t acknowledge the idea.
His spirits rose. He’d seen this reaction in stubborn women he’d courted for the Crown—too proud to capitulate immediately, too smitten to keep away.
Those women had been unmarriageable—he always made sure of that—and he knew how to make the chase a cat and mouse game, exciting for both parties. Except for the once of course, when the game had turned deadly.
And this time, he reminded himself, was no game. He was not playing with Gracie. She was his, she just didn’t know it.
“You don’t wish to share our good news with Captain Llewellyn?” he asked.
“You are good at pretending, Mr. Everly. You know I do not wish to marry. I know you do not wish to marry.” Her gaze skittered to him and moved quickly away.
The girl was a terrible liar. “My kisses didn’t convince you?”
Her color darkened to a bright crimson seeping under her neck cloth. How far did the color flow? Over her creamy shoulders? Down to her breasts? Further? He wondered what she would look like naked when they progressed that far. And they would.
“I am sure those kisses have convinced many women and will convince many more. I have no illusions about you.”
“You’re dodging.” They would have to hold the conversation about kissing—and the kissing itself—until later. They’d turned the corner onto Brook Street. “In any event, you wish to get your money. I wish to help you do that. I must either keep you alive until you are of age, or marry you.”
“Why? Why would you do that for me?”
He reached across the small space gripping her hands. “Why indeed. You’re as hot-tempered as that child in the nursery. You’re also as lovely, the loveliest girl I’ve ever met. Plenty of men would see all of that, but I wouldn’t trust a one of them to help you find your way home, to let you have the money that’s yours, and to keep your child safe.”
And you’ve stolen my heart. The coach shuddered in tandem with the pounding in his chest.
It was time to put a stop to this melodrama. They had a mission. “Now, Gracie, you’re playing a servant, and for the time it takes us to reach a private chamber, I expect you to act your role.”
She bit her lip and reached for the brim of her cap.
He clamped a hand over hers. “Except that. You’ll spill hair everywhere. The cap stays on.”
Graciela stood with Charley in the small, dimly lit antechamber where they waited to hear if Captain Llewellyn would admit them. Two chairs had been arranged on either side of a narrow table in the room’s corner, but the rest of the room was empty. It was used for temporary storage of guests’ baggage, perhaps. Or for visitors seeking privacy, like them.
The close space smelled of leather
and damp. She tugged at her cap. “If you would but send up my name—”
“If you would but be silent, like a good servant.” He swept out a hand. “It’s enough that you’ve come in coats and trousers that leave nothing to the imagination of anyone who sees you.”
She gasped. “I am well-covered. And, of course, I pass for a boy.”
“You pass for a beautiful, well-shaped woman dressed as a boy.”
Tears burned her eyes. She cast her gaze down. Nothing she did pleased him. He’d been angry from the first moment in the stables. And blast it, she was the one who should be angry. This was her life going up in flames. Papa missing. Papa’s money out of her control.
“No tears,” he said softly. He picked a spot of lint off his coat and turned away.
She bit her lip to stop it from quivering.
“I spotted no fewer than three of my father’s men in the parlor.” His voice, suddenly warm, flowed over her. “Have no fear, we shall meet with this paragon of virtue, and I would rather your presence surprise him. His reaction interests me.”
“He will be happy to see me.”
“Yes, but why? Do you know for a fact he’s not acquainted with Lord Kingsley?”
Steps in the hallway rattled her further. She tugged her cap tighter and stood straighter, preparing to traverse the entry again and climb the stairs behind Charley like a docile retainer. Llewellyn had a sitting room where he could receive them privately, the manager had said.
Instead, when the door opened the tall figure that entered was Llewellyn himself.
Chapter 19
Her heart beat crazily against the layers of coats. The sun that had weathered his skin to tanned leather had turned his hair a dark bronze. Had it always been so? She had not seen him in two years, years during which she had grown to a woman. He was old, but not so old she saw now, and the thought made her shiver. He was not as old as some of the men who’d come calling on her and her money.
Older than Charley, older and harder as a sea captain must be. Virile, too, as a man must be when leading a crew of sea dogs.
The Rogue's Last Scandal: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 3) Page 14