Daring Deception

by Hiatt, Brenda

  “So you are hoping that your fiancée, or her brother, will come to hear of the rumors?” Frederica frowned. “That she will refuse to go through with it?”

  The Earl sighed. “No, I suppose I cannot hope for that, for it would put me right back where I began. I must hope that when we finally meet, we shall find that we suit. Many a marriage of convenience has eventually become one of affection.” His tone was not optimistic.

  For the first time, Frederica allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be married to this man, sharing his name, his home...his bed. The thought created a warm stirring that spread through her midsection. To change the subject, she said quickly, “I finished reading through your sister’s letters, my lord.”

  “Ah! And what did you find?” He, too, seemed eager to abandon the topic of his betrothal.

  “There was no direct proof of a marriage, but from Captain Browning’s last letter, he plainly intended to visit her shortly and hinted at an elopement. It was also clear that his family wished him to marry another, which may provide a motive for their secrecy.”

  “What was the date of that letter?” asked the Earl. He had replaced the poker in its stand and now leaned on the mantelpiece, looking quite indecently handsome.

  Frederica fought to keep her thoughts on the matter at hand. “June of 1810.”

  Lord Seabrooke raised his brows. “A full year before Christabel’s birth. Obviously, he did indeed visit Amity again. We still have nothing to show that they married, however. I fear your theory will have to remain just that, Cherry,” he said regretfully.

  “I had thought, perhaps, that we might make enquiries across the border. Surely if they were married, even in Scotland, there would be some record of it?”

  “You are tenacious, aren’t you?” said the Earl with a chuckle. “I see little hope in it, but if you wish to write the necessary letters, I will frank them and have them sent off. Christabel is lucky to have such a champion.” His gaze lingered on her face, and Frederica felt her color rise.

  “What of your own investigations, my lord?” she asked hurriedly. “Were you able to discover anything about your uncle?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I asked a few discreet questions, but they may not bear fruit for some time, I fear. I have also requested my man of business to send for the more complete account books. I would be grateful for your assistance when I receive them.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Again she found herself hoping that some explanation besides treason could be found to account for the disappearance of the Seabrooke fortune. “I can understand why you must proceed slowly with your questioning.”

  “Yes, even more than Christabel’s presence here, a scandal about my uncle’s political sympathies would likely sour my upcoming nuptials. Perhaps I should be more forthright in my suspicions.” He obviously meant it as a joke, but Frederica thought she caught an underlying seriousness in his voice.

  “Pray, do not say that!” she exclaimed. “Not only is your family honor at stake, but perhaps your happiness, as well. You may well find that your betrothed is everything that you would want in a wife.”

  She knew, suddenly, that she was expressing her own hopes rather than his. “I’ll bid you good-night, my lord,” she said breathlessly, turning towards the door to avoid his searching regard. “I have letters to write.”

  Before he could reply, she hurried from the library, her heart pounding in her throat at her unexpected discovery. The unimaginable had happened. She had fallen in love with the man she was being forced to marry!

  CHAPTER 10

  For the next several days, Frederica made it a point to avoid Lord Seabrooke. Until she could untangle her conflicting emotions, it seemed wisest that she keep her distance from him. Letters to the most likely border towns in Scotland were duly written, but rather than handing them to the Earl herself, she left them on his desk when she knew he would be out. She also penned a letter to her brother, which she intended to mail from Miss Milliken’s house on Thursday to avoid prying eyes. Thomas would be wondering by now why he had not heard from her, and she had no wish for him to come searching for her.

  Christabel was growing increasingly fond of her, and that affection was reciprocated. In fact, Frederica found herself frequently falling into the trap of imagining that she would always be there for the child, watching her grow into a young lady she could be proud of. Once or twice she even caught herself musing over what it would be like to sponsor Christabel for her come-out, an experience she herself had shunned. She perceived the danger inherent in such thoughts and strove to suppress them, difficult though it was.

  When she visited Miss Milliken on Thursday afternoon, Frederica’s former governess greeted her with some disturbing news.

  “My dear, I believe it would be best if you left this post as soon as possible,” Miss Milliken said as soon as they were seated in the parlor. “Rumors have begun to circulate about Lord Seabrooke. It has become common knowledge that an illegitimate child is in residence, and people are drawing the obvious conclusions.”

  “Mr. Coombes!” Frederica fairly spat the name. “I suspected that he would do this.” Quickly she related the events leading to the butler’s dismissal from Seabrooke House.

  Miss Milliken nodded in sympathy, but said, “I fear the source of the rumors makes little difference. Once gossip begins to spread, it takes on a life of its own. And there is more.”

  Frederica looked at her questioningly.

  “There has also been some talk about you, my dear. Or rather, I should say, about Miss Cherrystone. Her name is being linked with Lord Seabrooke’s.”

  Frederica gasped, not having foreseen that wrinkle. “More of Coombes’s malice, I doubt not. What an evil man!”

  “Yes, it would appear so. In this case, however, he may have done you a favor. Those two rumors combined may well be enough to persuade your brother to call off your unwanted betrothal to Lord Seabrooke.” The woman’s warm brown eyes searched Frederica’s face. “If it is still unwanted, that is,” she added gently.

  Frederica sighed. “Oh, Milly, I don’t know anymore. Something rather dreadful seems to have happened.” She did not notice her friend’s sudden stiffening. “Lord Seabrooke and I have somehow become friends. ”

  Miss Milliken relaxed, smiling in her relief. “That doesn’t sound so terrible. Is it not what you have wanted in a husband all along?”

  “I—I suppose so,” said Frederica uncertainly. In truth, she had come to realize that she wished to be far more than a friend to Lord Seabrooke, but she was not ready to admit everything to Milly. Not yet.

  “I still hate to give Thomas the satisfaction of tamely agreeing to his scheme,” she said finally. “I shall continue as Miss Cherrystone for now. Perhaps in that position I can work to silence the rumors. Then, when the time seems right, I shall reveal who I really am.”

  In vain Miss Milliken sought to dissuade her from this course. “If it becomes known that you have been living in his house all this time, totally unchaperoned, your reputation will be ruined whether you wed him or no,” she insisted. “Please, Frederica, do not go back. You may write him a letter from here telling him the truth.”

  Frederica shook her head. She could think of no more certain way to make him despise her. If she could not have his love, she at least hoped to retain his friendship, and his respect. Besides, as Miss Cherrystone she might be able to discover the nature of his feelings toward her—and what they could become. “I promise to leave his house before making my public appearance as Miss Chesterton, Milly, if that will make you easier. But I must go back, if only for Christabel’s sake.”

  Miss Milliken gave it up. “Very well, Frederica, though your course of action still seems most unwise to me. To think that it was my idea to place a spy in his household in the first place!”

  Frederica gave her counsellor a quick hug. “Everything may yet turn out right, Milly, so do not fret. You must trust that your teachings have taken hol
d and that I shall be as you would wish: prudent, purposeful—and organized.”

  * * *

  Gavin didn’t know whether to be frustrated or relieved. After nearly a week of skillful prying and subtle innuendo, in places ranging from respectable coffeehouses to wretched gaming hells, he was no closer to discovering the late Earl’s political leanings than he had been at the outset.

  He couldn’t understand it. From the moment Miss Cherrystone had asked her tentative question, he had been almost certain that his uncle’s losses could be traced to the French. The pattern was so exactly what he had seen during his service, when he had investigated just such cases for the War Office. But now, after applying every tactic he had used then, exploring every connection who remained in London, he was beginning to doubt that surmise.

  “Thank you, François,” he said to the short, dark-haired man who had been his last hope. He had met his erstwhile informant by previous arrangement at an out-of-the-way club well known in certain circles for its political intrigues. “Here is what I promised you.” He passed a guinea wrapped in a pound note across the table. “If you hear anything, you know how to contact me.”

  “Oui, m’sieu,” the man answered. “But I cannot think where I should. If your esteemed oncle was a contributor to the Corsican, he was the wiliest one in England. Me, I think you will not need to cover up anything at all.”

  Gavin had told François that he desired to hide any trail his uncle had left in view of his impending marriage. François would never have understood that he might actually wish to expose his uncle’s treason, or to make reparation for it, as far as he was able. And now it appeared that it would not be necessary to do so after all. Gavin was confident that if anyone could have ferreted out evidence of Uncle Edmund’s French sympathies, it was François.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “My source may well have been mistaken.”

  “Rumors are everywhere, m’sieu, but only one in ten is well founded.” François nodded sagely, the ends of his greasy black moustache bobbing. “If I can be of service again, you need only call.” He tucked the guinea into his pocket with a cocky smile.

  Dressed as he was in a brown furze coat and trousers, Gavin ran little risk from the rougher element as he walked the half mile to where he had left his carriage. Though François knew his true identity, no one else was likely to realize that a member of the peerage was frequenting this unsavory section of Town. Glancing quickly about him, he stepped into his carriage, an older one without a crest.

  On the way to his solicitor’s office, Gavin shrugged out of his ill-fitting and poorly made clothes and donned a more respectable ensemble. He waited to tie his cravat until the carriage had stopped, assuring himself in the small interior mirror that he looked much as he always did. A five-month suspension of practice at such quick changes had not caused his skills to completely deteriorate, he was pleased to discover.

  Still, there were times when a talent for ferreting out rumors could be decidedly uncomfortable, he thought. In the course of his search for information about his uncle, certain other gossip had come to his ears that he would far rather not have heard.

  As he had feared, Coombes had wasted no time in spreading about Town word of Lord Seabrooke’s supposed by-blow. His more disreputable connections had not scrupled to rail him about it, thinking it great fun. That would not have been so bad, as he was prepared to claim Christabel as his own, but there was more. It seemed that Coombes had also sought revenge on Miss Cherrystone by linking her name with his. Some versions of the rumor had Cherry as his live-in mistress, with Christabel their natural child.

  The fury Gavin had experienced on first hearing that tale had nearly rivaled what he had felt at Coombes’s original accusations. For a moment he wished that he had called the man out at the time, which would have prevented the present assault on Cherry’s name. Then the absurdity of his thoughts struck him. What would the world say of an Earl who dueled with one of his own servants to protect the reputation of another?

  The problem was, he could not seem to think of Miss Cherrystone as a servant at all. To be sure, she dressed like one, and was properly deferential when she spoke to him, but there was an intelligence and an unconscious dignity about her that bespoke someone of equal rather than inferior status. He couldn’t seem to keep the proper barriers in place between them…at least not in his thoughts.

  Gavin had done his best to squelch the gossip, particularly as it related to Cherry, but he knew that he could not stop it altogether. More than ever, he hoped that her theory about Amity’s marriage to Peter Browning was sound and could be proved. If he could publicly proclaim Christabel his niece, it would effectively silence both rumors at once.

  His man of business was able to inform Gavin that Mr. Trent, the steward he had recently hired to oversee the Seabrooke estate (or what remained of it), would be arriving with the account books that day or the next to go over them with the Earl. He had not much hope of gleaning anything useful from them, but it was a place to start, he supposed, as his other lines of investigation had proved fruitless. He would ask Cherry to go over the books with the steward when he arrived; she seemed quite knowledgeable about such things.

  On leaving his solicitor’s office, Gavin decided to stop by White’s for an early dinner before returning home. A respite in such thoroughly respectable surroundings would do him good after the past few days. Never before had he felt so sullied by dealings with London’s underworld. Idly, he wondered if it had anything to do with the occasional notion he’d had of what Miss Cherrystone would think if she could see him. The thought made him smile.

  Walking into the club, he stopped to take a deep breath, absorbing the almost palpable air of decorum and good breeding that permeated the place. Ignoring the half-dozen dandies at the bow window, whom he might have joined in another mood, he went to sit at a table in a quiet corner. He had not even removed his gloves when he was accosted jovially from behind.

  “Seabrooke! Devilish good fortune that I should find you here.” Sir Thomas Chesterton clapped him familiarly on the shoulder and seated himself in the other chair. “I’ve just come from the newspaper offices and wanted to give you fair warning before you were besieged with felicitations.”

  The Earl favoured his future brother-in-law with a slightly forced smile. “It is good to see you again, Sir Thomas. Do I take it that you have procured your sister’s acquiescence to the match?” Suddenly he felt as if the walls of a prison were closing about him.

  “More or less,” said Sir Thomas, looking slightly uncomfortable. “The news took her by surprise, of course, but she’s a remarkably levelheaded girl. She can’t deny the advantages, and had no reason to expect a better offer.”

  Gavin’s worst fears were confirmed. The girl was doubtless an antidote, and either brainless or ambitious into the bargain, for what lady of delicacy and intelligence would not revolt at being betrothed sight unseen? “And when am I to meet my future bride?” he asked, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his midsection. He no longer had any appetite.

  “Not sure just yet. I, ah, had hoped to have her in Town by the end of the Little Season.” Thomas had still to receive a letter from Frederica, and he was beginning to wonder whether he would. He had taken the step of putting the announcement in the papers in hopes of persuading her further that the wedding must take place as planned. Looking at the man across from him, he was somewhat reassured. Seabrooke appeared as solid and dependable as ever; surely Freddie would not be able to find anything to his discredit.

  “I say, Seabrooke,” called out a gentleman entering the club at that moment, whom Thomas was able to identify after a moment as Lord Garvey. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Lord Seabrooke rose to shake his hand. “How is wedded bliss treating you, Barry?” he asked. “Are you in Town for long?”

  Garvey shook his head. “Only for a few weeks. Elizabeth wants our first child to be born in the country.” He was grinning with pr
ide. “My heir is due to make his appearance before Christmas. Speaking of offspring, that reminds me. I heard a most unlikely on-dit this very day,” he said, sobering somewhat.

  “I’d advise you not to put much stock in tittle-tattle,” said Lord Seabrooke—rather hastily, Thomas thought. “I have it on good authority that only one rumor in ten is well founded. Tell me, have you met Sir Thomas Chesterton?”

  Garvey allowed the previous subject to drop while he and Thomas renewed their acquaintance. After a few minutes of general conversation, Lord Garvey was called away to answer someone’s enquiries about the Duke of Ravenham, whose estate neighbored his own. When he had gone, Lord Seabrooke turned back to his companion.

  “Have you dined yet, Sir Thomas?” he asked. White’s was becoming crowded and he feared that some of his other friends might have heard the same gossip Garvey had and require him to confirm or deny it.

  “No, I haven’t,” Sir Thomas replied.

  “I’ve engaged an excellent cook at Seabrooke House. What do you say to joining me?”

  If Sir Thomas had to learn of Christabel’s existence, Gavin preferred to acquaint him with the facts himself, privately. If Chesterton were thoroughly appalled, there might still be time to retract the betrothal announcement before it appeared in the papers on the morrow.

  * * *

  Though she had done her best to reassure Miss Milliken, Frederica felt far from confident that she would be able to find a solution to the muddle she had created, so many new problems had arisen since she had abandoned her plan of proving Lord Seabrooke a rogue. Now she had to resolve the question of Christabel’s legitimacy, the mystery of the Seabrooke fortune, and, most of all, the riddle of the Earl’s feelings toward herself—and toward his betrothal. She had no more wish to force him into a loveless match than she had to be forced into one herself. It was imperative that she discover his wishes on the matter.