Dangerous Lords Boxed Set

by Andersen, Maggi

  Maria smoothed her low bodice. “Mama was a bit cross with the dressmaker.” She gave a cheeky grin. “But she merely followed my instructions.”

  After the carriage deposited them at Carlton House, Sibella, Maria, and her mother moved through an entrance hall of yellow marble Ionic columns. Light filtered down from above. A footman showed them into the drawing room, which was the epitome of elegance with French decor and furniture, and Rembrandt, Rubens, and Van Dyck’s oils gracing the walls. Sibella took a glass of champagne from a waiter as they maneuvered through the crush. Both the drawing and music rooms were already crammed with well-dressed guests, the women in colorful finery.

  Lord Coombe came immediately to her side. “You look radiant, Lady Sibella,” he said. “A man would be proud to have you at his side.”

  “Very prettily put, Lord Coombe,” her mother said. “Don’t you agree, Sibella?”

  Sibella curtsied. “Indeed. Thank you, my lord.”

  Lord Coombe’s brown eyes warmed. He did appear to approve of her in his stiff, formal manner. Might his cool reserve and strict sense of propriety mask an affectionate nature?

  She excused herself and followed her mother through the throng.

  When the ladies of a similar ilk claimed her mother, Sibella went in search of Strathairn. She found him deep in conversation with the Regent, the eccentric Sir John Lade, who managed the Prince’s racing stable and dressed like a groom himself, and the Irish diplomat, Viscount Montsimon, who was often at the Prince’s elbow on these occasions.

  A warm glow flowed through her as Strathairn’s searching gaze alighted on her. He dipped his head with a brief smile. She met his gaze before her friends, Lady Somersmere and Miss Greville, came to draw her away.

  Once the ladies moved on, Sibella searched again for Strathairn. The Regent had left. Strathairn stood with Viscount Montsimon and Baron Fortescue. She located the baron’s wife, Horatia, glamorous in bottle-green taffeta and threaded her way to join her.

  “Lady Fortescue,” Sibella said. “How wonderful to find you in London. I hope this isn’t to be a brief visit.”

  The tall willowy redhead laughed. “Only fancy, Lady Sibella, the baron has opened the townhouse for the rest of the season. And here I was fearing we would rusticate in the country until little John was ready for Eton.”

  “How delightful. I shall see more of you.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Horatia took her arm, and they strolled about the room. She nodded in her husband’s direction where he talked to Strathairn. “I wish I didn’t suspect something going on with those two. My husband tends to keep me in the dark about some matters.”

  “Men tend to believe women will break like fragile china under the slightest pressure,” Sibella said, gazing in Strathairn’s direction. He had not made a move to greet her.

  “Until we show them just how strong we are,” Horatia said forcefully.

  A fair young lady dressed in the first stare of fashion approached them. “Hetty!”

  “Fanny! How splendid! Lady Sibella, this is Mrs. Bonneville, a dear friend of mine.” Horatia said.

  Fanny bobbed. “Please call me Fanny, Lady Sibella.”

  “Fanny’s husband, James, has just come into an inheritance from an aunt,” Horatia explained. “And they have bought a new house in Mayfair.”

  “It shall have all modern conveniences,” Fanny said. “But it’s not quite finished yet. We hope to move in next month.” She giggled. “It will be such a relief not to have to live with Mother in Digswell any longer. One tires of being told what to do when one is grown up.”

  Sibella silently agreed.

  Horatia gestured toward a group of vacant seats. “Let’s sit in that alcove. We must arrange a time for you to come to tea and meet Master John.”

  With a glance in Strathairn’s direction, Sibella moved with the two women toward the chairs. Her heart pounded hard and she feared she would lose her breath. For what she intended to do went against every notion of etiquette.

  Chapter Six

  While Strathairn talked to Viscount Montsimon and Guy, he was constantly aware of Sibella’s slim figure in her green dress moving through the room. Earlier in the evening, her brother Edward had told him Sibella refused Coombe’s offer of marriage. The family hoped she would change her mind. With Chaloner present tonight, it was best Strathairn keep his distance.

  Horatia came to claim her husband. She gave Strathairn a shrewd glance before they strolled away. Guy would need the angels on his side to convince her to return to the country without him.

  Strathairn’s plan to avoid Sibella had failed, for she stood before him. He tensed and caught his breath. She was very beautiful tonight. The fine material of her dress clung to her curves, making him dwell on what lay beneath.

  “My lord.” Sibella curtsied. “How agreeable to find you back in society.” She fluttered her painted fan in a manner that emphasized her eyes. He drew his gaze away from her tempting mouth.

  “Lady Sibella.”

  She smiled coquettishly and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “So many ladies here tonight will be glad you have come.”

  “Most focus on Viscount Montsimon,” he said with a grin, taken aback by her flirtatiousness which was out of character.

  “We had hoped you would call on us at Brandreth Court.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not your mother surely?”

  “Mama enjoys good company as much as I.”

  “Lord Coombe’s company, perhaps?”

  “Yes, he has been attentive of late.” She frowned at him and nibbled her bottom lip, something he wished to do to her himself. “Don’t you want to talk to me?”

  He caught a thunderous expression on Chaloner’s face where he stood within a small group and sighed. “Of course, but your brother seems to seek your attention.”

  Sibella arched her slender eyebrows. “One might suspect you are avoiding me.”

  “Not at all. How well you look. Your few days in the country have brought color to your cheeks.”

  “Thank you, but my health is a poor topic for conversation.”

  “Then shall we change it? Are you not on the verge of announcing your engagement to Lord Coombe?”

  “I never expected you to listen to the gossipmongers.”

  “Is your brother Edward a gossip?”

  The music swelled to a deafening crescendo. The prince liked music to dominate a room. Sibella narrowed her eyes. “Might we go somewhere where we can talk without raising our voices?”

  “Would that please your brother?”

  “I don’t care what Chaloner thinks or does. I am a grown woman with a mind of my own.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” he said.

  He’d never seen Sibella like this. Her vivacious beauty made his pulse race. How her mother was known to be in her youth, perhaps. He fought the strong pull of attraction, the desire to take her in his arms, to whisk her away. To thumb their noses at society and be damned. But a dangerous man dogged him, and he would never risk Sibella. She was far too precious. Wives could be held to ransom. They would weaken a man. He would not break her heart nor leave her a widow. He glanced casually around the room. “Where is the elegant Lord Coombe?”

  She nodded toward the far corner. “In conversation with Lord Southern.”

  “Ah, I see.” He must stop this now. “I’m afraid I must leave you, the Regent—”

  “Is it because of what happened in York, John? Are you in danger?” Her wide green eyes, made greener by the large aquamarine decorating her deep décolletage, assessed him, making him feel like glass.

  Her use of his first name here was reckless. Afraid for her reputation, and aware that merely conversing with him in this manner could shatter her life and remove her from all she held dear, he took her arm and led her to a quiet spot behind a pillar. Fortunately, most of the guests had ventured into an anteroom to partake of the lobster patties, thinly sliced ham, and exotic foods they’d c
ome to expect from the prince’s table.

  He gazed down at her imploringly. “Sibella, have a care…”

  “Are you in danger?” she asked again.

  “You must not concern yourself with me.” He was caught by the emotion behind her words. She deserved an explanation if only he was able to give it. He braced himself and lowered his voice. “You will please not repeat any of what your brother told you. Not to anyone, do you understand?”

  “Do you really believe I would?” A high color flooded her delicate cheekbones.

  He struggled with his feelings, suddenly helpless. His breath exploded out of his lungs. “Not even to Coombe, Sibella.”

  The fervor in her eyes faded, and they became shadowed, inaccessible to him. Desperate to reach out to her, he put out his hand. Over her head, he spied her brother Chaloner still watching, and fell silent.

  He couldn’t go after her without causing a scene. Frustrated and angry at the clumsy way he’d handled her, he watched as she turned and was swallowed up by the throng gathered around the prime minister. Jealousy tightened his belly. Coombe had better measure up.

  *

  Sibella fumbled for her handkerchief as she hurried to the ladies’ retiring room. Tears blinded her. She was hopeless at acting the femme fatale. What a cake she’d made of herself. Edward had been wrong about Strathairn’s susceptibility. He appeared as unmoved as a marble statue. Under that smoky blue gaze, the idea of flirting with him had become embarrassing. Questioning him about his work was stupid. As if he’d tell her. She should feel ashamed of wearing her heart on her sleeve. She didn’t, because she feared for him, although it had been humiliating.

  She should have taken him at his word. His work meant too much to him. She gasped. Somehow, she must draw strength from somewhere to forget him. She’d been distracted by a man she would never have and was blinded to the possibilities of happiness with another man. Was it Coombe?

  She blundered into a strong body. Edward.

  “Whatever is the matter?” With a concerned expression, Edward stopped her from passing, his hand on her arm.

  “I have something in my eye.”

  “Let me see.” He bent his knees to peer into her eyes. “Both of them?”

  “I suspect it’s those urns of delphiniums. They always affect me this way.”

  “It wasn’t the conversation you just had with Strathairn behind the pillar?”

  She glowered at him. “I declare you have nothing better to do than watch me, Edward.”

  Edward tapped her lightly on the back. “That’s better—the old Sibella, showing some spirit.”

  “You may tell Chaloner I have decided to marry Lord Coombe.”

  “You have?” Edward gave a slow disbelieving shake of his head. “Are you sure, Sib? It’s not a rash decision? Made on the rebound as it were?”

  Sibella dabbed at her eyes. “Made with a good deal of common sense I would have thought.”

  “Perhaps you need more time. Sleep on it. You may think differently tomorrow.”

  “I thought you wanted me to marry him,” she said in an angry tone.

  “I want to see you happily married. Not necessarily the same thing.”

  Sibella shook her head. “Tell Chaloner, please Edward.”

  She sniffed. How tired she was of vetting possible husbands. But she did want her own home and a nursery full of children. The years were passing her by. She sagged with a sudden fatigue. Now that she’d made up her mind, it offered her little comfort, and she doubted she would sleep tonight.

  Out of a corner of her eye, the dependable Lord Coombe approached.

  *

  While Strathairn tried to convince himself Sibella would be happy with Coombe, Montsimon appeared at his side. “We are expected in Parnham’s office tomorrow at eleven,” he said in his pleasant Irish tenor voice.

  “You bring news from Paris?”

  Montsimon inclined his head toward a deserted alcove where they wouldn’t be overheard. Strathairn followed him. Blessed with considerable charm, Montsimon hid a serious, thoughtful personality. His mother–an Irish beauty–ran away to Europe with her husband’s best friend when he was a child and left him with his father. Perhaps it resonated with John because at ten years old, he’d become a motherless lad after his mother passed away.

  The viscount was forced to pause several times when ladies drew his attention. To his credit, Strathairn had never heard him boast of his conquests as some were wont to do, nor had a lady been known to openly disapprove of him.

  Montsimon altered his direction and attempted to speak to the blonde widow, Althea Brookwood. She had rejected the advances of several men who hoped to take her husband’s place, either in marriage or in a discreet arrangement after he died. Not a happy marriage by all accounts. Brookwood was a nasty piece of work who was killed in a duel after cheating at cards.

  After a brief curtsy, Lady Brookwood turned away to greet a lady at her elbow, treating Montsimon with appalling casualness bordering on rudeness. Strathairn noted the almost imperceptible stiffening of Montsimon’s shoulders. He doubted it would end there. The viscount would rise to a challenge, and the lady was worth fighting for.

  As he and Montsimon reached the alcove, two more ladies advanced on them, seeking Montsimon’s promise to attend a poetry reading.

  “Tomorrow,” Montsimon said to Strathairn. With a smile, he strolled away with the two ladies.

  A few yards away, Coombe talked to Sibella. Coombe took her hands in his. Strathairn’s chest tightened at the sight. Fool that he was, he had wished her safely tucked away with this man. He hadn’t bargained on the conviction that Sibella was his and that no other man had a right to her.

  After Lord Coombe left Sibella to engage someone in conversation, Strathairn made his way to her side. “Lady Sibella…” he began, not sure what he would say. The words ‘marry me’ rushed into his mind. He longed to kiss away the uncertainty in her eyes.

  She stopped him, a glove on his arm. “You may be the first to offer your felicitations, Lord Strathairn. Lord Coombe and I are engaged.”

  He forced a smile on his lips. He would not object, for what reason could he give? The man would give her the life she deserved. “You have it,” he said, his throat dry. “I must offer Lord Coombe my congratulations. He is a very lucky fellow.” He lowered his head to hers. “Please remember, if you ever need me for any reason, Sibella,” he said in an undertone. “Come to me or send word.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I shall not forget.” Sibella’s dark lashes veiled her expression. Dear lord, may she be happy. Had he driven her to it?

  Chapter Seven

  Strathairn walked under the Horse Guards archway with a nod to the mounted guard. He hoped Montsimon might offer something helpful. He had a task on his hands to convince Parnell to continue the investigation into the death of his partner, Nesbit.

  In his office, Montsimon and Parnell were already in deep discussion, his desk strewn with papers. The sun slanted through the window leaching color from the solemn painting of Wellington hanging on the wall.

  Strathairn divested himself of his hat, gloves, and cane into the arms of Parnell’s aide. He greeted the two men, took the spare ribbon-back chair, and waited for them to resume the conversation.

  Montsimon perched on the corner of the desk. “You’ll be interested in this, Strathairn. We’ve been discussing what I discovered in Paris.”

  Strathairn folded his arms. “Forney?”

  “I spoke to several of Forney’s former, shall we say, acquaintances. Word has it he drowned while escaping England back in ’16. His boat foundered on rocks and sank in the Mediterranean Sea. He hasn’t been sighted since, so it seems likely to be true.”

  “And that puts an end to the speculation,” Parnham said.

  “I don’t see how.” A heavy sensation settled in Strathairn’s chest. Aware he’d raised his voice, he took a deep breath. Anger wouldn’t work with Parnham. He had the coolest head in the b
usiness. When he spoke again, he lowered his tone. “And the Napoleonic symbol, the eagle-shaped cravat pin, identical to the one Forney used?”

  “Some mischief maker.” He nodded at Montsimon. “Montsimon tells me he saw the countess in Paris. If Forney lives, he would be with her.”

  Montsimon shook his head. “He wasn’t.”

  “The man’s dead. Sidmouth’s network has turned up nothing,” Parnham said, “and neither has Bow Street. I suggest we let the matter rest.”

  Strathairn leaned forward. “How about my new partner and I return to the docks? I’d like to discover who shot my man.”

  “There’s trouble brewing in Manchester.” Parnham ran his hands through his iron-gray hair. “I can’t be responsible for everyone, Strathairn. We need to deal with that. There are agitators stirring up the people. The government must be made aware that the country is a powder keg.”

  “There are a lot of hot heads, shopkeepers, tradesmen, and publicans who will cause trouble,” Montsimon said.

  Parnham pursed his lips. “The government is considering the Six Acts which will forbid weapons and public meetings without a magistrate’s permit.”

  “If the Act is passed, it will only stir up more trouble.” Strathairn frowned. “If they limit the freedom of the press, it will merely increase the people’s dislike of Liverpool’s government.”

  Parnham shuffled the papers on his desk. “You can see why I don’t want to spend any resources on Forney. Unless and until he shows himself. We have enough to do stopping these groups intent on provoking a revolution in England.”

  Summarily dismissed, Strathairn left the building. Agents such as Nesbit were dispensable. Easily replaced. There was no room for sentiment in this business.

  *

  Sibella endured a harrowing couple of days. Not sleeping well, she was weary of her mother clucking over her appearance. Since their engagement was announced, Lord Coombe came often to St James’s Square. So often, in fact, that she yearned for time to herself, and felt suffocated when he was in the room.