Never Entice an Earl

by Lily Dalton

  She and Daphne parted ways in the upstairs corridor, with Daphne continuing on toward the chambers she shared with her new husband—only to rush back and throw her arms around Clarissa in a sisterly embrace.

  “I’m so very proud to have you as my sister,” she murmured. A moment later, she smiled radiantly, as she had done almost constantly since marrying Lord Raikes. Clarissa could only interpret her happiness as a sound endorsement of that venerable state. “It’s your turn, my dear sister. Next time I see you, you’ll be making your entrance on that grand staircase, just as you always dreamed when you were a girl.”

  One last squeeze, and she was gone—which was all for the best. Clarissa had never been very good at keeping secrets, and a moment more would have seen her blurting out the news of her impending engagement.

  She had no wish to ruin tonight’s wonderful surprise.

  *

  “I shall see you at Miss Bevington’s ball tonight, then, Mr. Kincraig?” said his companion, Lord Havering, as they exited the doors of White’s Club.

  He flashed a rakish grin. “Any chance to reacquaint myself with Wolverton’s liquor cabinet is a welcome opportunity indeed.”

  Fox studied him, as he drew on his gloves, one by one. “I suspect there’s more to it than that.”

  Like him, “Fox,” as he was called by those who knew him best, had no discernible family of his own, and had been thrown by circumstance into the midst of Wolverton’s welcoming brood. After a period of understandable suspicion over whether he was plotting some sort of trickery against the earl and his family, Havering had warmed to him, and he to Havering.

  “Perhaps so.” He looked out over the busy street, crowded with carriages and hackneys, uncomfortable with revealing anything more. After all, it had taken him years to perfect the obscurement of his true thoughts and feelings. He wasn’t about to start emoting now, here on the pavement, in front of God and Fox and everyone. He kept his manner and tone cool. “Whatever the case, I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He wouldn’t miss it. Though it would take a team of horses to pry the sentiment from his tongue, he’d grown fond of the old earl’s family, even though he found the whole idea of a debut ball frivolous and silly. Soon, he would be gone from their lives, and he would likely never see any one of them again. Most especially Clarissa, whom one didn’t have to be an intelligence agent in service of the Crown to observe that she had fallen head over heels in love with the annoyingly charming and well-connected Lord Devonby.

  God, how he despised the fellow, and all his glorious noble perfection, for no good reason other than Clarissa adored him. No. Of course he himself did not love her, it’s just that she could provoke him like no other by constantly fussing over him, and complaining of the way he tied his cravat, and by always looking at him so directly with her perceptive blue eyes—

  What did it matter? He was leaving in a matter of days. Perhaps even tomorrow.

  Damn it.

  How thankful he was that it was time to say his good-byes.

  With that, Dominick Arden Blackmer, who for the time being answered to the name of Mr. Kincraig, climbed into his carriage and settled back for what would be a brief ride to what had been his abode for the last year, where his scant belongings were packed and the house had been shut up and made ready for his departure.

  Because it was time to leave. One did not become attached. Life only ever made sense when he was alone.

  Where would tomorrow take him? Perhaps he would learn the answer tonight.

  Just then, his carriage passed a chapel where a small group crowded the pavement, throwing rose petals high over the heads of a newly wedded couple. The sight momentarily transported him back in time, to another wedding. His own. But Tryphena was dead, for three years now. Even though he walked and lived and breathed, sometimes he believed he was as well.

  The sight of a familiar face jerked him back to present. He flicked the curtain aside and peered out the window, instantly recognizing the groom as Lord Devonby, hand in hand with a slender, dark-haired young woman who held a bouquet. If there was any doubt in his mind what he observed in that moment, Devonby put it to rest by pressing an enthusiastic kiss upon his bride’s lips.

  His carriage moved on until he could see no more.

  How…regretful. Did Miss Bevington know? Certainly not. It had been only yesterday afternoon when he’d observed that flirtatious glance between them, and the furtive touch of their hands behind the garden column.

  No doubt the news would devastate her, and would douse the enchanting light that always seemed to reside in her lovely eyes. Because of that, he could take no pleasure, no satisfaction in what he’d seen. His fingers curled into his palms and he resisted the urge to order his driver to turn around so that he might confront the bastard directly, in front of his new bride and their families. Everyone. But it was not his place. He would be gone from all their lives—from her life—in a blink. So instead he held silent, and simmered.

  In the confines of his temporary home, he shaved and dressed. He paced and waited. Though he was to have an audience with Wolverton this evening before the ball got underway, he had no wish to arrive too early. He didn’t want to cross paths with Clarissa, because once she looked at him with her expressive blue eyes he’d be compelled to tell her what he had seen. Certainly she deserved to know, but telling her wasn’t his place. He and Clarissa were not on those sort of terms, not like she and Havering, who was more like a brother to her.

  Havering. There was his answer. Knowing Clarissa as long as he had, Fox would know how to best break the unfortunate news. Fox could comfort her, after Dominick was long gone. Calling the carriage around once again, he traveled directly to Wolverton’s house, whereupon entering he observed from a distance a small army of confectioner’s assistants in the ballroom setting up some sort of display of little cakes or meringues on a table, while at the center of the house workmen finished the installation of a god-awful pink carpet onto the grand staircase, pink being Clarissa’s favorite color, and one that he had to concede always looked very pretty on her. The scent of flowers hung everywhere, so strong he fought the urge to sneeze.

  Ah, there—Havering stood just around the corner, speaking to the Duke of Claxton. He moved toward them, only to be intercepted by Mrs. Brightmore, who discreetly lifted a hand toward Wolverton’s chambers.

  “Ah.” He paused midstep. “Now?”

  “Indeed.”

  “It’s early yet.”

  She winked. “Some of us have other duties to perform this evening, other than to saunter about in fancy clothes, drinking lemonade from a little crystal cup.”

  His gaze returned to Havering, but in the end he changed direction, taking the corridor to Wolverton’s chambers, as he had so often done over the past year under the guise of being summoned, or more often commanded by the earl to do so. His role, after all, had been to play a gambler and a drunk. Someone consumed by his own addictions, but more importantly, inattentive to his surroundings. Though he’d played double duty as a bodyguard to Wolverton, his primary assignment had been to lure into the open the man or men who wanted Lord Wolverton, and his every living heir, dead. Lady Harwick and the young ladies hadn’t been told, because the earl had no wish to frighten them, or burden them with as of yet unsubstantiated explanations of past tragedies.

  Entering the anteroom, he joined his team. O’Connell, His Lordship’s valet. Mr. Ollister, the first footman. And Mrs. Brightmore, the housekeeper, who stepped through a small doorway on the opposite side of the room, because it wouldn’t have done for her to be seen walking down the corridor in his company.

  “Reports?” asked Mrs. Brightmore, who briskly circled round to collect a sealed envelope from them each, which she quickly secured at the center of her corset. He had written out his final report the night before, having been made aware his next assignment could come any day.

  “How is Wolverton today?” he asked O’Connell.

  “Very well. He
wishes to see you when we are through here.”

  Mr. Ollister straightened. “Let us finish our business, so we can all return to our posts.” He looked to Dominick.

  “As we all suspected, the Home Office has seen fit to revise the scope of our mission. Now that the earl has a true heir, your role, Blackmer, has been substantially compromised in that you are no longer the assassin’s lure you were intended to be. Even though no attempts have been made against Wolverton’s life, we will continue to secure the premises, and now also devote ourselves to protecting the child. Blackmer, while you could certainly remain on indefinitely as security, no one believes you would look very convincing in a nanny’s cap—”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “As such, Home Office has seen fit to assign another agent to fulfill the nanny role, while you have received new orders.” Bending, he extracted a folded square of parchment from his boot, which he handed over to Dominick.

  Mrs. Brightmore said quietly, “I hope it’s what you want.”

  “Indeed,” murmured O’Connell.

  They all knew his situation and that this small-scale assignment, for him, had been intended as punishment. As professional exile. Perhaps at last his superiors had forgiven him for Tryphena’s death, though he would never forgive himself.

  Breaking the seal, he opened his orders and read. A smile broke across his face, and he exhaled in happiness and relief. At last, the Home Office had seen fit to return him to international service.

  “Very good.” Mrs. Brightmore clasped her hands in front of her apron. “I’m so happy for you, Blackmer.”

  As required, he tossed his orders into the fire.

  “As are we all,” said Mr. Ollister, grinning. “But there is little time for celebration. Let us all return to our duties—that is, except for you, Blackmer. Enjoy your last evening in London before you are returned to the jaws of danger.”

  “Which, as we all know, is precisely where you wish to be,” said O’Connell. “The earl is waiting.”

  After confirming his orders had burned to nothing, he continued on into the earl’s private chambers.

  Wolverton sat in his wheeled bath chair beside the window, dressed in his finest for the party. Below, carriages crowded the street and finely dressed guests lined the pavement, waiting their turn to enter the house.

  “And so, it is time for us to say good-bye,” he said.

  Dominick approached the earl, and bowed. “Yes, my lord. I leave tomorrow.”

  “Very good, then.” The old man smiled up at him, his eyes warm with admiration. “I know this assignment was not your first choice, and that you are eager to return to the more exciting realm of international espionage.”

  He nodded. “Spy games have always been my true calling.”

  “There was a time when I played a few of those games myself.”

  “So I have been told. You are quite the legend.”

  The earl chuckled, clearly delighted by the compliment. “Thank you. My only regret is if my actions somehow placed my family in any sort of danger.”

  “Yes, my lord, but we don’t know that.”

  He nodded. “I just want you to know how very much I have appreciated your devotion to myself and my family. I thank the Lord every day your particular skills were not needed, but I must admit I slept more peacefully at night knowing you, along with O’Connell and Mr. Ollister, were there to protect us.”

  “Thank you for saying so, my lord.”

  “Godspeed.”

  *

  “Stay just there, out of sight!” said Sophia, looking out over the gathered crowd of guests. “Mother will give the signal.”

  Clarissa stood at the top of the staircase, with her sisters and eight of her dearest friends, each of whom held wreaths covered in flowers. Well, six of her dearest friends, and two Aimsley sisters because her mother had quite insisted. They all clustered about her, in a happy crush.

  “Everything is so lovely, Clarissa.”

  “We’re having such a wonderful time.”

  “I can’t wait until the dancing starts.”

  Daphne gestured. “Ladies, it’s time.”

  Sophia quickly lined them up into the order they’d agreed upon. In the ballroom, the orchestra began to play. Each of the young ladies held her wreath and made her way toward the stairs, smiling down over an admiring crowd gone suddenly silent. The first two began their descent.

  Clarissa asked Sophia, “Do you think the wreaths and the procession are too much?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s your night. Besides, I had twelve attendants, in case you’ve forgotten, and they were all wearing those ridiculous ostrich plumes.” She winked.

  Clarissa moved to take her place on the landing, and the crowd murmured in admiration. Her mother and grandfather waited at the bottom of the stairs. There was His Grace, the Duke of Claxton, standing with Lord Raikes, and Mr. Kincraig. Oh, and Havering. But…

  “I don’t see Devonby,” she murmured. She couldn’t very well descend the stairs if her fiancé-to-be was not even in the room to see her. But her sisters urged her to follow her attendants down the steps and she complied. Again, her gaze swept the room. Had he been delayed? Why wasn’t he here?

  “Who did you say you were looking for?” said Daphne, from where she followed just behind.

  “Did you say Lord Devonby?” said the eldest Aimsley sister, glancing over her shoulder. “Well, he won’t be here, of course.”

  “Why not?” asked Clarissa.

  The younger Aimsley turned and said, “He married Emily FitzKnightley this afternoon and they are already off on their honeymoon.”

  Clarissa’s heart seized.

  “That can’t be true,” she said, through numb lips. Her blood pounded in her ears, so hard she could hardly see or hear. “Wouldn’t we all have known about it?”

  “It came as a surprise to everyone, and they married by special license. We ought to know; we are her cousins and served as her bridesmaids.”

  “Clarissa, stop whispering. Straighten up and smile,” Sophia murmured.

  Clarissa did stop whispering. Indeed, she stopped everything, as a rush of dizziness swept over her. Devonby, married? The chandelier above the staircase seemed to twist and spin on its chain.

  “I’m so sorry, I—” she murmured.

  “Clarissa?” inquired Daphne.

  The world pitched, turning upside down in a blur of muslin, feminine squeals of surprise, and pink.

  *

  Dominick read the Aimsley girl’s lips, and saw Clarissa’s face go white. Damn it. That she should find out the news of Devonby there on the stairs in front of everyone.

  He watched, helpless and separated by a sea of people as Clarissa wavered. Then went limp.

  He didn’t think twice; he just moved, pushing through the crowd to where she lay amidst a tangle of flowers and feminine limbs. Gathering her up in his arms, he lifted her, sweeping her away, down the hall.

  Lady Margaretta followed. “Clarissa!”

  “Tell her…I’m fine,” Clarissa pleaded against his neck, her voice thick and her words barely discernible.

  “She is well, I believe,” he called back. “She only fainted for a moment. From the excitement, I’m sure.”

  Her Ladyship nodded, and paused midstep with her hands raised. “I shall come straightaway after seeing to the other girls and ensuring that no one has been injured!”

  He carried her into a small sitting room, where he deposited her—or attempted to deposit her—on a settee.

  “Let go, Clarissa.”

  “No,” she retorted.

  She held even tighter to his neck, and sobbed into his shirt. Knowing not what else to do, he simply sat with her there clinging to him. Trying very hard not to notice how soft and warm and perfect she felt, because that would serve absolutely no useful purpose.

  Fox rushed in. “Is she all right?”

  Thank God. He had no intention of being Clarissa’s hero. That honor ought
to belong to someone else. Someone permanent in her life.

  “Take her please?” he asked, hands raised imploringly behind her back.

  Fox took one step toward them, but just then Clarissa’s sisters and their husbands arrived, instantly distracting him, and he drifted off to the side.

  “Oh, Clarissa!” exclaimed Daphne, rushing toward them. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sophia did as well, touching a gentle hand to her sister’s head. “Did you slip? Or did you faint?”

  “Is she hurt?” inquired Claxton from the door.

  “No, no, no,” she cried, toward the wall, over his shoulder, refusing still to look at anyone. “I’m fine. Only embarrassed. I’m so stupid. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid,” assured Sophia. “And you mustn’t be embarrassed. You’re not the first debutante to faint at the moment of her debut. Remember Elizabeth Malloy? At least you didn’t expose your bare bottom to two hundred people the way she did.”

  Lord Raikes murmured, “I must say, I’m sorry to have missed that.”

  Fox burst out in laughter, but clasped a hand over his mouth.

  “Gentlemen!” Daphne rebuked.

  Clarissa seized Dominick’s neck tighter, and cried harder. “I am mortified! I just want to be alone.”

  Lady Margaretta entered the room and, after quickly assessing the situation, said, “I think what would be best is if everyone gave Clarissa a moment alone and returned to the ballroom. You can all help her by telling everyone she is well, that she only fainted and that she’ll be returning to the party as soon as she is recovered.”

  Everyone left the room, her sisters throwing glances of concern over their shoulders on the way out.

  “Are you all right here, Mr. Kincraig?” Her Ladyship asked, touching a comforting hand to Clarissa’s back, who still snuffled against the front of his shirt. God, she’d made a handkerchief of him. No doubt his shirt was a mess, and he’d have to go immediately home after.