Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 02]

by Surrender to a Wicked Spy

  Her mother tilted her head and smiled. “Thank you, dear. How lovely it was to have this little chat with you.” She patted Olivia’s hand and stood. “Well, I must get back to our guests.” And she was gone.

  Olivia remained in the room for a moment, staring at the gleaming piano that hadn’t been tuned in years. “All for the good of Cheltenham … .”

  “What?”

  Olivia turned toward the door to see Walter’s fiancée … well, previous fiancée … standing in the doorway.

  “May I join you, Lady Greenleigh?” Miss Absentia Hackerman asked. Most people had difficulty saying the name of the country’s wealthiest heiress with a straight face.

  Olivia absolutely pined to ask Sir and Lady Hackerman what they had been thinking. Apparently, extreme wealth did not always go hand in hand with a thorough education. Even Walter, who had always been a good sport about marrying for money, had made more than one reference to liking his fiancée’s company best “in absentia.”

  “Of course.” Olivia made room on the sofa, caring little if Miss Hackerman sank deep into the tired horsehair. “How may I be of service?”

  Miss Hackerman eyed the sofa with distaste—although perhaps that was because she eyed nearly everything that way—and elected to stand. With a sigh, Olivia began to stand as well when she realized that not only was she not the hostess, she was the guest of honor.

  With a smile she smoothed her skirts and folded her hands on her lap. She didn’t have far to look up into Miss Hackerman’s face. “Yes, Abbie?”

  Miss Hackerman smiled, but her eyes were narrowed. “I wished to say how happy I am that you have finally wed. You must be so relieved.”

  Vile little cat. “I am entirely blissful, thank you, Abbie,” Olivia said serenely.

  “I imagine so. After all, you managed to capture none other than ‘the Dane’ himself.” Olivia knew Miss Hackerman had moved Dane up her list after Walter had died. The girl smiled spitefully. “Someday you must tell me how you did it.”

  Implying any number of nasty maneuverings, of course. Outwardly, Miss Hackerman was quite attractive, and no expense had been spared to make her the most stylish young lady about.

  Outwardly only. The girl had never been friend to her, for she’d known there was nothing Olivia could do about her cutting remarks and snide jests. Sir Hackerman had bought his knighthood as surely has he had bought Lord Walter Cheltenham for his daughter. Cheltenham had needed Hackerman money too badly to be lost over something as insignificant as Olivia’s feelings.

  Olivia smiled. “Runaway horses are rather old hat, are they not? Nothing shows a man that you care like leaping into the Thames.” It was worth every moment of Mother’s excruciating admonishments to realize that Cheltenham could get along quite nicely without the Hackermans.

  Miss Hackerman hesitated, obviously needing to regroup. She’d doubtlessly expected Olivia to blush horribly and fade away, as she had done before.

  Olivia tilted her head and assumed a faintly bored expression. “You must have wanted something else, Abbie.”

  Her opponent glanced away, conceding the field. “Well … yes. I was hoping I could arrange an introduction to Lord Wallingford.”

  “I’m sure Mother could easily manage that.”

  “Hmm. Yes.” Miss Hackerman paused, waiting for Olivia to twig. Olivia had already twigged, thank you. Apparently, Miss Hackerman wasn’t satisfied to be introduced by Lady Cheltenham, eminently respectable but hardly the highest of the high in Society. Miss Hackerman wished for the implied approval of Greenleigh.

  It was an interesting sensation, this possession of social currency. Olivia doubted she was much in the way of using it—except perhaps this once. She stood gracefully, suddenly completely comfortable with how she towered over the petite heiress.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll be on your way to Mother, then.”

  Storm clouds darkened that pretty brow. Miss Hackerman positively twitched with fury, but there was nothing she could do.

  It was a delicious moment indeed.

  “Well, then I suppose I shall.” In a whirl of expensive skirts, Miss Hackerman was gone.

  Pity it wasn’t forever.

  Olivia sighed. Dinner was going to be grim, she simply knew it.

  Dane eyed his table companions with a furrowed brow. An unlikelier bunch he’d never seen.

  Lord Cheltenham sat at the head of the table, of course, with Dane at his right. Olivia sat next to Dane, while on her other side lounged Lord Wallingford, who was bloody drunk already. After him sat Lady Reardon, then Marcus, then Lady Cheltenham at the foot of the table, with a pained-looking Nate at her right. After him sat Miss Hackerman, the very one who’d needed rescuing from her fractious horse—now that he’d spent the evening with the girl, he understood the mount’s objections—and then there was Stanton Home, the Marquis of Wyndham, at Lord Cheltenham’s left.

  Four spies, a monosyllabic earl, an annoying heiress, an obnoxious young sot, two very pleasing ladies—although Olivia had scarcely spoken this evening—and the mother from hell.

  Dane found himself listening eagerly for the chiming of the clock in the hall. Soon the ladies would excuse themselves and the gentlemen would take out their cigars. Dane had arranged this evening in order to hold an impromptu session of the Royal Four. If they could rid themselves of Cheltenham and Wallingford, then the Cobra, the Lion, and the Falcon could discuss Dane’s plan for Prince George.

  If Dane could persuade the others, he could declare a quorum—they had little choice, with the Fox on his deathbed. Lord Barrowby had named no successor yet, and their reconnaissance had reported no apparent candidate lingering about. If Barrowby had neglected his duty, there was going to be hell to pay in the Four.

  The Prime Minister of England, who had formerly served as Cobra, would likely fight to have his own candidate take the spot. Frankly, Dane was weary of Liverpool’s constant maneuverings within the Four. Nate had been Liverpool’s successor, after Lord Etheridge had stepped down to take over the Liar’s Club, but thankfully Nate wasn’t inclined to kowtow to his former master.

  The last thing Dane or the others wanted was to allow Liverpool to install someone who still retained loyalty to him.

  Dane looked down the table to where Marcus was valiantly trying to maintain an attentive facade to Miss Hackerman’s complaints and objections. Marcus would make a good Fox, although the duties were slightly different from the Lion’s. Marcus was brilliant and deathly loyal to England. He deserved more than to live out his days as only Dane’s protégé.

  Unfortunately, that meant Dane would have to begin all over again selecting his second—and a poor crop of candidates there was, too. Most of the young lords about these days resembled Wallingford, drunken, stupid, and useless.

  If Dane could be allowed to choose from the gentry, it would at least widen the pool, but for seven hundred years the Four had been carefully selected from the peerage. Dane would not like to be the first to break tradition thus.

  Dane’s attention was caught by his wife’s rather delectable bosom. From his seat he had an excellent view.

  He’d told her to wait for him naked. What an inspired thought that had been. To have her before him, bared and aroused, the candlelight flickering on her skin like a molten glow …

  He rubbed the back of his neck. He was becoming a bit molten himself. By God, he wished this interminable dinner over with so he could carry her off to her bedchamber and watch her undress herself—

  With a jerk he realized that he was contemplating leaving before he and the others had their meeting. Dismay jolted the last of his arousal away.

  Duty first. First, last, and always.

  Of course, making his heir was one of his duties—then again, making his heir did not necessarily include mentally undressing his wife during a dinner party.

  He turned his gaze away from her bosom with determination.

  Duty.

  The watcher kept an eye on the proceedi
ngs from outside the window. He missed nothing, from the amount of wine young Lord Wallingford downed to the way Lord Greenleigh’s gaze kept traveling back to his wife’s bosom.

  Everything was going as planned, although it itched at him to see Lord Reardon and his bride at the table. What were they doing there?

  It could be happenstance—most men of that rank knew each other well enough to sit down to dinner. Reardon’s wife could be there on behalf of Lady Greenleigh, for that matter.

  Greenleigh might scarcely know Reardon. The watcher certainly had seen no sign of companionship at the table, although that would be hard with the seating arrangement.

  Yet Reardon had been part of the downfall of Wadsworth … and there had been those rumors about Lady Reardon and that mysterious group called the Quatre Royal …

  If Reardon was working for the Crown, then he could be here tonight for much the same reason as the watcher.

  Recruitment.

  Well, then, perhaps it was time to advance the queen. A spot of danger always heated the blood, did it not?

  In the meantime, it bothered him no end that he’d never seen the fifth gentleman before. The fellow sat with his back to the window now, but he’d seen him clearly when the party had entered the dining room.

  Something was going on, something beneath the surface.

  As if he felt the watcher’s gaze, the fifth man turned his head and glanced over his shoulder, his sharply cut features in profile against the well-lit room.

  The watcher stepped back quickly, although it was unlikely the man saw anything but himself and the other guests reflected in the glass.

  The fifth man gestured to a servant, who rounded the table to close the draperies.

  Never mind. Despite the stranger at the table, there was no reason why the evening’s entertainment could not go on as planned.

  7

  Olivia fidgeted. She and the other ladies sat in the drawing room, the most presentable room in Cheltenham House. The draperies were hardly shabby at all, and the stuffed sofas scarcely sank under one’s weight. Dinner was finally over and the gentlemen would join them soon.

  “Is there something the matter?” Lady Reardon—Willa, she’d insisted—gazed at Olivia with amused concern. “Or is it just a newlywed affliction?”

  Olivia pressed her lips together. There was something she was dying to ask someone—something her mother evidently didn’t have the answer to—and Willa seemed just the person. Looking about to see if the other two ladies were nearby, Olivia leaned closer to Willa.

  “You’re recently wed, yes?”

  Willa nodded, her dimples deepening. “Mere weeks.”

  Olivia took a breath. “May I ask you a very improper question?”

  Willa leaned closer as well. “Those are my favorite kind,” she whispered back.

  “Is it … is it wonderful?”

  Willa leaned back slightly and gazed at her. “Not yet?”

  Olivia shook her head. Willa gazed thoughtfully at the door through which the men would enter. “Well, bully for him.”

  Olivia sighed. “I know it’s terribly wicked to be so eager, but—”

  Willa put her hand over Olivia’s. It was a warm, friendly gesture, nothing like her mother’s. “Olivia, someday I must tell you how I repeatedly tried to attack Nathaniel. He would have none of it. It nearly drove me mad at the time, but in retrospect, I believe it was good that we grew to know each other a bit first.”

  “Oh dear. How long did it take?” She hadn’t much wait in her, she feared.

  Willa gave a tiny, secret smile. “A week. I’m irresistible.”

  Having seen Lord Reardon’s moonstruck gaze when he looked at his bride, Olivia could well believe it. “How do I do that—be irresistible?”

  Willa bit her lip and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “I hadn’t considered it, but … I think the most irresistible thing is that I find him irresistible. I believe men like a woman who likes them.”

  “I like him,” Olivia said, her voice low. “Enormously.”

  Willa smiled and patted her hand again. “Well, then it’s only a matter of time”

  “Hmm.” Olivia narrowed her eyes at her new friend. “I notice that you never answered my first question. Is it wonderful?”

  Willa widened her eyes and shook her head emphatically. “Oh no.”

  The door opened and the gentlemen entered at last. Willa smiled across the room at her husband, her gaze every bit as moonstruck as his. “It’s not wonderful,” she said dreamily. “It’s divine.”

  It had taken most of the evening, but the Lion, the Cobra, and the Falcon were finally alone. They’d had to hint broadly to their host that the semiconscious Wallingford had required Cheltenham’s personal attention to see that he was sent home safely.

  When Olivia’s father left the room at last, Dane leaned his elbows on the table. “Meeting called to order. Prince George must be controlled.”

  The Cobra nodded thoughtfully, but the Falcon only raised a brow. “What manner of check have you to offer, then?”

  “A mistress, chosen by Prince George himself from an array of ladies we present to him … .”

  It didn’t take long to convince them, although the Cobra expressed reservations about the Hunt Ball proposition. “His Majesty hates Scotland. You know he’d rather spend time in Brighton with his pet soldiers.”

  The Falcon slid a cool glance in his direction. “Leave that to me. He’ll be there.”

  The Cobra narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps we all ought to be there.”

  Dane shook his head. “The ladies invited will be a carefully chosen selection. All married to loyal men, all having borne their husband’s heir, all women who feel free to dally outside their vows.”

  Marcus made a noise at that. Dane shot him a quelling glance. Then he tilted his head at the Cobra. “Your lady does not qualify.”

  The Cobra blinked. “I should hope not!” Then he shrugged. “Yet I could bring her. His Majesty won’t cross that line, I can assure you.”

  The Falcon frowned. “Why not?”

  The Cobra held up his hand. “My lady’s business and not relevant anyway. Suffice it to say that His Majesty’s bond to Willa is … avuncular, at most.”

  Dane shrugged. “That is yours to judge. I could use the reinforcement. You know how he can be when he feels hard-pressed.”

  “I shall join you after the ball to review the results,” the Falcon said. “I’m staying close to Derbyshire in case Barrowby passes. In the meantime, I have decided it is time to review the utility of the Liar’s Club.”

  Dane leaned back and grinned, his point won. “I like that lot. Bunch of rowdies, but I like them.”

  The Falcon twisted one side of his lips. “I’d like them better if the Chimera had not hidden in their midst for the last year.”

  The Cobra held up a hand. “That isn’t quite true. As Denny the valet, he was never made privy to the inner workings of the club. He knew more than a servant should have, I’ll grant you that, but he never knew everything, and he certainly never learned about us.”

  The Falcon didn’t look pacified. “I’m none too sure about that. I know you think those attempts on your life a few weeks ago had more to do with your involvement with that ring of French spies—”

  The Cobra shook his head. “He knows nothing but a few decades-old stories about a mythical group known as the Quatre Royale. Old business and longdead men.”

  Dane shook his head. “There’s no way to know in any case, unless we had the fellow here in a pair of thumbscrews.”

  The Falcon obviously found that a pleasant thought indeed, for he very nearly smiled. Nearly.

  Bloodthirsty bloke. Of course, the Falcon was due his grimness, for keeping an eye on the wayward prince’s antics would sour a clown.

  The door opened, revealing a harassed-looking Cheltenham. “Bloody piker. Falls drunk on my tablecloth, then tries to hit me up for a loan after he vomits on my front steps.”


  Dane shook his head with a commiserating smile, glad to see that Olivia’s father had a properly disdainful opinion of sots like Wallingford. Lady Cheltenham had indicated that Wallingford had been a friend to her deceased son, but Dane found that hard to believe. Wallingford didn’t have friends—he had creditors who daren’t let him out of their sight.

  Duty was concluded. Dane pushed back from the table. Not eagerly, of course. Not at all. “Shall we go join the ladies then?”

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Olivia. Once Dane entered the drawing room, she had no thought but what awaited her at home.

  Surely he would complete her education tonight. Willa had admired his restraint, but frankly, Olivia could do without it. She was dying of curiosity and half-satisfied arousal.

  Oh, hang it. She was dying of lust. Lust for her magnificent golden husband.

  He’d sent her a single volcanic glance when he’d come in the room and she’d been able to think of nothing else since.

  This was not a problem, since she was currently conversing with Miss Hackerman. The girl had nothing to say but complaints that young Lord Wallingford had left early. Frankly, Olivia was surprised the fellow had been able to find the door. She wouldn’t have given a useless idiot like him a moment’s thought, but apparently Wallingford had something Abbie wanted.

  A title, any title.

  As the daughter of the shipping merchant who had supposedly single-handedly financed the military excesses of the now-mad King George, Abbie Hackerman had a great deal to offer. She could afford to be choosier.

  Olivia glanced at the girl. Abbie responded with a sunny smile, the very picture of amiability. Of course. Multigenerational social climbing tended to produce a rather professional grasp of who was to be mocked and who was to be manipulated.

  Olivia was quite aware that wedding Dane had taken her from the first category to the second with blinding speed. Miss Hackerman had abandoned her previous scorn and now fixed on Olivia the expectant gaze of a long-beloved best friend.