Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  "May I have a word with you?" he asked in a soft voice.

  "Oh," she repeated. "I don't think so. Not just now. I'm quite busy, as you see. If you will excuse me." She spun abruptly away from him.

  "Emily, please," he implored. "I must speak with you."

  She turned slowly to face him. "I'm sorry, my lord. I'd rather you didn't." Her eyes darted everywhere but couldn't seem to meet his own. She was obviously embarrassed.

  "Perhaps later?" he persisted. "It's really quite important."

  She stared at the floor, her hands twisting a piece of foolscap. "My lord, if it's about last night, I'd prefer we did not speak of it. I think it is best forgotten."

  "Forgotten? I'm afraid it will be very difficult— nay, impossible—for me to forget, Emily. But you are correct. It was wrong. It should not have happened. Let us not mention it again."

  She nodded her head, never looking up to meet his eyes, and turned away from him once more.

  "But that is not what I wished to speak to you about, Emily," he said. "It is something much more important."

  When she turned around this time, she met his eyes with a questioning look.

  "Yes. Much more important. Can you come upstairs for a moment?"

  "I'm sorry, my lord. This is not a good time."

  "Well... perhaps later. After dinner?"

  "There is the ball, my lord."

  "Of course. Well, then, it will have to be tomorrow morning. But not a moment later!" he said in a mock scold while wagging a finger before her nose, hoping to tease her out of her awkwardness with him.

  She returned a weak smile. "Tomorrow, then."

  She turned away once again and headed toward a group of workmen carrying huge bushels of some kind of blue flower. It was only then that Robert became aware of the remarkable transformation taking place in his ballroom. Everything, or almost everything, was blue. There were blue flowers everywhere, in quantities that were almost obscene. The walls were draped in blue satin—a shade that echoed the formal livery worn by his footmen. Even the special orchestra dais—where had that come from?—was painted blue. The effect, even in the bright light of afternoon, was extraordinary. It would be stunning in candlelight.

  A smile spread across his face as he noticed the topiaries. Dozens of fancifully trimmed box trees in, of course, blue tubs were arranged in a most ingenious pattern throughout the ballroom, creating little alcoves and surrounding screens and seating areas. It was delightful. He wondered whose clever idea this was— his grandmother's or Emily's? In any case, it was sure to be a success.

  He only wished his engagement would be as successful as his engagement ball.

  Later that evening as he dressed for the ball, Robert found himself continually distracted by thoughts of Emily and their few moments of abandon in the library last night. Regardless of how wrong he knew their embrace had been, it had felt entirely right. In fact, nothing had ever felt quite so right.

  He stood still while Luckett tied his cravat into a perfect waterfall.

  "I'll wear the diamond stickpin, Luckett. The large one that was my father's. It is, after all, a special occasion."

  Luckett cleared his throat. "I thought the sapphire pin would do best, my lord."

  "Eh?" Robert was distracted yet again by the thought of how special indeed was the occasion. How often did one spend half a fortune celebrating a betrothal to a young girl one hardly knew and couldn't seem to care for?

  "Have you seen the ballroom, my lord?" Luckett held out the sapphire pin.

  Robert took the stickpin and smiled. "Of course. You are right as always, Luckett. How would I ever get along without you?"

  "I shudder to think, my lord," the valet muttered as he turned to brush nonexistent lint off the black evening coat before holding it out so that Robert could ease into its perfect fit.

  The dinner party, attended mostly by family, went off without incident. Robert blessed his good fortune in having such a garrulous group of relatives. He hoped their boisterous repartee masked his own silent distraction.

  If only Emily hadn't looked so beautiful tonight, he might have felt less miserable. But then, she had looked beautiful in that shabby dark thing she had worn last night, so what did he expect? Tonight she was in emerald green silk shot with gold thread that shimmered enticingly as she moved. The color perfectly matched her eyes. It was a simple, unadorned dress, without fussy ornament or trimming. But the line and fabric were quite striking in an understated elegance which was sure to draw many an admiring glance. The bodice was cut lower than any dress he'd seen her wear, revealing the tops of firm, full breasts. Robert found his eyes often drawn to that golden expanse of bosom, and felt a tightness in his groin as he remembered their soft fullness pressed against his chest.

  Dear God, he must get a grip on himself. Tonight was not the night for regrets or self-pity, no matter how miserable he actually felt. He must play host to hundreds of Society's best, make them welcome and accept their good wishes. He could fall into despair later, if necessary. But tonight he must be on his best public behavior. One thing was certain: he would not dance with Emily. In fact, he would avoid her as much as possible. He would give his full attention, or at least what attention he could muster, to Augusta. This was her night, after all.

  He wrenched his eyes from Emily and turned toward Augusta, who was seated next to him. She was glaring at him with such a waspish expression that he blinked in surprise. Had his observation of Emily been so obvious? He must learn to be more prudent. He was resigned, as well as honor-bound, to go through with his commitment to Augusta. There was no sense in making it any worse by encouraging petulant jealousy. Of course, he did not believe for a minute it was jealousy that provoked Augusta, but rather his lack of attention, or, more precisely, his obvious attention to another woman. Whether jealousy or neglect, the result was the same, and he had no desire to be tied to a woman who was in a perpetual snit over his own less than circumspect behavior. He sighed deeply as he realized, yet again, how carefully he must tread now that he was to be married.

  After dinner he offered his arm to his betrothed and led her to the receiving line at the top of the stairs. He looked down at Augusta, exquisitely lovely in ice blue satin, and thought how unfair it all was for her. She deserved better than his indifference. It was almost cruel to marry this beautiful young innocent when he knew he would always love another.

  She looked up at him at that moment, and he smiled at her. She smiled back, but not with the chilly control he had come to expect. Instead she gave a thin smile full of wistful resignation. A hint of sadness flickered across her eyes before she turned to greet their first guests with her usual cool dignity.

  * * *

  Emily surveyed the ballroom with pride. The setting was glorious, and she knew she had had no small role in its creation. Rival hostesses were agog with envy over the unusual colors and clever arrangement of space. The dowager must be bursting with glee at her triumph.

  It was difficult, after having spent the day making sure everything was just so, to give herself up to the enjoyment of the ball itself. She had danced a few times already, but was more often than not preoccupied with the smooth running of the ball, although she realized the staff was well in hand and her help was no longer required.

  Emily knew in her heart that this obsession with details was simply another attempt to escape from the unwelcome thoughts of Robert that constantly threatened to distract her. It had actually worked all morning and afternoon as she kept up a frantic pace to ensure the readiness of the ballroom. She had forgotten him altogether for several hours.

  Until he had shown up and wanted to talk to her.

  Why did he press her? Couldn't he see how humiliated and embarrassed she was? Couldn't he understand her need to forget last night entirely?

  But he had said it was impossible for him to forget. Could that searing kiss have been as earth-shattering for him as it had been for her? Could he possibly care for her as much as s
he cared for him? And what if he did? He was bound to another, and there was nothing to be done.

  She caught a glimpse of him as he twirled Lady Darlington around the dance floor. He looked gloriously handsome tonight, as he always did in his stark black evening clothes. She was unconsciously watching him, admiring the seductive grace of his movements, when her mind was suddenly filled with an image of him in his shirtsleeves, his hair carelessly tousled and hanging in his eyes. She could see the taut muscles of his neck and chest, clearly visible through the open collar of his fine lawn shirt. She could feel the strength of those muscles beneath her hands, as well as the soft, curling chest hair that had tickled her fingers. She remembered the unique musky aroma of shaving oil and brandy. She could feel the warmth of his lips on hers ...

  "Miss Townsend?"

  She spun around with a start to find a young footman looking at her in question.

  "Yes, I am Miss Townsend," she replied, quickly regaining her composure. She realized the footman must be among the extra staff hired for the evening, as he was unfamiliar to her.

  "There's a gentleman, miss, wanting to speak to you, miss. He asked me to bring you to the yellow salon. Said it was most urgent."

  "Do you know the gentleman's name?" Emily asked, somewhat puzzled.

  "No, miss, he didn't tell me," the young man said, obviously flustered. "And I... I guess I forgot to ask. I'm that sorry, miss. I shoulda asked. But he was taller than me and had yellowish hair, if that helps."

  Emily smiled. "Yes, it does. I'll come with you."

  Of course, it could only be Lord Sedgewick. So, he wished to speak with her in private? It seemed a somewhat ramshackle way to go about it—sending an unknown servant to haul her off to a small room on the next floor. Perhaps he was as uneasy as she was. Indeed, Emily suddenly realized her stomach was in knots. Was this to be the expected offer at last? She had been anticipating such a proposal for the last week, was prepared for it. Why, then, was she so unexpectedly nervous?

  He could offer her a future she had long ago ceased dreaming of. Over and over she had convinced herself that she would accept him.

  But that was before she had fallen completely and irrevocably in love with Robert.

  In that instant, as she made her way to the yellow salon, she came to a decision. She would not accept Lord Sedgewick. It would not be fair to accept him when she loved someone else, regardless of the futility of that love. He was such a dear man. He deserved someone whose heart was whole—someone who did not harbor a hopeless, ridiculous passion for another man. She would decline his kind offer. It was for the best.

  She steeled herself to face him.

  "In here, miss," the footman said as they reached the yellow salon.

  "Thank you." She heard him quietly close the door behind her.

  The small room was dimly lit by only the glow of a modest fire in the grate. How odd, she thought, that no candles were lit. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she looked around for Lord Sedgewick, but saw no one.

  "My lord?"

  No one answered. Perhaps he meant to join her. She supposed she should wait a few moments. In the meantime she would light a candle or two.

  She crossed the room to stand before the fire, running her hand along the mantel as she searched for spare candles, and was suddenly and violently grabbed from behind. What the devil? As she parted her lips to scream, a foul-smelling cloth was forced over her mouth. Her arms were painfully wrenched behind her back, and a strong arm beneath her bosom held her in a vice-like grip. Even so, she twisted and kicked at her unknown assailant with all her might. But the acrid cloth was making her feel nauseous, and she began to feel faint and disoriented.

  Dear God, what was happening?

  She felt as if she were melting. Her muscles had gone limp and were no longer obeying the commands from her brain. She couldn't seem to move though she knew she should be fighting back. Her eyelids had become so strangely heavy that she could no longer keep them open. She was vaguely aware of being slowly engulfed in blackness.

  As she lost the last thread of consciousness, she thought she heard a familiar, though muffled, voice.

  "And so, Cousin, you shall avoid me no longer."

  Chapter 20

  "Ah, chérie, tonight's lobster mousse was positively divine."

  Anatole proceeded to kiss each one of Mrs. Dawson's fingers as she sat close to him on the steps outside the service entrance near the kitchen.

  "But, love," she said breathlessly as his kisses moved up her arm, "your veal tenderloins ... that Madeira sauce." She gasped as his lips moved over her shoulder to her neck. "Wonderful! Simply wonderful."

  "And your duck liver terrine," Anatole crooned as he nibbled her ear, "wrapped in puff pastry. Ahhh." He traced her ear with his tongue. "Perfection!"

  "Your saddle of lamb ..." she whispered as her lips burned a trail up his neck.

  "Your raspberry bombe ..." He sighed, kissing her throat.

  "Your mushrooms quenelles ..." She moaned, raining kisses on his face.

  "Your bavarian cream ..." He panted, hovering over her lips.

  "Hold on, love," Mrs. Dawson said abruptly, pushing him away. "What's this?"

  Anatole glared at her in frustration, breathing heavily, and then followed her gaze to the alley adjacent to the service entrance. A dark, unmarked carriage stood with its door open while a man approached, carrying what looked to be a woman wrapped in a cloak. The man had his back to them and was therefore unrecognizable. As he stopped at the open carriage door, he lifted his burden a bit higher in order to toss it onto the seat. At that moment the cloak fell away slightly, and a shimmer of gold thread on green silk was caught by the light of the moon.

  Mrs. Dawson gasped as she recognized the distinctive fabric she had seen earlier that evening when Miss Townsend had come to the kitchen to check on the last-minute preparations.

  As the man hoisted his burden into the carriage, a pale, limp arm fell free, knocking loose the hood that had covered the woman's face.

  "Mon Dieu!" Anatole sat up straight. "It is Mademoiselle Townsend!" He scrambled to his feet just as the man climbed into the carriage.

  "The North Road!" the man shouted to the coachman as he closed the door.

  The carriage sped away before Anatole could take more than a few steps. He turned to Mrs. Dawson with a look of horror. "Someone has taken away Mademoiselle Townsend," he said in a confused voice.

  "And against her will, I should think." Mrs. Dawson rose to stand next to Anatole. "She looked like she'd fainted. Or maybe she was ..." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God! You don't think—"

  "I don't know, chérie." Anatole took Mrs. Dawson in his arms. "I don't know. But we must alert his lordship, tout de suite." He planted a quick kiss on her forehead, released her, and dashed down the steps to the kitchen.

  As luck would have it, a liveried footman had just entered with a tray of empty champagne glasses. Anatole was relieved to see that it was young Freddie, one of the regular staff. "Freddie!" he shouted.

  The young man gave a start as he saw the wild-eyed Frenchman heading toward him.

  "Freddie," Anatole said as he gripped the boy's arm, "you must find Mr. Claypool and bring him to me at once!"

  "But, Monsieur Anatole," said the footman in a plaintive whine, "I'm supposed ta be—"

  "I don't care!" Anatole roared. "It is a matter of life and death!"

  The young man looked at him skeptically.

  "Miss Townsend's life or death," Anatole added dramatically. That got the boy's attention. All the staff loved Miss Townsend.

  "M-miss Townsend, sir?"

  "She is in danger, Freddie," Anatole said, his voice tight with emotion. "You must drop everything and locate Mr. Claypool. Maintenant!

  Freddie hurried out of the kitchen with a terrified look on his face.

  All activity in the kitchen had come to a stop as every member of the staff stared at Anatole in astonishment He turned around a
nd saw them all gaping at him and slammed his fist down on the nearby trestle table with a crash. "Don't stand around like idiots!" he bellowed. "Get back to work! Vite, vite, vite!'

  * * *

  Robert was standing among a group of friends—Lord Sedgewick, Jack Raeburn, Lord Lavenham, Sir John Presley, Lord Palmerston, and a few others—listening with amusement to Sir John's tale of a recent confrontation between two of his mistresses. Suddenly Robert noticed Jack signaling him to look behind him. Robert swung around and was surprised and somewhat amused to see Claypool almost collapsing in relief. The man had obviously been attempting to gain his attention discreetly, but the noise of the crowd had caused his words to go unheard. It was unthinkable for the ever proper Claypool to actually touch Robert to get his attention.

  "A word with you, if you please, my lord," the butler said in a harried tone Robert had never before heard him use.

  Robert swore under his breath and pulled Claypool slightly aside from the others. "A crisis of some kind, Claypool?"

  "Indeed, my lord." Claypool quickly imparted all the details of Emily's apparent abduction as told to him by the two chefs.

  "Emily!" Robert felt the blood drain from his face. "Oh, my God."

  Lord Sedgewick was suddenly at his side. "What is it Rob? What's happened?"

  Robert turned a stricken face to his friend and told him briefly what he'd just learned.

  "Good lord." Sedgewick, ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Who could have done such a thing? Who would want to hurt Emily?"

  "Faversham!" Robert snarled. "Or Pentwick. But probably Faversham, if my guess is correct."

  He began to make his way through the crowded ballroom, following Claypool. The ingenious placement of topiaries meant they could not take a straight path to the nearest exit but were forced to snake their way through the potted shrubs like rats in a maze. Robert sincerely hoped Claypool knew where he was going. Sedgewick was suddenly at his shoulder, hurrying along beside him.