by Cheryl Bolen
“They make a lovely couple, do they not?” asked the Duchess of Glastonbury, who had come to stand beside him and followed his gaze.
He glared down his nose at the beautiful redhead. “To whom are you referring?”
“To your wife and Warwick, of course. Even as a young girl Lady Fiona was mad for him, and I think he was mad for her, but since he had no hope of inheriting a fortune and title—at that time—he merely worshiped her from a distance. I always thought they would spend their lives together.”
As did everyone else in the ton. Nick tensed. “Then it’s my good fortune that Warwick has found love and fatherhood with another woman.”
“I thought he had,” she said, still staring at the couple swirling across the dance floor, “until I saw him with Fiona again tonight.”
Nick’s thoughts exactly. He had often wondered how Warwick could ever have preferred another over Fiona. “Surely you realize they have been lifelong friends,” he said. “It’s not like my wife to turn her back on old friends.”
“Of course you’re right,” said the duchess, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Lady Fiona is one of the dearest people I know.” She lowered her long lashes, “Forgive my boldness, Mr. Birmingham, but I should love to waltz with you. I adore waltzing with tall men. You know my Glastonbury is exceedingly short.”
And absent. Nick could not bloody well refuse this brazen woman.
“I’ve never seen you more radiant,” Lord Warwick said to Fiona as he smiled down at her, their hands clasped, his other hand at her waist as they executed the steps to the waltz.
“That’s because I’ve never been happier.”
“I wished to thank you for telling my wife your observations about ‘fate.’ You’ve greatly relieved my conscience.”
She gave a little laugh. “I knew the minute I saw you with your countess that she—not I—was your fate. I’ll admit that at the time it was painful for me. But now I can truthfully tell you I’ve never been happier. Nick may not be high born, but out of all the men on earth, there’s not one better suited for me.”
Warwick nodded. “He’s a good man. You’ve done well for yourself, Fiona.”
“It’s not just the money, you know.”
“I do know.”
As she watched Nick sailing across the dance floor with the Duchess of Glastonbury, she stiffened. They were smiling and laughing with one another. Fiona did not at all like to see her husband with her old friend. Hortense was not only a noted flirt, but she also was known to bestow her sexual favors indiscriminately.
And if Fiona wasn’t mistaken, Hortense had set her cap for Nick.
Chapter 20
The morning mist had lifted, the sun rose higher in the gray skies, and still she had not come. This was the second morning Randolph had waited for her, the second day she had not come. As each new rider entered the park, he would look up hopefully, anxious to see her scarlet riding habit, but each time nothing but disappointment greeted him.
At first he worried that something had happened to her. After all, in five weeks she had not missed a single morning ride. Until now. Had she taken ill? Then, remembering the topple from her mount, his gut clenched. He feared she had suffered injuries during the fall from her horse. He cursed himself for not more closely examining her after she had taken the spill.
Then his mind would race on and he would wonder if she might have lied to him. Perhaps she really was married. Perhaps her husband found out about their meeting and intervened. But why, he asked himself, had she concocted the story about her come-out if she was married? Cursing himself for doubting her honesty, he knew she was an innocent. She had told him the truth. She was a maiden up from the country for her come-out.
He racked his brain, trying to determine if he had said something that might have repulsed her. He’d said nothing that was not utterly complimentary. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she did not like to be praised by a strange man.
His ardent interest in her obviously was not returned. Was her absence her way of rebuking his overtures?
Looking back on their meeting two mornings ago, he wished he had done everything differently. Why had he not asked her name? Why had he not discovered where she lived? He felt like a man who’d come away empty handed from a gold mine.
No woman had ever affected him so profoundly as the elegant woman in red. Not even the countess. There was something about the dark beauty that had dazzled him, something besides her stunning beauty. She was so utterly elegant, her movements on the horse so fluid. He had never before gazed into eyes as dark or as mesmerizing as hers. When they had finally met, she was all he could ever want and more. Her voice was lovely and cultured. Her graceful figure smoothly rounded in the right places. She possessed a sense of humor.
With an acceleration in his breath, he recalled how intoxicated he felt when she had slipped her arm around his waist and had taken those first few steps after her fall. He had never before been so flooded with a sense of protectiveness, never been so close to a more desirable woman.
And now he was left with nothing.
Even though he knew how fruitless it was to wait for her, he could not stop coming here each morning. He would come every day with the hope that she would come again.
Fiona was seated at the gilded French writing desk in her study when Biddles knocked on the door. “You have a caller, madame.”
No doubt it was another young man bearing posies for Verity. With her beauty and fortune, Verity Birmingham had not lacked for suitors. A pity none of the men appealed to her. “Who, Biddles?” Fiona asked, setting down her plume.
“The Duchess of Glastonbury.”
“Show her to the saloon. I shall be right down.” Truth be told, Fiona was out of charity with Hortense. The woman—who was far too pretty—had positively thrown herself at Nick last night at Almack’s.
But when Fiona strolled into the saloon a few minutes later, she concealed her displeasure. “How nice of you to call,” she told the duchess as she came to sit on a silken settee, her gaze taking in the duchess’s lovely peach gown. And generous bosom.
“Where is Mr. Birmingham today?” the duchess demanded.
She could at least have had the decency to wait before acknowledging her true reason for coming today! “My husband,” Fiona said with emphasis, “never misses a session at the Exchange.”
“I had quite forgotten. He’s known as The Fox of the ’Change, is he not?”
Nodding, Fiona beamed with pride. “He’s terribly clever about money and such.”
Hortense’s gaze whisked over the tiny grid on the specially loomed emerald and gold carpet and along the freshly painted white columns that soared to the trompe l’oeil ceiling that gave the illusion of being a dome. “He certainly knows how to spend his money, too. Menger House is positively stunning.”
Biddles appeared with a tea tray.
“Tea?” Fiona asked.
“Yes, please.”
Fiona poured the tea into two delicate porcelain cups and handed one to the duchess.
“You must tell me how you met your husband,” Hortense said.
The woman’s an open book! “Actually, my brother introduced me to him some time ago. They were at Cambridge together, you know.”
“I didn’t know Birmingham and Agar were friends.”
“Oh, they’re not.” Fiona took a sip, not deigning to elaborate.
“Then however did you manage to snare the handsome Mr. Birmingham?”
He is handsome. And he’s mine. “Our paths crossed again in December, and a . . . spark ignited.” Which was something close to the truth.
A devilish look on her face, the duchess said, “He could light my spark any time.”
Bristling, Fiona shot her old friend a brazenly chilly glance. “The only spark I should like him to light is mine.” She felt like a cat marking her territory.
The duchess shrugged. “I would imagine he’s wonderful in the bedchamber.”
Fiona met h
er gaze boldly. “He is, but we must cease this conversation at once. Miss Birmingham’s expected to step into the room at any moment, and we need to be cognizant of her maidenly sensibilities.”
Before Hortense could answer, Verity joined them and came to sit beside Fiona.
“You look a great deal like your brother,” Hortense told Verity.
Verity rolled her eyes. “Exactly what a lady does not wish to hear.”
“But your brother is extraordinarily handsome,” Hortense said. “And you share his best features: his leanness, his high cheekbones, his piercing eyes, and the olive complexion.”
Hortense took entirely too thorough notice of Nick. “I’m told I look a great deal like my elder brother, too,” Fiona said, “which I find exceedingly offensive, given that he’s quite a large, muscular fellow.”
The duchess directed her attention to Verity. “I daresay the only thing Lady Fiona has in common with her brother is their coloring—the blue eyes and blond hair. Have you met Lord Agar?”
“I haven’t had that pleasure,” Verity said.
Fiona shrugged. “Randy’s become the hermit since his return from The Peninsula.”
“Yes, I’ve heard he’s even let Agar House.”
“I thought that was quite clever of him, considering how large it is for just one inhabitant,” Fiona said.
“I wonder what he’s doing with himself. He’s not even been to Almack’s,” the duchess said. “He will be at Miss Birmingham’s and Miss Peabody’s come-out ball, won’t he?”
Fiona stiffened. How would it look if Randy stayed away? His absence would underscore his disapproval of Nick. For Nick’s sake, Randy must come. “Yes, I suppose he will.” She was not about to acknowledge the rift between Randy and her to the biggest gossip in London.
The door to the saloon burst open, and Emmie, her long hair flowing behind her, rushed in, an exasperated Miss Beckham on her heels. “My Lady!” Emmie shrieked. “I fell down, and my lovely white muff got all dirty.”
“Come here and let me see,” Fiona said, hooking an arm around the little girl’s shoulders as she examined it. “Don’t worry, pet, it’ll wash off,” Fiona said. “Remember the fur used to be on an animal, and they’re always frolicking in the mud, but the rains come and bathe them, making them clean again.”
“I’m ever so glad,” Emmie said with a sigh, restuffing her little hands into the muff.
“Come along, Miss Emmie,” Miss Beckham said sternly. “Your stepmother has important visitors.”
After Emmie left, Hortense scowled at Fiona. “Stepmother? Surely . . . surely you don’t allow that bastard to live here with you?”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “That ‘bastard’ is my daughter, and I shall ask that you not malign her with such a description.”
Verity’s brown eyes sparkled as she flicked a smile at Fiona, then faced the duchess. “And that child is my niece. A lovely little girl, don’t you think?”
Hortense looked stunned as she nodded.
Later that day Fiona paid a visit to Lord Warwick’s offices in Whitehall. She was pleased that after more than a year of estrangement they could now resume their old friendship, comfortable that the relationship was just that: friendship. Nothing more.
Smiling, Warwick got up from his desk and greeted Fiona. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She held out her hand while he brushed his lips over it. “I was hoping you could tell me Randy’s direction.” If anyone knew where Randy was staying, it would be Warwick. They were lifelong friends.
“He’s got lodgings on Marylebone.” Warwick picked up his pen and wrote down the number, than handed it to her. “He’s certainly a changed man since his return from The Peninsula.”
She nodded. “I’m hoping he won’t be so much the hermit that he misses Miss Peabody’s and Miss Birmingham’s come-out next month.”
He scowled. “He needs to be there. For your husband’s sake.”
Warwick understands. She nodded. “I must apologize for keeping you from your important work.” She waved the slip of paper. “This was all I needed from you.”
“I’m never too busy for an old friend.” He offered his arm. “Allow me to walk you to your carriage. It’s devilishly difficult to find one’s way back to the entrance in this maze of corridors.”
The Birmingham couriers delivered a communication from William as Nick was leaving his offices that day. He was hungry to get home, to see Fiona. All day long he had tortured himself by picturing how she had looked waltzing in Warwick’s arms at Almack’s the night before. Nick needed to feel her in his own arms, needed to hear the little whimper in her throat his kisses always elicited, needed to assure himself she wanted him as fiercely as he wanted her.
He tucked William’s letter into his pocket to read during the coach ride back to Menger House.
In the carriage he quickly deciphered the code the letter was written in. William had been making the rounds of the major German cities, buying up francs, and was now on his way to Naples. He asked that Nick arrange a transfer of money to him from their man of business in Naples in order for him to deplete the Neapolitan coffers of francs.
Nick would see to that first thing in the morning. Tucking the letter back into his pocket, he settled back against the squabs of his luxurious carriage and leisurely looked out the window. Then his spine went rigid, his eyes narrowing. If he was not mistaken, his wife’s carriage was parked just a few yards away. What could she possibly be doing here in the Whitehall area?
Then he saw her. Her arm tucked into Warwick’s, she smiled and laughed up into the earl’s face.
Suddenly everything became so clear to Nick. Warwick did regret that he had not married Fiona.
And now Nick’s wife was to be Warwick’s lover.
Chapter 21
Nick would have to meet with Warwick that night to apprise him of his brother’s success in Germany, but after seeing the earl with Fiona that afternoon, Nick was not sure he could even be civil to the man. The only thing Nick was sure of right now was his desire to run his sword through the foreign secretary.
For the sake of king and crown, though, Nick would set aside his personal dislikes.
After discreetly sending a note around to Warwick, Nick informed his wife he would not be taking dinner with her.
He tried not be affected by the forlorn look that crossed her face. “Why?” she asked, wide solemn blue eyes gazing up at him.
“Something’s come up. Business.”
He braced himself not to be affected by the hurt look on her face. If she could stealthily meet with Warwick, she did not deserve his sympathy.
“But . . . Adam will be here. And Trevor, too. Could you not have told me earlier?”
He gave her an icy glare. “As a matter of fact, I could not. The important matter that calls me away has only just come up.”
She started to say something, then clamped shut her mouth.
That she had wanted to question him, he did not doubt. Fortunately, she was an obedient wife, complying with his request that they never discuss his business.
A pity she could not be so obliging in other matters. A pity Warwick had snared her heart before Nick ever got the opportunity to. Were it not for Warwick, Nick was certain he and Fiona would have suited very well.
Would have? His hands fisted, he cursed under his breath. He and Fiona did suit. Dammit! She was the most passionate lover he’d ever known. She was good to Emmie and to Verity, and solicitous of Nick’s every need. So why could Nick not be grateful for all she had given him?
Because, he admitted ruefully to himself, he would never be content until he possessed her completely, body and soul.
Her brows lowered as she scanned his hardened face. “What’s the matter, dearest? You’re not yourself. You’re angry.”
How could she call him dearest when she had just come from her lover? “It’s nothing,” he snapped, storming from the house.
He had asked Warwick to meet
him at a public house in out-of-the-way Hampstead, where Nick waited for some time, sipping his ale in the dark, firelit room before the foreign secretary finally arrived.
“It’s rather difficult to extricate oneself from one’s prying wife,” Warwick explained as he came to sit beside Nick, “when the secretive nature of our business cannot be revealed. But I suppose you know all about that—being a married man yourself.”
“A married man who values honesty and fidelity in a marriage,” Nick said, scowling.
Warwick gave him a puzzled glance. “Another matter on which we are in agreement, then.” Warwick relaxed. “I take it you’ve had some communication from your brother?”
“I have,” Nick said in an icy voice. “He’s depleted the major German cities of francs.”
“I thought he must have.” Warwick nodded. “My contacts in Paris tell me the French minister of finance is becoming nervous.”
Nick gave a sly grin. “And this is only the beginning. In two months—if our plan succeeds—they will be frantic.” He paused, giving Warwick a quizzing look. “Do you think they suspect your hand in this?”
“All they know is that the Birmingham family is trying to manipulate the French currency. To my knowledge, they’ve made no connection between you and the English government.” Warwick frowned. “I would advise you and your brothers to exercise caution. There’s the possibility French assassins may wish to put a stop to your ‘activities.’”
Nick raised a brow. “My brother William is well guarded at all times.” That he or Adam would be in danger had not crossed Nick’s mind until now, but he quickly realized Warwick was right to warn him. Adam, too, needed to be apprised of the danger.
“Yes,” Warwick said, “I suppose he would have to be well guarded—carrying around such vast amounts of money.”
A moment later the foreign secretary said, “I feel obligated to ensure your family’s safety. Perhaps I should assign Horse Guards to protect you, your brother, and your wife. They will, of course, not be in uniform.”