by Gayle Wilson
He isn’t a man, she had warned the Englishman. She had known from what she had seen in his eyes that he didn’t believe her. And so, even as Julián’s mouth moved against hers, her mind raced, frantic to find before it was too late, some way to prevent what was about to happen to him.
Chapter Three
“My lord?” the Viscount Wetherly’s batman called hesitantly.
Harry opened one bloodshot eye, briefly assessing his man’s face. He was standing in the doorway to the viscount’s bedroom, carefully out of range of whatever could be reached and thrown at him from the bed.
“Go away,” Wetherly said, closing the eye again.
He had found nothing in those open Yorkshire features to alarm him. If Sin had gotten into serious trouble, there would surely have been some hint of it in Malford’s revealing countenance.
“There’s a fishmonger in the kitchen, my lord…”
The viscount’s eyes opened again, very wide this time, despite the dull ache in the back of his skull. He should know better than to try to drink a Sinclair under the table, Harry acknowledged, even if that were the only way to guarantee he would know where to find him come morning.
“A fishmonger?” he repeated, imbuing his tone with every ounce of aristocratic outrage he could muster. “What the hell should I have to do with a fishmonger? Do I look like the cook, you bloody fool?”
“Indeed, no, my lord, but—”
“Go to hell and take your bleeding peddler with you,” Wetherly ordered. “You’re interrupting my sleep.”
There were a few blessed minutes of silence, during which the viscount tried to relax the muscles that had been tightened with his unaccustomed anger. Just as it seemed he might succeed, his man spoke again.
“He is really quite insistent, my lord. Otherwise, I should never have dreamed of awakening you. Your instructions concerning Captain Sinclair seemed so urgent, however—”
“Sin? Good God, man, have you let Sin leave the house without arousing me?”
With the question, the viscount had tried to sit up—much too quickly. The aborted maneuver reminded him of exactly how much wine he had consumed last night. And now it seemed that through the incompetence of this idiot, that valiant effort might well have been in vain.
Clutching his head with both hands to keep it from flying off his shoulders, and moving far more prudently, Harry finally achieved an upright position, sitting on the edge of the mattress. From there he glared banefully at his servant.
“Oh, no, my lord!” the batman hastened to assure him, apparently horrified that the viscount thought him so lax in his duty. “Captain Sinclair hasn’t stirred since we rolled him into bed. I looked in on him before I came to wake you.”
“Then why in perdition do you keep yammering on about him?”
Harry knew there must be some point to his batman’s actions because, despite his accusation, the man wasn’t a fool. He’d be damned, however, if he could figure out what this was about.
“Because the fishmonger’s message is for him, my lord. At least…” The servant hesitated again, seeming determined to make him beg for every scrap of information.
“What message?” Harry asked, trying to keep his attention to the problem at hand, despite his aching head and the increasingly urgent need for the chamber pot.
He eased off the edge of the bed, staggering slightly when his stockinged feet hit the floor. The room swam sickeningly until his batman rushed forward to put a steadying hand under his arm.
Wetherly shook it off impatiently, beginning to unfasten the flap on his evening britches. At the signal Malford bent, pulling the chamber pot from beneath the bed. He arranged it at the proper position, and they both waited, their silence almost respectful, as Harry relieved himself.
“A message for the man with the scarred face,” the servant said, when it seemed that objective had at last been achieved.
The viscount’s hands hesitated in the act of straightening his clothing. His eyes fastened on his valet’s face with the first glimmer of understanding.
“Are you telling me there’s a peddler downstairs with a message for…Sin.”
He had breathed the name separately, as if it had not been part of the original question. Any message intended for the man with the scarred face, Harry reasoned, would have to be for Sebastian. And a message delivered this particular morning—
“Where is he?” Harry demanded, his voice for the first time holding the authoritative tone one might expect from an officer and a gentleman.
“Still abed, my lord,” Malford said, sounding puzzled.
“Not Captain Sinclair, you idiot. The fishmonger. Where’s the bloody fishmonger?”
“In the kitchen, my lord. I’ve asked him to wait.”
“Good man,” Harry said, clapping him on the back and pushing him toward the door. “Now go back down and bring him up. And, Malford…”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Make sure that no one, especially not Captain Sinclair, sees him.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Harry sat down on the bed again, putting his head back in his hands. After a moment he spread his fingers and pushed his hair away from his eyes.
Given the mood Sin had been in after the reception last night, there was no telling how he might react to a message from the woman he’d seen there. And no telling what message she might have sent, Wetherly decided.
It would be better for all concerned if he intercepted this communication. Then, after he had the gist of it, he would be able to judge if it were one he should pass on to Sinclair. Or, and he strongly suspected this might be the case, one that should never be allowed to reach his friend.
After all, Sin wasn’t thinking straight about all this. His penchant for letting his emotions embroil him in situations his intellect had a hard time extracting him from was well-known to the viscount.
Far better, Harry decided with a nod, if he handled this himself. After all, he wasn’t emotionally involved with the chit. And knowing Sin, he had a good notion that more had gone on in that dark garden than his friend, as a gentleman, had revealed. If the girl were already seeking another meeting—
Far better left to me, he reiterated mentally. As a friend, his job was to make sure Sinclair’s recklessness didn’t get him into trouble with the Beau. Not while they were in Madrid, at any rate. Some day, when all this seeking revenge business had been forgotten, he would tell Sin what he’d done and receive his grateful thanks for keeping him out of a situation that was fraught with danger for his career.
After all, they were not only friends but fellow officers. Meeting with this woman on Sin’s behalf was nothing less than his duty.
“Tell him that I’m the scarred man’s representative,” Wetherly said to the cook. “He may speak freely to me.”
The cook began to translate, the words coming far too fast for the viscount’s very limited command of Spanish to keep up with them. Again the messenger shook his head, repeating the phrase that by now even Harry understood.
“The scar-faced man ain’t here, I tell you,” he said, speaking slowly and loudly in English as if that might help the messenger’s understanding. “I’m the best you’re going to get.”
The fishmonger’s eyes sought the cook’s, obviously waiting for a translation. Exasperated with the difficulties in making himself understood, Harry slammed both palms down on the huge wooden desk that stood in the center of his bedroom, sending a couple of pens rolling toward its edge. Wary eyes still on the viscount, the messenger managed to prevent them from falling over the edge.
“If he isn’t going to give me the message,” Harry said to the cook, “tell him he can hie himself back to whoever sent him and tell them he’s failed.”
Judging by the man’s face when the translation of that was completed, Harry thought he was finally getting through. The messenger’s complexion had seemed to gray and his eyes stretched wide and dark. His gaze traveled from the cook’s face back
to Harry’s, where it rested a moment, evaluating.
The viscount was glad he had taken time to put on his boots and uniform. Far more impressive than wrinkled knee breeches and stockinged feet. He was still wearing the underclothes he had donned before the reception last night, not that anyone in the room with him was likely to notice.
When his batman had brought the peddler up from the kitchens, he had thoughtfully brought the cook with him. If he hadn’t, given their combined lack of fluency in the language, this would have been a much slower process. However, the strong scent of fish clung to the man’s clothing, making the condition of Harry’s already queasy stomach precarious.
“What’s it to be, my good man?” Harry demanded as the silence stretched.
Without waiting for a translation of that command, the messenger’s focus returned to the impromptu translator, who listened diligently to the rapid stream of words that resulted. When they had stopped, however, he didn’t immediately provide the viscount with a translation.
“Well?” Harry asked impatiently. “What’d he say?”
“The issue is delicate, my lord.”
“Delicate?” the viscount repeated disbelievingly.
“Involving a lady,” the cook leaned forward to confide.
“I knew it,” Harry said. “What does she want?”
The cook’s eyes flicked to the fishmonger’s face before he spoke again, once more leaning forward and speaking in a near whisper. “An assignation, my lord. With the man whose face bears the scar.”
“And where is this assignation to be?”
“There is a small chapel, my lord, Iglesia Santa María de la Rosa, on the western outskirts of the city. The lady will ask permission from her guardian to attend afternoon mass there. Afterward she will walk in the cemetery to visit the grave of her father. She asks that the scar-faced man join her.”
“What time?”
“At the time of mass, my lord,” the cook said, as if that should be clear to anyone.
“And what time would that be, you idiot?”
“Ah,” the cook said. “That would be at five o’clock. The lady will wait for him in the cemetery after she has heard mass. He says it is very small and very private. No one will disturb them.”
“And the lady gave him this message herself, I suppose,” Harry asked.
A bold piece, he thought. She couldn’t possibly be as frightened of her guardian as Sin believed her to be.
Of course, considering her antics the first time Sebastian had met her and her foray into the gardens last night, Harry wasn’t surprised. Perhaps Sin couldn’t see what she was up to, but he certainly could.
Given the size of the Sinclair fortune and how the current earl felt about his brothers, Sin, though a younger son, would be quite a catch. Maybe this woman had decided to throw her lot in with a rich Englishman rather than with her ill-tempered guardian.
The ramifications of that alliance for Sin would, however, be quite beyond the pale. Wellington would never put up with it, for one thing. Sebastian’s career would be ruined, and Harry could only imagine his family’s dismay if Sin turned up in England with a Spanish adventuress in tow. He knew what his own father would have to say to that.
“She communicated it to him through her maid, he says.” The cook finished the laborious process of translating Wetherly’s question and the messenger’s answer. “This man knows the woman personally, however. There is no doubt the communication is genuine.”
“And the lady’s name?” Harry asked.
“Doña Maria del Pilar Mendoza y Aranjúez,” came the eventual reply.
“Then he may tell Doña Aranjúez,” Harry avowed, not perfectly sure of the style of Spanish titles, but soldiering on despite that minor setback, “that the appointment she seeks will be kept.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and divided the coins he found there between the two men. He had very little idea what he had given them, but since their expressions revealed nothing but pleasure, he assumed he’d done well by them. Probably too bloody well, he decided, watching them hurriedly pocket their payment.
He’d get it back, one way or another. Sin might have better luck with the ladies, but Harry usually held the upper hand at cards. And if he couldn’t retrieve his investment that way, one day he might tell Sin exactly what it had cost him to mount his rescue from this Spanish temptress’s snares. Not, of course, until they were safely home in England.
When Sebastian opened his eyes, he could tell by the slant of the sun coming into his room that the day was well advanced. It was probable that everyone else had also slept late after last night’s reception. Everyone except Wellington, of course, who would have been up at his usual hour, working on his internal reports.
The duke, however, hadn’t been party to the private drinking session that had followed the official entertainment. Only he and Harry had broached those additional bottles, and they would pay the price for it this morning, he acknowledged, easing his head back down on the pillow.
He closed his eyes, remembering the events that had precipitated that schoolboy bout of overindulgence. Of all the places he might have imagined finding the girl he had met on that riverbank, the royal palace had been the last.
Despite the fact she had spoken impeccable English, assuring that she was a member of a class much higher than the clothing she’d worn that day had indicated, he had not had the slightest premonition that he would see her at any of the entertainments they would attend in Madrid.
The sight of her crossing the ballroom last night had struck him with the force of a blow. More shocking because it was so unexpected.
He still didn’t know her full name. Only that of her guardian. And to think of her under the absolute power of that arrogant bastard…
Harry was right, he told himself, destroying the unwanted image. She was Delgado’s ward. There was nothing he could do to change that, even if she wanted him to. And she had made it very clear that she didn’t.
He wouldn’t see her again in the time they would be here. After her escapade in disappearing from the ballroom last night, her guardian would probably see to it that she was duly chastised.
The word impacted in his gut, stirring a nausea that had as much to do with the image it produced as did his overindulgence in Harry’s wine. And yet he knew that allowing himself to worry about what might have happened to her last night after she had disappeared was simply another form of self-indulgence. One he couldn’t afford.
Harry was right about that, too. No matter his quarrel with Delgado, he was here as a representative of the crown. Any attempt to seek a personal vengeance, an act which might have repercussions on the success of this mission and even on future relations between the two countries, would be little more than treason. As much as he needed the satisfaction of driving his sword through the heart of the man who had marked his face, that sweet retaliation would have to wait.
Thanks to the girl, at least he knew the bastard’s name. There would come a time, more appropriate than this, for the revenge he had sworn by the river that day. All he could do now was to exercise the patience Ian had tried so hard to instill.
At the thought of his brother, invalided out of the army two years ago and enduring his long convalescence without complaint, Sebastian opened his eyes. Despite everything, he was still a soldier. He had duties to perform. None of which involved lying abed all day licking old wounds.
In time, he vowed silently. In time, you bastard.
“Gone where?” Sebastian demanded of Harry’s batman almost three hours after he’d awakened.
He had taken time to have them send up a bath. Despite the dregs of a headache, he was feeling almost human again and sober enough to realize that a great deal of what Harry had argued last night made sense. Which was surprising, he admitted, considering the viscount’s usual inability to say anything more serious than ‘Good morning.’
He had come to Wetherly’s rooms to thank him and had found h
im gone. Although it was curious Harry hadn’t informed him of his plans to be away this afternoon, if it hadn’t been for his servant’s almost furtive behavior, Sebastian might have let it go.
After all, both he and Harry were supposed to attend a small private dinner in the duke’s honor hosted by one of the very nobles whose influence Wellington was trying to overcome. He could have given his thanks to Harry then, of course, if Malford’s secretiveness hadn’t set off alarms.
“I believe he had an errand, sir,” the man managed finally.
“What kind of errand?” Sebastian persisted.
And was rewarded with a guilty silence.
“What kind of errand?” he asked again, that warning finger of unease brushing along his spine.
“Something for the duke, I think.”
Accustomed to judging men and their words, it was obvious to Sin that the batman was lying. What wasn’t obvious was why.
“Are you telling me His Grace sent Lord Wetherly on an errand here?”
Harry had less Spanish than any other member of the staff. Despite the years they had spent in Iberia, the viscount spoke none of its languages well enough to communicate on his own. Even his French, which he had learned at his governess’s knee, was atrocious.
His lack of proficiency in languages had been the subject of a long-standing raillery among the officers. The duke, who knew everything, would almost certainly be aware of it.
“Perhaps it was a private meeting,” the batman said, and then, as Sebastian watched, his smoothly shaven cheeks reddened. “Errand,” he corrected, but of course, that had come too late.
“A meeting with whom?”
“I am sure it was not my place to inquire, Captain Sinclair.”
“And Lord Wetherly didn’t volunteer the information.”
“Alas, no, he did not. I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help—”