Samuel wondered what his characters got up to when he wasn’t struggling to capture his glimpses into their lives on paper. What if Juliette actually loved both men? The public would not forgive her. It would seem to be a betrayal of her sex. What if she left them both for a character whom Samuel hadn’t yet invented? Was Wickbury going to rush into that bedroom at the last minute to save her from the wizard’s ravishment?
What if Wickbury burst in and discovered that Juliette . . .
He heard a carriage roll up outside. The wheels splashed over wet cobbles. Rain. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky last night. Had Lily’s parents already discussed his proposal of courtship and sent their response? That was fast. He thought it was a good sign. Presumably one’s daughter did not land a duke every day. He had to hope that they were swayed enough by his title to ignore his scurrilous press.
A soft rap sounded at the door. “Yes. Come in. Come in.”
It was his butler, escorting an erect-shouldered gentleman in a short wool cape into the room. “Coffee and breakfast, Your Grace?”
“Nothing for me,” the solicitor said, removing a paper from his leather portfolio. His eyes evaded Samuel’s. Right away Samuel guessed that something was wrong.
“That’s a gossip sheet,” he said in contempt. “Please don’t tell me Lily’s parents produced that when you explained my intentions. And if so, I trust you defended me.”
“I did not meet her family, Your Grace.”
Samuel’s eyes blazed. “What?”
“I drew up the papers. They required deep thought. I had to research and contemplate—”
“Do you require my signature?”
“No, Your Grace,” the solicitor said heavily. “Before we proceed, I think you ought to read the morning’s edition.”
“I am not interested in what some arsehole has printed about me now. Especially when I’m probably the arsehole who wrote it in the first place.”
“Your Grace, please.”
Samuel snorted, taking the paper to the window to read the rain-smeared print. He skipped over the description of Lord Philbert’s literary masquerade, the list of famous guests, their reaction to the garden tour. He read only a few lines of “Gravenhurst’s Latest Conquests.” As usual it contained an inaccurate mishmash of his association with politicians and prostitutes.
But then a name mentioned in the final paragraph describing the masquerade gripped his attention.
Even the threat of rain did not dampen one couple’s romantic intentions. After a chilly boat ride and sumptuous breakfast, Captain Jonathan Grace of Derbyshire announced that he and his beautiful if bedraggled princess, Miss Lily Boscastle, a country relation of the London line, would be married in a month in the private Park Lane chapel of Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft.
The editors of this piece wish to congratulate the handsome couple, even if we are a little disappointed that the season will pass without another Boscastle scandal to divert us.
“What a chowderhead I was,” Samuel muttered. “She eclipsed every other lady at the party. Her eyes glowed with magic, like a genie’s lamp. I should have bloody well realized that she was glowing for another master.”
The solicitor looked embarrassed. “A lady is hardly a lamp, Your Grace, though one could argue that they often refuse to light one moment and flare like a comet in the next.”
“True enough,” Samuel murmured, walking back to his desk.
“A masquerade is meant to deceive. We play a game for a few hours. We become who we wish to be or who we hope to hide during our common hours. Take Your Grace, for example. You are not Don Quixote, for all your creative powers. You lean to the whimsical, it is true, but I am thankful I’ve never seen you tilt at windmills.”
Until now, he meant to say.
Samuel frowned. “I’m all right, sir. I will survive a rejection.”
“Your Grace has his pick of more ladies than any gentleman I know. And Lord Anonymous double that. Together, well, you are a man to be envied.”
“Yes.” He stared down at the page he’d written, slipping on a pair of spectacles that instantly settled against the bump on his aquiline nose.
“What a load of shit,” he said.
“Time will heal the small wound to Your Grace’s heart. You will meet another lady. Indeed, you cannot avoid them.”
“I was talking about the last chapter that is due by noon today, not your heartwarming speech.”
“That’s the spirit,” the solicitor said. “Work will make you forget Miss . . . I can’t even remember her name myself. Needless to say, I did not want to approach her family before consulting you. There would be legalities involved in breaking her engagement. The embarrassment of a breach-of-promise suit. I assume you do not wish to pursue her under these circumstances. Shall I have these contracts destroyed?”
Samuel looked up in astonishment, laughing quietly. “Why lose all that dedicated work? You never know when it might come in useful. I am, as everyone tells me, in need of a wife.”
The solicitor’s eyes widened in horror. “Your Grace is not contemplating stealing a bride, a Boscastle bride, from her family chapel? In Mayfair? These are not medieval days, when a duke has the right to—”
Samuel cut him off. “Do I seem like a man capable of abducting a bride?”
“I don’t think I have ever done much study on the subject. But I am afraid to say—”
“Keep the documents with my others. And keep an eye, a close eye, on Miss Boscastle’s affairs while I am away. I wish to be apprised of every detail of her life. If that means hiring an investigator, a Fleet Street informant, or a St. Giles tough, then do so. I will pay.”
“You are returning to Dartmoor?”
“Of course. I need quiet to work.”
“Your Grace really has finished Wickbury then?” the solicitor cautiously inquired, clearly eager to change the subject. And to escape. From the corner of his eye Samuel saw him rise and sidle to the door.
“Do you know what I’m going to do with the book?” he asked idly.
“Do not burn it, Your Grace. I beg you. Philbert begs you. Your creditors beg you. Talk to him first.”
Samuel smiled dryly. “I am merely changing the hero into the villain, and vice versa.”
The solicitor stared. “What about Lady Juliette?”
“Her fate is still in my hands.”
He swallowed. “Well, let those hands be kind. She is a controversial but widely admired character. My daughter is very fond of her. We do not want to upset the little princess.”
“Didn’t she turn thirty last month?”
“Twenty-nine, Your Grace. And still looking for her prince.”
“Ah. Well, good day, sir. I shall expect a regular report.”
“I can’t imagine why,” the solicitor muttered, bowing before he made a hurried exit.
Neither could Samuel.
It was just one of the feelings he followed, the intuition that drove him, and he understood it no better than anyone else. Was it possible to plot a path to the altar as carefully as he did a novel? An obstacle in the beginning. Victory in the last chapter. Passion burning up the pages. Wasn’t it always the middle of the story, the overcoming, that gave the author a fit?
No matter.
Samuel was going to finish his book and deliver it to Philbert before another day passed.
Lord Philbert had just settled in bed with a cigar and glass of port, as oblivious to his wife’s complaints as he was to the rain slashing at the windows. A bad-tempered spaniel snuggled between them. He had locked the bedchamber door to ensure that none of his three grandchildren could burst in to ruin a heart-stopping climax.
A fictional one, that was.
Lord Philbert was reading the long-awaited last chapter of the seventh Wickbury book. His wife was reading the morning paper, commenting on one indiscretion or another, until he finally put down the manuscript and looked at her. Neither of them had slept since t
he party.
“Do you mind?” he asked in annoyance.
“Not at all,” she said, peering at the manuscript on his lap. “It’s very good.”
His brow shot up. “How do you know?”
“I read it as soon as it arrived.” She smiled knowingly at him over her paper. “It’s the best ending he’s written, utterly depraved and brilliantly inspired. I never saw it coming. I never dreamt that Sir Renwick would—”
Her voice droned on. He didn’t listen to another word. He put out his cigar and read the final page. In fact, he read it five times over until he realized it wasn’t going to change. Then he closed his eyes and clutched his head in his hands. The manuscript spilled across the bed.
“Dear God. Dear, dear God. We are ruined. What has come over him? I think he’s gone mad.”
“Mad or not,” his wife said with a deep sigh, “he’s a lovely man.”
“The villain is not allowed to win in the end. It’s against the rules. Lady Juliette cannot give herself to a wizard just because he waves his wand at her.”
His wife yawned, sent him a disparaging look, and thumped onto her side. “I’d have given myself to him from the start if he had asked. They don’t call him Longwand for nothing.”
“Longwand,” Philbert muttered in contempt. “I should never have allowed that offensive title to slip past my eye in the first place.”
“You let Wickbury’s Broadsword slip in, too,” she reminded him.
“It’s all well and good for him to hide behind anonymity. He could make me the laughingstock of the publishing world.”
“He’s made you rich, Aramis. Do not tell me you are ashamed of his work. I shall not stand for it.”
“I never said anything of the sort.” He blew out a loud breath, then took another. “The series cannot end like this—that is all. He will have to redo the entire chapter.”
Lady Philbert snorted into her pillow. “Says who? I don’t want to read the same story over and over.”
“Lady Juliette promised to marry Wickbury, you silly—”
She sat up. He shut up.
“Unlike your wife, Gravenhurst can put all the characters he has created out of their misery,” she said pleasantly. “Do remember what Lord Anonymous warns us in all his author’s notes: ‘Read as late into the night as you like. But snuff out the candles before you go to sleep. We would not want you to wake up dead.’ ”
Chapter 13
Her wedding day drew nearer, and Lily was swept by her female relatives into her nuptial plans. Her family arrived from Derbyshire, her mother, father, and brother sharing the strangers’ suite at Dominic’s town house. She was disappointed that her good-hearted German great-aunt, who shared her fondness for fairy stories, felt too rheumatic to attend the ceremony.
Lily’s bridal gown had been designed by the Marchioness of Sedgecroft’s French dressmaker, and she almost died when she saw the bill. Its pearl-encrusted cream brocade lace weighed Lily down like a coat of armor. The heart-shaped white silk bodice exposed much more of her bosom than the fashion plate had shown.
“You won’t be able to run from your husband on your wedding night even if you want to,” Chloe remarked, sitting at the dressing table while seamstresses, cousins, and two lady’s maids discussed the proportion of Lily’s veil to her bridal train and the height of her white silk heels.
“Two weeks,” Chloe said with a delighted grin. “Everyone is coming for the wedding, Lily. Even relatives I don’t know. Wait until you meet my sister Emma, though. She’s the commander-in-chief of weddings. She won’t let you eat a prawn without permission.”
“I hope she isn’t arriving tonight.” Lily twisted around at the waist, eliciting cries of protest from the circle of apprentices adjusting her hem so that only an enticing wedge of heel showed. “Lord Kirkham and his stepmother are taking Jonathan and me to a play tonight.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t his stepmother the same age as you?”
“I’ve never asked. Does it matter?”
“Only to a play?”
Lily suddenly noticed that the entire room had grown still. “Would you like to come?” she asked, hoping that Chloe would refuse.
Which she did.
And Lily would later wonder how different everything would have been if she hadn’t accepted the invitation. If she had stayed home, immersed in her wedding plans, secretly reading the papers for word of the enigmatic duke whose lilies had graced her bed stand until a few days ago.
He had not contacted her again.
No love notes.
No wicked invitations that she would have to refuse.
She still pretended, of course, to have no idea who had sent the lavish bouquet.
The newspapers had reported that Gravenhurst had been spotted strolling through Vauxhall Gardens the night after the literary masquerade. A gorgeous courtesan had been clinging to one arm; a scandalous young baroness claimed the other. So Lily decided that his floral arrangement meant nothing more than that he was open to an arrangement of another sort, and it was up to her to agree. It was her own fault for appearing fast. She had engaged in a dalliance with an unabashed rogue. Did she expect him to invite her to the library to read classic literature with his grandmother?
She wished she could forget him entirely. She would eventually. He had been her first foray into the forbidden, and her last.
She lived a charmed life.
But it was a full life, so full, in fact, that she could not pay attention to the play later that same night. Lady Kirkham whispered throughout the entire first act, pointing out the guests in various boxes and recounting gossip about their personal affairs. Soon Lily caught herself looking for a familiar hollow-cheeked face and a mouth sculpted into a sinful smile.
He was not there.
He was probably in another woman’s bed, the beautiful scoundrel.
How irrational to expect, to hope, that he would follow her around London when she had not been given a name to thank him for his flowers. She supposed she should be grateful for his discretion. At least their names had not been linked in the scandal rags.
What would she do if she encountered him tonight? The proper thing would be to give him passing recognition, and nothing more.
Where was he? Why did she allow him to intrude on her thoughts?
She put him out of her mind. Again.
Jonathan seemed to sense she wasn’t herself. He held her hand throughout the performance, and stayed at her side as they squeezed through the vestibule afterward and waited for Lady Kirkham’s outmoded coach to be brought around.
“It’s too early to go home,” the lady’s stepson, Quentin, announced, stretching his arms over his head. In evening attire he was a pleasant-looking gentleman, but too full of himself for Lily’s tastes. Still, he had carried Jonathan to safety through mud and cannon fire at Waterloo. Even Lily understood that favors incurred during the war must never be forgotten. She did wonder, though, how many times Jonathan would feel obligated to repay that debt.
As the coach rolled up, Quentin said unexpectedly, “Let’s take the ladies to Vauxhall.”
His young brunette stepmother made a face. “Not under my watch.”
“Nor mine.” Jonathan put his arm around Lily’s waist. Her protector.
Quentin gave him a mocking look. “Don’t you want to take a dark walk together? Or dance? This will be your last chance as lovers. In a month you’ll be begging to be let off the leash.”
“Someone ought to tighten yours,” his stepmother said with a false smile. “We do not wish to go, Quentin. Leave it at that.”
Lily restrained herself from adding that she had already walked through one pleasure garden and did not care to taint that memory by meeting the duke with another woman, or women, in his arms. To her relief, Jonathan refused to agree, and Lily decided as he helped her into the coach that he was the finest man a woman could marry.
As the coach pulled from the lane, Quentin casually sug
gested that the four of them drop in on a small party in Piccadilly. Lady Kirkham started to protest, then shrugged. “A half hour at most. I do not care for affairs to which I have not been properly invited.”
The party turned out to be a drunken revel, attended by knaves and half-world women who so offended Lady Kirkham’s sensibilities that she insisted the four of them leave the party immediately.
Lily was relieved, and so, she thought, was Jonathan. Neither of them cared for boisterous affairs. They would both rather sit by a country fire, sipping sherry and telling ghost stories with good friends, than mingle with strangers, several of whom appeared to know Quentin Kirkham well. One of them nodded almost imperceptibly at Jonathan in recognition.
“Do you know him?” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Never mind. Don’t look his way.”
“Go with her ladyship,” Jonathan said in an odd voice. “I’ll walk behind to make sure Quentin doesn’t get into trouble.”
Lady Kirkham hastened to the coach, not even pretending to be pleasant anymore. “Hurry up, Lily,” she urged over her shoulder. “This is not a neighborhood where decent people should be seen.”
Lily hesitated, glancing back. At the corner Jonathan and Quentin appeared to be having one of their frequent disagreements. Their voices rose. The street wasn’t well lit, and she suddenly noticed a cloaked man emerging from the narrow alleyway to their left. Lily hadn’t seen him at the party. But he moved in a quick, furtive way that sent a flash of unease through her.
“Jonathan,” she implored softly, “please, let’s go. It’s dark and dirty.”
Lady Kirkham was getting into the coach, the single footman assisting her. Lily decided to join her when she heard the cloaked man calling Jonathan by name. Jonathan glanced around, his tall frame tensing.
“Jonathan,” she said again.
He glanced at her in concern. “Get into the coach. Now.”
She shook her head, certain she’d misunderstood. Quentin had turned to the stranger to exchange words. She made out only enough to guess that it was a hostile confrontation. And that the three men knew one another somehow. From the infantry? Too much of a coincidence.
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