A Scandalous Proposal (23 page)

Without another word he caught up his reins, threw himself in the saddle and rode off.

For a long while she stood like a statue gazing after him.

 

At seven the next morning she was still pacing her chamber.

Of course she could not meet him. What would be the point? She'd already refused to continue their relationship on similar terms. The fact that they might be seen in public without everyone immediately assuming her to be his mistress did not alter the essence of argument one whit.

Or did it? She'd ridden for hours in the Park yesterday before coming home, until her heart and mind were ex
hausted. Despite the foregone conclusion of her refusal, when she tried throughout the day to put aside all thought of his offer, an insidious voice kept whispering at her.

He'd never pledged love to his betrothed. He'd be breaking no vows.

Liaisons based on wealth and family connections were common among men of his rank. Love, if and when one experienced it, was often independent of marriage. As long as obligations were fulfilled, discretion was the only rule.

Was not their love as worthy, as valuable, as his commitment to his friend and family? For though she'd spent months denying it, her ungovernable passion for him in the Park and the staggering difficulty of turning her back on the joy and comfort he offered were finally forcing her to face the truth.

She loved him. Loved him completely, shared with him an immediate, wordless bond that was rare and beautiful. Did not so precious a link deserve to be cherished and preserved as much as a pledge based solely on duty and family obligation?

She'd had one love ripped from her by death. Why should she not now hold fast to the other, if doing so, as he pledged, would hurt no one?

No! She tried to shut out echoes of that seductive rationalization. They would be breaking a vow to God, if not to Andrea. Even though it meant the agony of snuffing out her newborn love, she could not do that.

But as the clock chimed three-quarters past, she went to her wardrobe and threw on her riding habit.

Evan would be gone by the time she reached the park, Emily knew. That was as well; she couldn't bear to meet him. But neither could she envision calmly descending to the breakfast parlor, chatting with Natalie about her work or the visitors her sister-in-law wished her to receive.

Within a few moments she was guiding her mare back
through the park entrance. Here, where an hour earlier he had walked and ridden, where the calm air might still hold something of the vital essence of him, she could have the solitude she craved to mourn the love she had only just acknowledged and now must live out her life denying.

If he followed through on his promise, and she had no reason to doubt the sincerity of that vow yesterday, for these few moments in the park she would be closer to him than she was fated to be for the rest of her days.

Tethering her mount to a secluded bench near where they'd walked yesterday, she sat and lifted her face to the pale sunlight. Close her eyes and she could still feel the strength of his hands lifting her from the saddle, taste the touch of him on her tongue.

For how long would the memory be so vivid? Would its inevitable fading bring increase or surcease of pain?

At least to temper the heartache of Andrew's death she could relive their happy days together, fellow adventurers rejoicing in their mutual love. Her time with Evan had always been fettered, her emotions on a checkrein, her head telling her not to acknowledge or trust a joy that must be fleeting. Never had she experienced the delight of watching his eyes brighten as she whispered her love.

Perhaps, given how it must end, that was for the best.

Despite that conclusion, tears welled under her tightly closed eyes and dripped slowly down her cheeks.

A moment later she tensed. Without having to open her eyes, she knew Evan watched her.

T
hrough a watery haze she looked up to see him standing a few feet away.

Afraid he might misinterpret her presence, she stuttered, “I c-cannot d-do it.”

He smiled slightly. “I know, sweeting.”

“Then—why are you still here?”

He shrugged. “'Twas the last place we'd been together. I couldn't seem to leave it. Why did you come?”

Her own smile wobbled badly. “'Twas the last place we'd been together.”

He sighed. “We are a pair, are we not? I'm glad you're here, if only so I can apologize. Honor could not tolerate a relationship such as that I proposed to you—not even mine. I suspect I only asked because I was so sure you'd refuse. But I should not have, and I'm sorry. You were right.”

“Right? About what?”

“Almost everything. That what I wanted has always come too easily. That I arrogantly believed I could arrange people, events, principles to suit my own convenience. Giving up what I want more than life is a sacrifice bitterer than I imagined.” He laughed shortly. “You married a hero who answered duty's every call, who didn't quail at any sacrifice,
even that of his life. 'Tis small wonder you never really loved me.”

“You're wrong, Evan,” she said softly. 'Twas little comfort perhaps, but at least she would offer it. “I did—I do love you.”

He'd been gazing off into the distance, but at that he snapped his head back. “W-what did you say?”

“You put aside your own desire to honor your commitments and fulfill your duty. Which takes as much courage as facing an enemy's guns. More perhaps, as no one will ever applaud the sacrifice. None but we two will even know of it. So I want to tell you now I don't regret the time we had together—I rejoice in it. I grieve for what cannot be. And I love you.”

He stared at her as if he could not really believe the words. At last he whispered, “Thank you.”

“I'll not see you after—”

“No. I'll contrive it so we do not encounter one another. But I will carry you forever in my heart.”

Swiftly he untied her horse's reins and held them out. Her eyes blurring once more, she reached for them, and their hands touched. He wrapped his fingers around hers and gripped them hard.

“One more favor before you go,” he said, his voice uneven.

“W-what?”

“Tell me again you love me. Say the words with my name. I want to store up the sound in my head, be able to listen to it the rest of my days. 'Tis the only thing will keep me sane.”

A hot steel band was tightening around her chest again, cutting into her flesh, constricting her lungs until she could barely draw breath. “I l-love you, Evan.”

He closed his eyes as she spoke, his jaw clenched, his
face taut, as if memorizing each syllable. He gave her a short nod.

Then in one swift movement, he pulled her up from the bench and tossed her into the saddle. Face expressionless now, he released the bridle. “Goodbye, my heart.”

Before she could drag a reply from her constricted throat, she felt the slap of his hand on her mare's flank. Felt cold wind on her wet face as the horse set off at a trot. At the turn of the carriageway, when she at last marshaled strength enough to wipe the tears from her eyes and look back, he was gone.

 

Reaching the wide expanses of Hyde Park, Evan set his stallion to a hard gallop, not slowing until the black's heaving sides and blowing breath signaled the animal was spent.

'Twas not enough, not nearly enough to exhaust his own body or subdue the misery in his heart. Dismounting to walk his winded horse, he thought of what would greet him at home. Clare, Andrea and his mama would be at breakfast, doubtless chattering of wedding details. He owed it to Andrea to enter the discussion with at least some enthusiasm. At this moment he could summon none.

Perhaps he could avoid them and slip into the library. Where the butler would have left a tray of invitations, through which he'd have to thumb, screening out those functions at which Emily was likely to appear. Hardly more appealing a prospect.

By the time his tired horse had rested, he'd decided to go instead to his office. However little he might accomplish there would have to be more satisfying than what awaited him at the town house in Portman Square.

Shortly after his arrival the sleepy orderly surprised him by announcing Lord Blackwell, Chief Officer of the Ministry, into whose august presence Evan was rarely summoned. Never had his superior visited him in his own office.

“Cheverley, good of you to respond quickly. Wasn't sure the messenger would be able to rouse you on such short notice.”

Messenger? Instantly he knew it must concern Geoffrey. Skipping an explanation of how he'd happened to arrive so early, he motioned his superior to a chair. “What is it, sir? What have you heard?”

Lord Blackwell, a lean older man with thinning, ash-gray hair, indicated Evan sit as well. “A bad business, I'm afraid. Sorry to bring ill tidings, but Geoffrey Randall was killed over in Spain a day or so ago. We've just gotten the report.”

“Killed?” Braced as Evan had been for the worst, hearing it confirmed was still a shock. “How? What happened?”

“We're not completely sure yet. He was found in a back alley in the harbor district, his throat cut.”

“Lord in heaven,” Evan muttered.

“Indeed. Randall was verifying the discrepancies in supply figures you had both noted for arms and ammunition. He feared someone at the dispersion point was siphoning off arms to sell—did you see his dispatches?”

“Yes. But his instructions were simply to gather information about who had access to or control of disbursements.”

“He must have stumbled upon more sensitive information. Information so damning that someone felt it necessary to prevent his ever bringing it home.”

First Richard, now Geoff, dutiful meticulous Geoff choking on his own blood in some filthy gutter. Rage at the war and friends it had taken shook Evan.

“Then we must find the bastards who killed him.”

“Doing so will likely illumine the supply problem as well,” Lord Blackwell agreed. “I wish to move quickly, before the murdering swine figure we've had enough time to determine what to do.”

“I've already reviewed all the files—noted quantities re
quested, who signed for deliveries, who commanded the disbursements. I have a list of names.”

“Excellent. We'll turn your information over to our field operatives. Damn, I wish we had someone familiar both with those figures and the supply operation, but I don't.” Lord Blackwell sighed. “Of course, 'tis always possible Randall ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time, but my sources say local brigands would have been more likely to have garroted than sliced him, had he stumbled upon a transfer. No, the manner of death suggests the murderer is English, someone who thought Randall might be able to identify him, someone who knows how slow and bunglingly inept the Army Department can often be. Who trusted any investigation would be so drawn out he'd have his gold and be safely back in England before it got anywhere near him. We shall just have to see that he isn't, eh, Cheverley?”

While his superior detailed headquarters' theory about Randall's murder, Evan swiftly reviewed his list. His list and the plan he'd formulated while waiting to learn Geoffrey's fate, one that would give him a chance to redeem the trust he'd broken by letting Richard go off to the army alone. And as it turned out, by sending Geoff to die.

Lord Blackwell rose, his face grimly determined. “Again, my regrets about Randall. He was a college mate of yours, was he not?”

“And a friend as well. Another moment, please, my lord.” Evan halted his superior's departure. “I already have a plan.”

“Excellent. I'll get it to our field people immediately.”

“That wasn't quite my intention—if you'll allow me?”

“Explain then, if you please.”

“Of the names on that list, the two civilians are acquaintances and the military officer I know slightly. Once your sources check their current financial situations, gaming debts
and the like, I propose you let me go there and flush out the traitor.”

“You go? 'Tis unthinkable! You've no more training for this sort of thing than Randall, and I don't need another innocent man's death on my conscience. Absolutely out of the question.”

“Hear me out, sir! If our suppositions are correct, the perpetrator would have even more reason to try to snuff me than he did Geoff. I'm a social equal, so he won't be able to fob me off as he might one of your local operatives. I can claim hospitality, stick to him like a burr on a dog, not just at the depot but for lodging, meals and entertainment. Seeing them off duty, I'll again have a better opportunity than your operatives to observe the activities and spending habits of all the suspects. And we'll let it be known I'm looking into supply irregularities—a few words dropped ‘in confidence' at any of the gentlemen's clubs here will quickly make their way abroad. My pushing an investigation much sooner than anticipated and my ability to identify him as readily as Geoff should virtually force the perpetrator to make another move. 'Tis our best hope of a quick resolution.”

Lord Blackwell grunted. “Perhaps. Also sounds like a prescription for getting your own throat cut before you're much older.”

“Not necessarily. I don't intend to act as more than bait—your experienced field people can bring him in. Have me shadowed constantly. I'm pretty good with my fives in a tight spot, and I'm confident I could hold my own till help arrived if need be.”

“And if he manages to slice you into kidney pie before the professionals can get there?”

“Sir, my friends and college mates with Wellington face danger every day. Someone is selling off the arms they need, either to brigands, or worse yet, to the French. I may not be
able to change the course of battles, but I know I could stop this. How can I stand by and do nothing?”

“Your patriotism is appreciated, Cheverley, but—”

“Please, my lord, just consider. Acquainting a professional with the details will take days at best. And you may not have available someone who can mingle socially with the suspects. My going now gives us the dual advantages of surprise and entrée. If stopping the loss of arms and solving Geoff's murder as quickly as possible are important, isn't that worth my accepting some risk?”

Lord Blackwell regarded him silently for a moment. “You've a glib tongue, I'll give you that much,” he said grudgingly. “But you're about to get leg-shackled, aren't you? Cause some speculation, you just up and leaving.”

“'Twould add fuel to the plan.”

“Perhaps, but don't you think it unfair to expose your intended to the possibility of becoming a widow before she's ever a wife?”

Since, despite his affection for Andrea, he'd found it increasingly difficult to imagine how he was going to go through with this wedding, the idea sounded rather attractive.

“Her brother was one of the friends I mentioned. Died after the battle of Orthes. I think she'd support any action that helped shorten the war that claimed her brother's life.” Doubtless a correct assertion.

Again Lord Blackwell considered him in silence. “Perhaps 'tis due to the earliness of the hour that I'd even consider this, but you're correct in assuming at the moment I have no experienced operatives available. Let me think on it and check with some acquaintances more knowledgeable than I about this sort of operation. I'll get back to you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Cheverley. Whether the ministry decides to accept your offer or not, I want you to know I feel better
about the future of this nation, knowing there are men prepared to risk so much for their country's welfare.”

If he hadn't dreaded what he must face in the safety of London almost as much as what he might risk abroad, he'd feel less guilty about Blackwell's accolade, Evan thought as his superior walked out.

 

Driven to motion, Emily paced her chamber. She could not remain hiding here, but though she'd changed to a morning gown and brushed out her windblown locks, she could not so easily set to order her disheveled mind.

Natalie would be sorting through the post, cataloging invitations and planning the next sortie in her campaign for Emily's acceptance. As Evan would be sorting through his to make plans to avoid her. 'Twas a blackly amusing parallel, if she'd had the strength for humor.

No, she didn't think she could tolerate sitting through a strategy session just now.

Riding always soothed her—but her stomach clenched at the thought. Two mornings in the Park might just have killed her love of her favorite relaxation for good.

A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” she called, trying to quell her irritation and master a sufficiently calm expression that Natalie wouldn't immediately suspect something was drastically wrong.