A Scandalous Proposal (11 page)

“Well, that's too bad,” Rigby said. “I rather promised Clarice I'd have news for her tomorrow when I pay my daily morning visit to Grosvenor Square. She's particularly interested in those several hours you just mentioned.”

“Ah, the beauteous and finely dimpled Miss Clarice Goodfellow, soon to be Lady Clarice Rigby, your blushing bride. It occurs to me that I'm the only one of us left.”

“Left for what, Darby?”

“Left unattached, Rigby. How badly has infatuation fuddled your brain?”

It took a moment for Coop to digest Darby's initial remark, as he was still attempting to conjure up a mental picture of the person he'd seen in the alleyway. “What? How would you be the only one left?”

“You're engaged to Miss Foster, Coop,” Darby pointed out, shaking his head. “How soon they forget.”

Rigby's shout of laughter did nothing to make Coop feel any better. “It's so immensely gratifying to see you're both amused. I've left her with the option of tossing me out on my ear once all this is over.”

“Dare I say she's being a really good sport about ‘all this'?”

“Yes, Darby, you could. Although there'll be no decision to make if I can't stop the blackmailer before he publishes. She'd have every reason to cry off, and everyone's sympathy, to boot.”

“Now, Rigby, why do you suppose I'm suddenly wondering if our friend here is more upset about the prospect of Miss Foster crying off than he is being of exposed as a— Damn, Coop, couldn't you tell us something? Just one small
something
?”

“May I remind you that I'm sworn to secrecy?”

“From
us
?
We who are selflessly flinging our lives on the line for you? Oh, shame, Cooper, shame,” Rigby said, and then winked.

“Tell you what,” Coop said, considering the thing. “Ask me questions. I'll answer yes or no. Three questions, and that's all. Agreed?”

“That seems fair, doesn't it, Darby? All right, here we go. I'll go first. Coop, what's the gel's name?”

“Oh, for the love of—Rigby, pour yourself another drink, and allow me to handle this. Here we go, question one. Is the woman important?”

“And that's better than I could do? Haven't you read the chapbooks? Of course the woman is important. She's the whole reason we're here. Don't let him answer—ask another question. A better question.”

“I'll stick with this one if you don't mind. Coop? Is the woman important?”

Leave it to Darby to see past the obvious. “Not in herself, no.”

“No?”

“No, Rigby,” Coop repeated.

“Hmm, I had wondered, but I will admit your answer comes as a small shock. All right, let's try this one. Is there a signet ring?”

“No. And you'll have to do better than that if you're attempting to appear brilliant. Miss Foster already deduced as much.”

“Are you at all romantically interested in Miss Foster?”

“Rigby, for God's sake, you're asking that as our third question?”

“I rather had to,” Rigby said sheepishly. “Clarice made it quite clear that I was to report back to both her and the duchess. In some detail. Oh, by the by, the duchess believes Miss Foster is full to the brim with spunk. Her Grace admires spunk. The duke was just pleased that he spied a fellow hawking meat pies on the corner when they left the chapel.”

With Gabe and his Thea out of town, Rigby's betrothed—formerly maid to Thea but now Miss Clarice Goodfellow of the Virginia Goodfellows—was camping with the Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, and would until her wedding. Which was rather the same as saying Rigby had all but taken up residence in Grosvenor Square, as he couldn't seem to exist for more than a few hours without breathing the same air as his beloved.

“Go again, Darby. I won't count that question against you.”

“I suppose that's sporting of you,” Rigby admitted. “Although it does me no good. I suppose I'll just have to make something up on my own. Even if I can't see why you won't answer.”

“Not won't, can't. I don't know the young lady even twenty-four hours. Nobody knows such things in less than a day.”
And now he was lying to his friends.

“Yes, they do. I took one look at Miss Frobisher and knew I couldn't care for her romantically if someone held a pistol to my head. You remember her, don't you, Darby? The one my aunt was pushing on me a few Seasons back? Stands to reason that if you can tell who you don't want in an instant, it's just as simple to know who you do want. Look at Clarice. I took one look. Saw one smile. And here I am, soon to be a happily married man. Now will you answer, Cooper?”

“Once again, Rigby,
no
.”

But the man wasn't about to give up. This, Coop quickly decided, was another strike against marriage; it made fools out of formerly intelligent males. “No, you won't answer? Or no, you're not interested? Clarice will ask, you know, and the duchess, as well. You could have a little pity for a man having to face those two in the morning.”

“Consider yourself pitied. You have one more question. You might want to make it a good one. Darby?”

“Give me a moment, friend, if you please. The woman isn't important. The signet ring is not only unimportant but imaginary, as well. Yet the threat, the danger to our good friend here, obviously remains real. So where does that leave us? Ah—and forgive me this lengthy question, but the answer will still ultimately be yes or no.”

“Go on,” Coop said, wishing he hadn't offered to answer any questions.

“I fully intend to, yes. The woman unimportant, the signet ring no clue at all—which probably leaves out the small estate, the female guest, the servant—and we'll consign all the derring-do since Quatre Bras to the dustbin of fantasy, as well. And yet—and yet—the blackmailer has threatened exposing something so dangerous that you've called on us to help you, even gone so far as to betroth yourself to a woman you just admitted you don't known from Adam.”

“Is this going to take much longer? I've had a long day.”

“I'm getting there, friend. So what are we left with? We're left with this business of the
highest reaches of the Crown
, that's what. We're left with Prinny showering our hero with land, a title and even money—the latter something Prinny has precious little of, I should add. Are you paying attention, Rigby?”

“He could have just said he finds Miss Foster attractive. That might have appeased Clarice somewhat,” Rigby mumbled into the neck of his wine bottle.

“We'll continue without you, then,” Darby said. “Unless my question—yes, I've finally arrived at the sticking point—brings you back to attention. Cooper, requiring an honest answer of either yes or no—if we cannot find and stop the blackmailer, for the sake of all the others in similar predicaments but most especially in aid of you, dear friend, and if the blackmailer goes through with his threat to publish some
truth
in Volume Three—is it more than just conjecture that your life very likely will be forfeit?”

Finally. “Yes.”

Darby retook his seat. “I see. Well, then, what do we do next?”

“Next being tomorrow morning, I'm forgoing my appointment with my supposed new tailor and taking Miss Foster to Bond Street to buy her a betrothal gift. You, Rigby—yes, the answer was yes, so are you going to close your mouth anytime soon?—will please me by escorting your beloved to Mrs. Yothers's dressmaking shop, armed with a bit of gossip.”

“Gossip? Clarice lives for gossip. Oh, thank you, Coop. You may have just saved me. What is she supposed to say?”

“That, my friends, might take another bottle. Because I don't know which of you two will first
selflessly
fling
yourself forward as volunteer.”

“I'm game,” Darby said without hesitation. “I take it you have reason to believe this Mrs. Yothers is in the employ of our blackmailer?”

“I can't be sure, no, but Dany—Miss Foster—seems to think it's possible. If she's correct, and if our blackmailer isn't just tidying up all his victims before setting sail for parts unknown, another note demanding payment for silence could arrive on your doorstep within a few days.”

The viscount nodded his understanding. “You have considered the possibility that Mrs. Yothers is simply a gossip, and could tell several of her customers, any of whom could be in the man's employ?”

“I did. But we have to start somewhere, damn it all.”

“I agree. Just be sure to make this gossip something suitably salacious. I do have my reputation to uphold, you understand.”

CHAPTER TEN

D
ANY
WATCHED
IN
amusement and some admiration as her sister, so lately seen hanging her head over the chamber pot, entered the drawing room with the graceful glide and the upturned chin that were the result of long years of practicing to be perfect. Or snooty, Dany often thought.

Mari, with her uncanny way of spotting imperfection, took herself immediately to the large vase of flowers Dany had
rearranged
the previous afternoon, clearly in an imperfect way. Mari frowned in distaste, measured the bouquet with both eyes and hands and then removed four blooms. Four, exactly the number Dany had grabbed in her attempt to impress Lord Townsend. One, two, three—four, and the bouquet was perfect once more.

“A lesser person could hate you,” she told her sister as Mari then sat herself down on one of the couches, arranging her yellow morning gown into precise folds. She entwined her fingers in her lap.

“A clever person might attempt to emulate me,” Mari responded in her sweet voice. “As Mama has encouraged you to do. After all, look at me. Just another country miss from a respected yet fairly ordinary family, and now a countess. I worked hard to accomplish that, you know. Years of practicing with books balanced on my head as I walked, long days of being strapped to the backboard. Lessons in deportment, in music, voice, watercolors, embroidery.
Years
, Dany.”

Her smile faded. “And all you do is carelessly break a heel, and less than twelve hours later you're the affianced bride of the hero of Quatre Bras, the most eligible, sought-after bachelor in all of England. If anyone should be considering hating someone, Daniella, I think that anyone should be me.”

Dany's smile hurt, totally forced. “And he's going to retrieve your letters and Oliver will never be any the wiser. You believe that, don't you?”

“I
have
to believe that, yes. If not, my life is completely and utterly over.”

Thank you, Mari. That added another row to the pile of bricks on my shoulders.

“Have you heard from the earl?”

Mari shook her head. “No, nothing since his last missive, telling me that he'd be home within a fortnight. And that was three days ago. That's enough time, isn't it? You must tell me that's enough time.”

Dany crossed her fingers in her lap. “I told you. The blackmailer's note was quite specific. He will contact you another way rather than the knothole. He will arrange to return your letters on trust, and then your chosen emissary will hand over his letters at a designated place and time because he fully understands you have no more funds available, as you explained so eloquently in your note, and has accepted the garnets as payment in full.”

So I can be assured the letters will be tossed in the fire, and not saved as some sort of romantical keepsake, only to be found someday and stir up a mess all over again. Because yes, sister mine, much as I love you, there are times you can be thick as a plank.

“He's being very nice, isn't he, in the circumstances?”

Like now.

Dany's eyes crossed, but she quickly agreed. “Your blackmailer is best of good fellows, definitely. Very nearly a gentleman.”

Mari's chin went up. “Now you're being facetious. I know he's an odiously bad man, but he could have been worse, couldn't he?”

“Oh, yes, he could have written a chapbook about you.”

Mari shivered. “A chapbook? Now why would you say anything so silly as that?”

Because I also can be a fool, with a very large mouth.
“Oh, no reason. I think I heard one of the footmen open the door. Yes, I'm certain I did.” She gathered up her reticule and gloves and headed for the landing leading down to the foyer. “Ta-ta, Mari. I'm off to Bond Street, to bankrupt the baron.”

Coop had just stepped into the foyer when she came charging toward him. “I talk too much,” she said, brushing past him. “Let's go.”

He replaced the curly brimmed beaver he'd barely had time to tip in her direction, and followed her. “Am I allowed to agree, or would I be safer with a simple ‘Good morning, my dear'?”

She stopped on the flagway, looking at the town coach. “What on earth? It's not raining. It's sunny and pleasant, even a bit warm. Why are we riding in that contraption? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

Coop put his hand beneath her elbow, and she studiously ignored the rather pleasant frisson that impersonal touch caused. “Sharp as a tack this morning, aren't you? Yes, that's it entirely.”

“Oh, it is not. There's someone else inside the coach, isn't there? Don't tell me it's the viscount. I may not know him above a day, but I am fairly certain he hasn't yet left his bed.”

“Or not yet reached it. I chose the privacy of the closed coach because we may be traveling together but we won't be arriving in Bond Street at the same time. We'll meet by accident.”

“Then you do have a plan. Thank goodness one of us does.”

“It's not brilliant, but it is a plan, yes. Now come along, I want to introduce you to my friends and allies.”

“Does that make them my allies, as well?”

“I wasn't aware you needed allies.”

“I'm with you, aren't I? I should think it wouldn't come amiss if I had an entire army behind me.”

“I can see this is going to be a pleasant morning.”

“Perhaps if I had been able to sleep after realizing Mari's now in twice the trouble she was before I was so fortunate as to find her a hero, I might be more
pleasant
.”

Why couldn't she stop talking? Really, the baron would be doing her a courtesy if he stuck a handkerchief in her mouth.

“I warned you I was no hero. Just get inside while I explain to myself why I persist in enjoying your company as much as I apparently do,” Coop said as the groom let down the steps.

“You enjoy my company? Really?”

Yes, there it was, her heart once again going pitter-pat.

“Why look so shocked, Miss Foster? Or does that bother you as much as it does me? Now, please, we shouldn't keep the others waiting.”

Since she was left with no other sensible choice—and told herself that was the only reason she was obeying him—Dany stepped up and pulled herself inside the coach, aiming for the empty forward-facing seat as Coop joined her and the coach moved off into the square.

Sitting on the facing seat was a pair of exquisitely dressed creatures, both of them grinning at her as if either she or they were the resident village idiots.

“Oh, Coop, she's beautiful!” exclaimed the dimpled young blonde in the bordering-on-outrageous bright pink redingote and high-crowned straw bonnet adorned with red cherries and a sprinkling of what most resembled sugared gumdrops, and tied with a wide green grosgrain ribbon that nearly obliterated her neck. Her voice was slightly high, but adorable in its honey-dripping drawl that clearly stamped her as not being English born. “You didn't tell me she was beautiful, Jerry.” She gave her companion's forearm a quick, light slap. “Details, my love. It's as the duchess says, if you're going to be of any use to us, you must remember the details.”

“Yes, Clarice,” the sweet-looking cherub of a man apologized. This must be Jeremiah Rigby, Baronet, the friend Coop had mentioned yesterday. Now here was a redhead who'd wandered too close to the carrot patch. Its color clashed badly with his heated blush. “But I did tell you about the hair, right?”

The woman he'd addressed as Clarice leaned over and planted a kiss on the cherub's cheek. “You did, indeed, precious peach.” She turned her attention to Dany, who had just then been looking at Coop, hoping for some sort of explanation that clearly wasn't coming. “Hello, Miss Foster. I'm Clarice Goodfellow, late of the Fairfax County Virginia Goodfellows and soon to be Lady Clarice Goodfellow Rigby. That's my Jerry here,” she said, hooking a thumb toward her betrothed. “Isn't he just the most handsome thing you've ever seen? Well, yes, of course he is. Say hello, Jerry.”

“Miss Foster,” Rigby somehow managed to choke out, tipping his hat. “Pardon me for not rising. It is my honor to meet you.” He then looked at Cooper in some desperation.

“Sir Jerr—Sir Jeremiah,” Dany answered, momentarily wondering if she should put out her hand for him to bow over, but then quickly deciding the man had enough on his plate without attempting such a maneuver in a moving coach. “Miss Goodfellow. It's a pleasure to meet you both.”

Clarice put up her gloved hands, as if framing the last moments for posterity. “There, you see? That wasn't so terrible, was it? Introductions are so full of stuffy rules in England. Rough ground, I say, with all the folderol of who comes first and who comes last. Rough ground gotten over quickly is my answer to it all. And now, to settle it, I shall be Clarice, and Jerry here will be Rigby, because everyone save me calls him that, and then there's Coop and you. You're Dany, correct? Ah, I love when things are settled, and now we've all cried friends. Oh, and fellow conspirators, which is more lovely than anything, I'm thinking. I've always wanted to conspir-e-ate.”

Dany saw a mental image of her sister's face if she could hear Clarice Goodfellow's opinion of the strict rules of protocol she and her sister had had drummed into their heads for years: her eyes bugging out, jaw dropped to half-mast, her maid fumbling in her mistress's reticule for some feathers to burn under her nose.

“What a wonderful suggestion, Clarice,” Dany said, wishing she had been able to find a way beyond the
Miss Foster
and the
my lord
considering they were betrothed, for pity's sake. But now Clarice had done it for her. Americans were so refreshing. “Isn't it—Coop?”

She shot another glance toward Coop, who was still avoiding making eye contact with her or anyone else in the coach. Was he outraged? Dumbfounded? Embarrassed? No, wait, he was experiencing some difficulty with his breathing, wasn't he, and the eye she could see had begun to water slightly. He was near to killing himself, trying not to laugh.

Ahhh...wasn't that sweet.

She couldn't let him suffer like that, poor thing. He might burst something important.

“I couldn't agree with you more completely, Clarice. Formalities are so—oh, what could be the proper word? My lord Townsend—dearest Coop, I should say—as you have yet to contribute to this delightful conversation, could you be so kind as to assist me?”

His lips pressed tightly together, Coop's only answer was a quick shake of his head. Clearly he dared not open his mouth.

“No? Oh, that's too bad. Oh, wait, I've got it now. Everyone, tell me if I've got it right, please. Formalities are so...formal.”

Clarice pointed her finger at Dany.
“Exactly!”

It was entirely possible Lord Cooper Townsend hadn't laughed, really laughed, in quite some time. If so, he was definitely correcting that lapse now, only able to catch his breath for a moment, at which time he managed to whisper to Dany, “I'm going to kill you,” before going off again.

“It's the worry, poor man,” Clarice said, nodding knowingly. “Jerry here told me he's in some sort of terrible trouble, although friend that he is, he won't say just what. But I'll get it out of him eventually. Oh, dear, now he has the hiccups, doesn't he? Jerry, check to see if there's a flask in the coach pocket. Nothing like holding your nose while downing some strong spirits to beat away the hiccups. Or, as my uncle Soggy, the privy master, often said, ‘Make you not care that you've still got them.' Oh, Jerry, that's right, you don't have to nudge me. I shouldn't have said that, although for the life of me I don't know why, seeing as how all of you bow and scrape to your privy councillor. A privy is a privy, Jerry, and that will never change.”

“Clarice,” Rigby said in a strangled voice, “I've told you. There's a whacking great difference between your uncle Soggy, who digs privies, and the privy councillors who got their name because it once was the custom for kings to discuss secrets in the privy because that's the only place His Royal Highness didn't have to worry about being overheard.”

“It seems to me you can hear lots of things in a privy,” Clarice pointed out with a pout.

For a moment, Dany feared the baron might roll right off the padded squabs, doubled up in hilarity. But he stopped himself, manfully, she decided, and somehow gathered up the pieces of his humor and tucked them back inside his gentlemanly self. “Forgive me,” he said, pausing for one final hiccup. “Clarice, you are a treasure beyond price.”

“Thank you, Coop, but that isn't true. Today, for scolding me when I said nothing so terribly wrong, I think that price will be a new bonnet. Won't it, Jerry, love?”

“Two, if you fancy more than one,” her beloved promised as the coach drew to the curb. “And here we are, a mere block from Bond Street. How long, Coop?”

Coop pulled out his pocket watch and Rigby did the same. “Half past noon should do it. Remember, we'll stroll in after you by some minutes. We can't take the chance of raising Mrs. Yothers's suspicions. Do you know what you're going to say, Clarice?”

The blonde was busy gathering her things. Gloves, reticule and the lace-edged parasol she then handed to Rigby. “Don't you worry about me, silly. The duchess says I lie better than her best Aubusson carpet. That's a compliment, sweetie,” she told Rigby as he managed to back out of the carriage with his walking stick and the parasol in one hand, Clarice clutching the other and warning him to mind her skirts.

The door closed and the coach moved on.

“Dany? You did nothing but sit there while I made an utter fool of myself. You weren't amused?”

He'd called her Dany. Well, about time, considering they were supposedly going to marry. Really, she was liking him more and more. Which was probably also a good thing, unless it became a bad thing, which could also happen.