A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (17 page)

He appeared to be in the mood every waking hour.

She was also aware, however, that regarding her other obligations, Sebastien was not to be trusted even while he slept. She could not thump her pillow during the night without him rolling up against her, his large body impeding any attempt to escape from their bed.

“Bad dreams?” he’d ask. And she would stare into his slumberous blue eyes, resisting the urge to smooth his rumpled hair.

“There are dangerous things outside in the dark,” he whispered once, his arms enfolding her.

“Not to mention the one lying in this bed.”

He chuckled. “Haven’t I behaved myself?”

She gave a tiny shrug of assent.

“At least acknowledge that I’m trying.”

She shrugged again.

“It’s better this way, you and I together on a cold night instead of … those other activities.”

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

And then, just as she felt a wave of tenderness for the scoundrel, he added, “I knew you’d come around sooner or later. I’m only surprised it took this long.”

He would indeed have been surprised had he realized that when she wandered each afternoon to the back gate to purchase wares from the curd-and-whey seller, she was in fact receiving her current instructions from the duchess.

Employing the glib street girl as her courier, the Duchess suggested that Eleanor would be wise to delay any covert activities until further advised.

Her grace cautioned that the Bow Street Runners had stationed seasoned detectives throughout the West End, in the hope of catching London’s elusive celebrity.

“Seasoned detectives,” Eleanor said with a scornful smile, and hid the message in her shoe.

It only proved how far afield the runners were in capturing the Masquer.

She turned, frowning thoughtfully, and walked straight into her husband. “Not more curds and whey,” he said, raising his brow at her.

She stared down at her bowl. “Yes, I—I’ve taken a powerful fancy to them.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I—”

“Let me carry the bowl for you.”

“It isn’t heavy,” she said quickly.

“Don’t worry, Miss Muffett. I’m not going to eat your snack.” He glanced past her to the gate. “That girl isn’t selling her wares to any other house. Are you sure she’s not planning to rob us?”

She grasped his arm and propelled him toward the house. “I thought you were meeting with the architect in the library.”

He looked down again. The contents of the bowl were sloshing dangerously over the sides. “Yes. We’re discussing the renovation of the Sussex house.”

Their country estate, if one could call the small manor that.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off his knuckles. “That’s actually why I came to fetch you.”

“To seek
my
opinion?”

“Naturally.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Sebastien.”

But when she followed him into the library, the
architect immediately showed her the blueprint for the nursery addition that Lord Boscastle had planned for the country house.

A very large nursery. One that even the architect’s apprentice slyly remarked took up the whole upper West Wing, and was his lordship hoping to raise a cricket team?

When she went upstairs to dress for supper, she discovered that he’d gone through her wardrobe again. The evening gown with the stain hung in plain view, as if he were letting her know he’d noticed it. And wasn’t pleased. Her husband was anything but subtle.

She bit her lip and would have felt guilty had she not realized a few minutes later that the rascal had also been nosing through the drawer of the writing desk. He might have been devious enough to pick the lock of the small escritoire, but he had left evidence of his illicit entry. The imperceptible coating of rice powder she routinely sprinkled before closing the drawer had been unsettled.

Nothing appeared to be missing, not any of her personal correspondences, nor the last two letters yet to be delivered to the duchess.

But the peacock feathers she had left crossed at a certain angle had been cleverly rearranged, although not in their previous formation.

Did Sebastien assume she would never notice? True, he had flummoxed her with his silk scarves and chair seduction. Was it possible she had not followed her cautious routine as well as she should have?

She closed the drawer carefully. Despite their precarious marriage, she’d always felt she could trust his integrity. He had convinced her he didn’t give a farthing about the contents of the duchess’s letters. Only about her. He didn’t even read the gossip papers.

It was one thing for him to accompany her on her assignments, but quite another for him to snoop in this manner.

There was a bite in the air when Sebastien sat down to supper with his wife three hours later. He noticed that although fresh coals had been laid in the grate, burning fitfully, Eleanor had not bothered with her shawl. Her gleaming white shoulders rivaled the water pearls at her throat for simple beauty.

She dug her fork into a heaping portion of potatoes lathered in parsley butter. “You’re late,” she remarked pleasantly. “Were you still making designs for the house?”

“Yes.”

“And that family of thirteen?” she asked with a chuckle.

He steepled his fingers under his chin. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should have a portrait painted of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. For the house.”

“Well. I gathered that.” She sliced unmercifully at her slice of minted lamb. “But before we plan
our wall coverings, I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I can’t leave London until my obligation to the duchess is met.”

“That’s very high-minded of you,” he said in obvious amusement.

She put down her knife. “I know it is within your rights to go through our wardrobe, husband dearest, but really, I must insist you respect the privacy of my only locked drawer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The last letters that we found were not in the same position that I left them,” she said, suddenly doubting herself at his affronted tone.

He sat back in his chair. “And you think that
I
unlocked your drawer to read some inane confessions of thwarted love?”

“You didn’t?”

He reached for his wine goblet. “Absolutely not.” His eyes glinted with arrogance. “And had I done so, you would never have known it.”

“I shall bear that in mind.” She hesitated. “There must be something in these letters that the duke does not wish anyone to know.”

He glanced down at the table, stung by an unexpected moment of guilt. The duke probably didn’t even remember that the letters existed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He glanced at the fire and then at her.

“Actually, there is. It’s the matter of that stain upon your gown.”

Her lips parted. “My gown? The one that you—”

He gave her a steely frown.

“There is an explanation,” she said softly.

“One that I’m dying to hear.”

“It’s oil paint. From Bellisant’s brush—”

He stood abruptly.

She blinked as their wine goblets trembled on the table. He ran his hands through his hair in agitation. “Answer me,” he said, his voice rising.

“Answer what?”

“Did this Bellflower person paint a portrait of you?”

She nodded mutely.

“Then where is it?” he demanded, leaning over her.

“I think he has it,” she said in a small voice.

“Ah. Of course.” He closed his eyes briefly. “And just one more question—which I know is absurd, but do bear with me—are you wearing your gown in this painting?”

She sprang up from her chair, practically bumping her head on his chin. His hand shot out to steady her. She pushed it off. “How could you even ask?”

“You were clothed?” he queried, bracing for another outburst of indignation.

“I shall not answer such a demeaning question!”

Two footmen knocked at that dangerous moment, asking whether his lordship required more coals on the fire, and another bottle of German wine.

“No. And yes,” he snapped as he and Eleanor returned to their respective places at the table.

One must keep up appearances.

Even when appearances deceived.

“One would think,” he said, steering to another subject, “that the women who received Viola Hutchinson’s letters would value the integrity of England above their petty correspondences.”

“Or that they would value themselves,” she said absently, spearing her lamb again. “I cannot fathom how any man or woman could take pleasure in exposing an adulterous affair. It seems a mortification to admit one indulged in the first place, let alone to expose that fact with others.”

He studied her face. “Assuming there was an affair to begin with,” he said guardedly.

Their eyes met across the table.

The light from the silver candelabra glittered darkly between them. “Do
you
think the duke was unfaithful to his wife?” she asked in a thoughtful voice.

He drank his wine. “No.” He shook his head for emphasis.

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s a moral person for one thing, and I can’t picture him wasting his spare moments when the peace of the world is at stake.”

“But opportunity—”

“Of course.” He could not deny that. “They have been apart—for longer than us, even.”

“I suppose,” she said in a reflective voice, “that one could even argue to justify an affair in such a case.”

He hoped he wasn’t about to learn of such justification.

He frowned. “Do
you
think he was disloyal?”

“It seems naïve to believe otherwise,” Eleanor said.

Two of the candles had gone out. He thought he heard the patter of rain, perhaps even hail at the windows. He’d have to see about hiring a glazier. He’d ignored the basics of maintaining a fine house. One could not take anything of worth for granted.

Neither windows. Nor wives.

“I think the duchess doubts him,” Eleanor mused, dabbing her finger at the drop of wine that had spilled on the tablecloth. “He’s been gone such a long time, and princesses and parlormaids all over the world adore him. Would it not be normal for him to fall prey to temptation when no one is looking?”

“Not if his heart has been captured as mine has.”

She smiled cryptically. “How lovely of you to—” She broke off as he rose from the table, his food untouched. “Where are
you
going? Did I say something wrong?”

“I have a little matter that must be dealt with,” he said amicably. “Don’t worry if I’m late. And no masquerades tonight.”

Her mouth opened. She started to object, but then he came to her side, bending to kiss her as if they were any other husband and wife parting for a few hours. Her lips tingling, she heard him summon the footman Burton for his coat. And then he walked out of the house into the wet night. She sat
at the table for a few moments longer, recalling all the other times she had dined by herself. He didn’t really think
she
had been unfaithful? She pushed back her chair and rose, running out into the hall. As she flung open the front door, she spotted Sebastien striding down the street, his greatcoat over his arm.

“I don’t believe he betrayed her!” she called after him. “He’s above such behavior! He’s as trustworthy as … as you,” she finished quietly.

She glanced up as a sudden downpour hit the street.

The rain swallowed up Sebastien’s receding figure. She huddled back into the doorway.

“Madam!”

She turned as the trim figure of her maid emerged from the dark hallway behind her. After years of dedicated service, Mary always sensed when something was wrong. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, hurrying to the door.

She had no idea how much Mary had heard, or what she thought. Not an aristocrat by birth, her upbringing rather unconventional, Eleanor oftentimes neglected to observe the distance a lady must put between herself and those she employed. Still, it was Mary who had supervised the preparation of the special supper dishes that Sebastien barely tasted and who orchestrated the undercurrents of domestic life. Eleanor would be lost without her.

“There’s no need to worry,” she said gamely, backing into the hall, her hair already damp. “I’m meeting
his lordship later. Would you please lay out my evening wear? And have the carriage brought around. My husband appears to have walked to his destination.”

“But, madam, this damp—”

She went straight to the stairs; if she paused to consider her position from her maidservant’s perspective, she might lose her nerve. “I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.”

She barely caught Mary’s response. “And here I thought that the situation had changed.”

By the time Sebastien reached Sir Nathan Bellisant’s rooms in St. Martin’s Lane, the rain had lightened to a drizzling fog. The walk in the damp failed to extinguish the doubts that simmered inside him. This time he would be the one to pay the surprise call. He knew of no better way to judge a man’s character than to visit him unannounced at his home. It seemed only fair. Bellisant felt comfortable calling on Eleanor at all hours.