A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (25 page)

He pondered his last conversation with Eleanor on his way to the wharf to meet his London contact. A chambermaid, indeed. It was enough to addle his brains. Fortunately the sight of Lord Heath Boscastle seated in the shallop’s cabin brought his mind back into focus.

So this was to be his home contact. They had been boys when they’d last met.

Since then, Heath had become a respected officer, a spymaster and code-breaker whose sense of honor had inspired commissioned and irregular soldiers alike.

For a very brief moment, as Heath rose to grip his hand, they were merely cousins again.

“It’s been a hell of a long time,” Sebastien said, laughing.

Heath shook his head. “I can’t quite believe it.”

“Nor can I.”

Sebastien and his brothers had raced against the other Boscastle cousins at picnics and birthdays. On the rare occasion Sebastien had gone over to the London side, but not for long. The respective brothers always ended up back together before they went home.

By the time they’d piled into their carriages, calling out threats and insults to one another, the bond of family relations had become rather frayed. But it
had never been completely severed. It was only after the death of Sebastien’s father that his branch of the family had broken off from the London Boscastles. It was a shame, really.

“It’s good to see you again, Heath.”

“And you.”

Heath sat again, facing the door, in exactly the same spot Sebastien always occupied. He even wedged his left shoulder against the wood shelf of a mermaid’s bosom, which to anyone else might have appeared as if he were simply making himself comfortable. But Sebastien recognized a man who never let down his guard when he met another man.

He waited, curious, as Heath reached into his waist pocket to withdraw two letters tied with a crimson ribbon.

“These are yours,” Heath said with a fleeting smile. “Courtesy of a well-wisher who advises me she is glad someone has use of them.”

Mrs. Watson’s letters. So it was true that she had a weakness for the Boscastles. He couldn’t wait to see Eleanor’s reaction. Would she be indignant? Relieved?

He hoped she would be impressed. How many wives in England would treasure forgotten letters over diamonds and social status?

Only his.

“Have you read them?” he asked.

“No. It’s your game. However, if you require my advice, I’m not hard to persuade. I enjoy solving puzzles, if that is what this is.”

A modest admission.

“I may indeed ask for your help.”

Sebastien put the letters down on his desk. His hand still trembled at unpredictable intervals. Most men didn’t notice. Others assumed he was prone to drink. But when Heath looked up, there was understanding in his eyes.

“I know you have only recently come home,” Heath said. “Because of your past experience, I deemed it necessary to tell you we have reason to believe an assassination attempt will be made against Wellington.”

Plot. Purpose. The tide always came in. “By whom?”

“We have our eye on a group of home-bred radicals. We thought them to be harmless at first, but current information suggests otherwise.”

Sebastien stared past Heath as a barge drifted along the river. A British prime minister had been assassinated in the House of Commons only four years ago. “The duke isn’t home until Christmas.”

“This is what he told the duchess,” Heath said. “But you and I know that he is determined to set both the world and his country to rights and will sacrifice to do so.”

“Between Paris and London any number of political causes might divert him. An ambush, perhaps. What do you wish me to do?”

“Be alert. As you know, these plots usually blow over before they come to anything.”

“Perhaps I should not go to this masquerade at
Castle Eaton that my wife is set on. You wouldn’t believe what she is planning. Or perhaps you would. You know about Mrs. Watson.” He laughed. “Chasing after frivolous letters when a plot is in progress makes little sense.”

“But a marriage is a priority, is it not?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you understand.”

Heath stood. “I shall be in touch. And if your wife wishes to go to that party it can be arranged. Sometimes one gleans useful information from gossip.”

For some time after Heath left, Sebastien sat and listened to the water lapping against the boat. At first his mind raced. He would give the letters to his wife immediately, and she would not read them. Should he?

An assassination plot.

Why here? It didn’t make sense. But that only indicated he had missed something. One had to be more vigilant. It would help to know against whom.

Would Eleanor complain if he crept off to frequent clubs and public houses? A smile settled on his lips. Not his wife. She would only fret if he kept his work a secret from her again.

Eleanor wore an off-the-shoulder figured silk gown at supper and a strand of pearls. She had allowed Mary to arrange her hair in a knot with a few curls that fell in studied negligence at her nape.

“That’s better,” Mary said in satisfaction.

Eleanor had even dusted herself with a beautifying powder that promised to plump up her cheeks and décolletage.

She decided she had delayed the inevitable long enough. It was time to act like a wife and permit her handsome husband to be the only man of the house, as it were. Unfortunately he was so lost in thought that she might have been wearing a tablecloth and dusted in soot for all he seemed to notice. He had been in the most absentminded mood since returning home from his walk with Teg.

He looked … not himself.

He kept glancing at the clock on the fireplace mantel, and not at her. She tapped her spoon lightly against the salt cellar. He didn’t notice.

She dropped the spoon. He glanced at the table, then looked at the door. “How was your meeting with whomever you met?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Fine.”

“Was it really?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds interesting,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows to prompt him.

He shrugged vaguely. “Oh, you know how these things are.”

“No. I don’t. Would you like to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About your meeting, dearest.”

“I already told you. It was fine.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “Any other wife would suspect you were up to no good.”

His eyes flashed with humor. “Speaking as a wife
who
is usually up to no good herself.”

“I am reforming,” she said in an offended voice.

He lifted his brow. “Oh?”

“Can’t you see?”

“What am I supposed to see?”

She rose from the table and approached his seat. He sat back and waited, slowly lifting his gaze to hers. Her heart hammered in her chest.

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight with an emotion she had not seen in a long time. Neither doubt nor fear, but something that stirred her nerves.

Passion of a design other than amorous. Purpose. That was it.

And what ever had sparked this energy made him
irresistible. She stopped behind his chair, twining her arms around his neck.

“You have ignored me all evening,” she whispered in his ear. “If I am being forced into retirement, I insist I am at least informed of your adventures. What happened?”

He turned his head. “I wouldn’t call it an adventure.”

“It had to be more exciting than having Mary take hot tongs to your hair and—”

“It hasn’t even been a whole day,” he said with a dark smile. “You haven’t retired with grace.”

“—and you didn’t even notice.”

“Notice?”

“My hair. The curls that fall just so to captivate a husband’s attention.”

He studied her for several moments. “You look very lovely, but then you always do.”

“What happened when you went out?” she demanded. “Please, Sebastien. I know something is going on.”

“I met my cousin at the wharf. Heath Boscastle.”

“I take it this wasn’t a family reunion.”

“He works with a man named Colonel Hartwell of the—”

“I know who Hartwell is.” She sank down into the empty chair beside his, staring at him in dread. “He didn’t ask you to take another assignment? He did. And it’s dangerous, which is why you’re bristling with excitement, you selfish thing. How could you keep this from me?”

He blinked. “I’m not bristling. And I’m not keeping anything from you yet. This is a different sort of assignment.”

“Are you allowed to tell me?”

“Yes. As long as you don’t—”

Some sort of commotion arose from the street. People cheering and banging what sounded like pots and pans. Raised voices resounded from the entrance hall as a footman hurried to the door to investigate. Eleanor and Sebastien glanced toward the window simultaneously at the clatter of coach wheels that rattled past the house.

“What is that row, Burton?” Sebastien called in annoyance.

The footman appeared at the door. “I’m not sure, my lord,” he replied in bewilderment. “There seems to be a mob gathering at the square.”

Sebastien made to rise. Eleanor grasped hold of his hand. “Never mind the mob. What did your cousin want from you?”

“Vigilance. Someone in the city is plotting to kill Wellington.”

“My lady, the duchess?” she asked, her voice low with worry.

He frowned. “The Duke of Wellington.”

“But he isn’t here.”

“He will be at Christmas.”

She felt a chill. “What a ghastly notion. The children would be with him. They could be harmed.”

“It might come to nothing,” he said quietly.

“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

“
I
am merely to keep my ears and eyes open. You, well, I’ll ask you to do the same, but from a distance.”

“Would you like to wall me in the West Wing?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. Impractical though. Perhaps you could simply be attentive during your daily activities. Listen to gossip. You know, mine the resources of those street girls who like to play spy.”

She put her hand to her throat. “You’re right. I
did
hear something about a plot at the market last week.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The butcher’s wife planned to do in a pullet for one of her customer’s dinners.”

“Excellent work,” he said dryly. His gaze flickered over her. She had the sense that it was the first time all evening that he’d truly seen her. “Have you done something different to your hair?”

For a moment she could have cheerfully murdered him.

“I—” He faltered. “And that dress—the pearls—were you—”

“Trying to seduce you?”

His eyes glittered in sudden understanding. “Is it too late to take you up on that offer?” he asked with a de cadent smile.

Her heart thumped in anticipation. She decided she’d ask Mary to buy more beautifying powder. And tomorrow she would agree to go shopping with her old boarding-school friend, Lady Phoebe
Haywood, whose invitations to tea, balloon ascensions, and other meaningless pastimes she had rudely ignored.

Tomorrow she truly meant to become a wife in every sense of the word.

Even if tonight she wasn’t a lady at all.

They rose from the table at the same moment. Sebastien could not have testified in a court of law whether she reached for him first or he pulled her against him. He’d been preoccupied for hours, but now that he realized she had been angling for his attention, he was entirely hers.

“You can leave the pearls on,” he said, kissing her on the mouth, then the throat, and her prettily dusted décolletage. “But everything else—”

Another chorus of cheers and light explosions erupted from the street. Sebastien let go of her and rushed into the hall. His entire house hold stood in the doorway staring at the swell of people marching toward the pub. Firecrackers shot up into the sky from the square garden.

“What is it?” Eleanor whispered over his shoulder, vying for a view.

“I don’t know. Some sort of celebration. Stay here a minute while I find out.”

“But I’m—good gracious. I think that’s Will stuck
behind those carts. I hope he hasn’t been injured.”