Elizabeth Boyle (29 page)

Nothing is difficult to one who loves.
Words he was starting to believe were nothing but a contradiction in terms.

“Thought as much. Then what is it you do need?”

“I want to know who claims this crest and motto. I don’t think it belongs to a current title. I suspect it is an old family name, long since discarded. The motto, I believe, is used only with the family name.”

The man nodded in understanding.

Under the weight of loftier and more prestigious titles, a French nobleman’s ancient surnames were often all but forgotten, known only by direct family members, if even by them. Names so old, they went back to the times of Charlemagne.

Of late there had been a resurrection in using these surnames, for they offered a readily familiar disguise for the aristocrat seeking a new identity.

“I may have something to interest you,” the man said, his eyes twinkling with the challenge and the opportunity to show off his more prized books. He hobbled from the front desk back to the high back wall, which was lined with books from floor to ceiling.

He climbed up a small ladder, his narrow thin fingers latching on to a thick book. “Here it is.”

Carrying it over to the counter, he carefully turned the brittle pages of vellum.

Giles leaned over, stunned by the amazing colors that nearly leapt from the pages. Brilliantly detailed hand illustrations of family crests crowded the Latin text.

The man glanced over at the ring again, smiling. “Here it is.” He pointed down at the page. “Laurent. That mean anything?”

Giles shook his head.

“Doesn’t surprise me. Good at confusing the issue, the French. We aren’t through yet.” The man returned to his stacks, muttering titles and names, more to himself than his customer.

Four books later Giles had his answer.

Laurent was the ancient family name for the Comte D’Artiers.

His future father-in-law.

Which could only mean that Lady Sophia was—

Damn her
, he thought.
Damn her duplicity to hell.

He paid the man for his help and left the shop without another word.

Monty poked his head out of the carriage, where he’d been waiting for Giles to return. The duke had insisted on offering his “assistance” in the search for the wounded lady.

“Where to, Trahern? Another one of those dreary French coffeehouses or another dressmaker?” Monty asked as Giles climbed into the carriage.

“Neither. We’re going to Bath,” he answered. “I suddenly have the strangest urge to visit my betrothed.”

Two nights later Giles’s carriage stopped at the gates of Larkhall Manor.

“Looks as if they’ve brought everyone out from town,” Monty commented. “Could be quite a party.”

Giles glanced up at Larkhall Manor. Carriages stood waiting in the front drive, and soft candlelight glowed from most of the windows. He’d sent a note to Lady Larkhall advising her of his arrival at Byrnewood and requesting to dine with her and her niece.

And he’d asked the lady to keep his impending reunion with his bride-to-be a surprise.

“I’d have to say, I’m in the mood for a party.” Or a hanging, he thought, still furious at the way his “meek and mild” betrothed had played him for a fool.

At least he knew she lived, that she’d survived Selmar’s gunfire. But how, he didn’t know.

Considering that Dryden and Lady Dearsley had spent most of the last three weeks urging him to travel to Bath and see this marriage matter settled, Giles felt all that much more frustrated. If he’d heeded their unwitting advice he would have discovered Sophia’s deception before she’d had the opportunity to don her Brazen Angel costume once again.

As the carriage rolled along the gentle curve of the drive, he recalled the first time he’d ever visited Larkhall Manor. His mother had died the fall before. The winter had been a miserable ordeal as he’d spent his first year away at school. Lady Larkhall had suffered a similar loss: her husband had died of a fever during the winter. By summer when he returned home, she still wasn’t receiving guests. But that hadn’t stopped the six-year-old lad, lonely and without a mother, from wandering across the property lines.

Compared to the dark, lonely halls of Byrnewood, Larkhall Manor seemed to him a fairy castle, and Lady Larkhall, the queen of merriment.

She listened to his stories, laughed at his jokes. She sympathized with his complaints about the endless studies his tutor assigned. She helped him with his lessons under the wide oak that marked the property line between the two estates. The kind lady filled a void in his empty life, and looking back he realized he may have provided her a diversion from her own grief.

“Lord Trahern?” the butler asked, as Giles once again entered the house he’d always loved.

He nodded and handed over his coat to the man. “This is the Duke of Stanton,” he said, introducing Monty.

“Dinner has already started, Your Grace, my lord. Lady Larkhall’s instructions were to see you announced the moment you arrived.”

Monty and Giles followed the man down the long hallway to the dining room.

“My lady,” the butler intoned in a deep, rich baritone. “The Duke of Stanton and the Marquess of Trahern.”

Twelve pairs of eyes turned to them. He heard a deep intake of breath at the end of the table and could only imagine who it might be coming from.

Lady Larkhall rose from her place at the head of the table. “Lord Trahern, I am so pleased you’ve finally arrived.” She came forward, her hands outstretched. “And you’ve brought a guest, how wonderful. Your Grace, please, if you would take this seat here,” she offered.

While Lady Larkhall called for another setting for Giles, he studied her.

She was in many ways the same woman he remembered. Her chestnut hair had gone gray, but her blue eyes still sparkled with the familiar warmth he’d always loved. As a child he’d thought her a tall woman, but found that his childhood memories had been outgrown. He now towered above her.

“We have quite a crowd tonight,” she whispered, as she turned back to him and took his arm. “But I know who you are most anxious to see again.” She led him down one side of the table toward the place setting the footman was rapidly squeezing in on the crowded table. The high-backed chairs hid the guests to his immediate right, but across the table he vaguely recognized some of the people: Squire Fischer and his wife; Reverend Harel, the local parson; Mr. and Mrs. Whitcombe; and a young girl, who by her long nose and red hair could only be the squire’s daughter.

Monty was placed between the squire’s daughter and a severe-looking woman in widow’s weeds. Giles recognized her at once.

Emma!

So, Sophia’s companion, Mrs. Langston, was also the harridan who diverted his attention the night he’d captured the Brazen Angel, as well as Julien and Lily’s companion back to London.

If she recognized him she did little more than nod politely, but when he glanced back a second time, she had a wry smile and an amused flash to her dark eyes.

Before he could comment, Lady Larkhall was saying, “Now, here we are.” She squeezed his arm. “The real reason you’ve come to visit. My dear niece, Lady Sophia.”

The young lady rose from the chair on Lady Larkhall’s right. As she turned to greet him Giles forgot about everyone else in the room.

The young woman was dressed in the height of fashion, à la Turk, complete with feathers in her dressed hair, a striped gown, and starched fichu. Despite all the fashionable trappings, he saw what he’d come for.

The indignant flash of blue eyes, the gentle curve of her jaw, and her full lips, which were currently pulled into a strained smile.

Beside Lady Larkhall stood the one and only reason he’d come to Bath.

The Brazen Angel.

It seemed his search was over.

For Sophia, Giles’s entrance into the dining room left her gasping for air. Startled, she’d looked to Emma for help.

No help there, for Emma was being introduced to the Duke of Stanton.

The Duke of Stanton! Why, she’d robbed the man!

Whatever was Giles thinking in bringing him to Larkhall Manor?

She gulped again for air. His unlikely arrival in Bath could only mean he’d discovered who she was. No, he couldn’t have—she’d been too careful. Short of a sudden fit of apoplexy, there was little hope of her avoiding detection now. Frantically, she pulled the feathers in her hair forward, hoping they offered some mask against detection.

Lady Larkhall coughed. “Sophia. Get up, girl, and greet His Lordship.”

Struggling to her feet, she kept her gaze fixed on his gleaming boots while she extended her hand in greeting. “My lord,” she murmured.

“Lady Sophia, it is a delight and a sincere pleasure to see you again.” With that he brought her hand to his lips and laid a gentle kiss there, his thumb caressing her fingers in soft, languid strokes.

The contact brought back flashes of the passion they had shared. Her turbulent feelings for him tossed anew, clamoring to respond. But as Lady Sophia she could hardly throw herself into his arms and beg his forgiveness.

She pulled her hand away. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Allowing him to assist her into her chair, Sophia refused to meet his gaze.

Once he took his seat the meal began again. He leaned over his plate and studied her. “I see you have recovered from your unfortunate accident.”

Accident? Sophia looked down at her bandaged hand and dropped it to her lap. When she finally risked a glance in his direction, there was no doubt in his dark gaze that he recognized her. And worst of all, he knew about her robbery of Lord Selmar.

“Accident?” Lady Larkhall commented as Giles turned and held her chair for her. “Sophia, you were in an accident? I don’t recall you telling me anything about this.”

Giles’s eyebrows rose in mocking challenge, as if he couldn’t wait to hear her answer.

“A minor incident only, Auntie,” she replied quickly, holding up her bandaged hand. “I cut myself on a vase while arranging flowers for Auntie Effie,” she said slowly, for Giles’s benefit. “Auntie Effie was worried I would have blood poisoning. Lord Trahern, you are too much like Lady Dearsley, and make far too much of a simple accident.”

He shook out his napkin and paused for a moment. “Lady Dearsley made a point of telling me about your delicate constitution and the great care that must be taken with your health.”

“Delicate?” Lady Larkhall eyed Sophie. “Whatever is he talking about? You haven’t been ill a day in your life.”

Sophia patted her aunt’s hand. “You know Auntie Effie; she quite exaggerates.” She shot a glare in Giles’s direction and seethed when he grinned back.

What was he up to? All too soon she found out.

The squire’s wife, Lady Fischer, an ambitious woman who liked to consider herself in the forefront of Bath’s smartest sets, was seated next to Giles.

“Lord Trahern,” she said, leaning over his elbow as if they were the oldest and dearest of friends, “I find your concern for our dear Lady Sophia quite touching. There aren’t many men who take such an intimate concern for a future wife’s welfare. How considerate you are, my lord.” She smiled across the table at Sophia, the feathers in her towering wig waggling with annoyance. “And you, Lady Sophia, how lucky for you to be gaining a husband who will so obviously watch over you so carefully.” The lady sent Sophia a prodding nod meant to encourage her out of her moody silence. “I know if my Dorlissa found such a man,” the lady said pointedly at Monty, “he would be blessed with a wife’s sincerest devotion.”

“How right you are, Lady Fischer,” Giles told her, leaning over toward her as if they were conspiring in some plot. “I’ve every intention of watching over Lady Sophia day and night from here on out. I say it is my duty and obligation as her future husband to safeguard her from harm.” He paused, a serious expression on his face. “Would it be quite medieval of me to lock her away in Byrnewood’s tower and keep her all to myself? At least until we’ve secured an heir or two.”

“Ooh, you do tease, Lord Trahern.” Lady Fischer tittered at the wicked intimacy of it.

“Who said I was teasing?” He looked directly at Sophia.

She wanted to gnash her teeth. Lock her away like a brood mare? The utter arrogance of him.

The young parson coughed, obviously uncomfortable with the discussion of locking away young ladies for the sole business of procuring heirs. The poor man blushed and sputtered. He finally recovered enough to smile kindly at Sophia. “Perhaps we should be discussing when this blessed union is going to take place,” Reverend Harel stuttered. Folding his hands over his plate as if in prayer, the nervous man tried to look as if he were providing a moral focus to the meal.

“Next summer—” Sophia answered.

“End of the week,” Giles corrected.

Under the table she knotted her napkin and considered how she could possibly stuff it down his throat without creating too much of a scene.

“End of the week,” he repeated.

End of the week?
Try the end of the next century, Sophia wanted to tell him.

“Oh, you are an anxious one, Lord Trahern,” Lady Fischer bubbled.

“Anxious doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel when I look across this table at my intended, my dear lady.”

“And what do you say, Lady Sophia, in the face of such ardent admiration?” Lady Fischer asked. “Aren’t you the least bit excited about becoming the mistress of such a fine house as Byrnewood?”

“I’d say the marquess has expressed his intentions quite clearly.” Sophia stabbed at the food in front of her.

“I know if my Dorlissa were becoming the next mistress of Byrnewood,” Lady Fischer said, waving her hand at her daughter, “I’d be there right this moment redecorating a suite of rooms for myself right next to the nursery.”

Sophia couldn’t resist. “Well, perhaps you’ll get lucky and I’ll cry off my engagement, Lady Fischer. I’m sure Lord Trahern wouldn’t do any better than Dorlissa for his bride.”

The unwitting girl had chosen this moment to stuff her mouth too full of food, and she blushed furiously upon finding every eye at the table staring at her. Under the strain of such unanticipated attention she began to choke.