If Wishes Were Earls (25 page)

Chapter 11

A proposal of matrimony must be carefully scrutinized, examined and endorsed by all who know you best, my dear. And then as quickly as you can, say yes, before the man changes his mind.

Lady Lowthorpe to Miss Darby

from Miss Darby and the Counterfeit Bride

“I
will not wait around upon her demands,” the man complained. “This is foolhardy of her. She’ll ruin everything.”

Sybille did her best to curb her impatience with him. He had grown peevish of late, desperate to gain the diamonds. Including last night’s debacle. The closer they got to the stones, the more irrational he became.

And worse, dangerous.

More so than usual.

“It must be something of great importance, milord, for her to have contacted me.”

“We shall see,” he muttered, staring moodily into the darkness.

She studied him for a few moments, furtively, because she was of the opinion the man could see behind him without turning around. This wasn’t the worst place he’d probably had to cool his heels, but it was probably not the most comfortable for a man. The back room of a milliner’s shop. But the owner was an old friend and wise enough not to ask questions when the use of her storeroom was requested.

One day, Sybille would repay her. But not quite yet.

“What is the time?” he demanded.

“Half past eleven, milord.”

He didn’t thank her, or acknowledge her answer, as if her immediate attention to his needs was a given. As if it was his due.

Milord
. She didn’t even know his name. Oh, he’d given her a common, ordinary name once long ago, but it wasn’t his real one. Of that she was certain. For she knew an
aristo
when she met one.

Nor was she so foolish not to realize that he was someone with deep connections.

Deadly ones.

Not that she wasn’t without her own resources, but better he still considered her nothing but a necessary step in his unrelenting madness to gain the Queen’s Necklace.

Or what was left of it.

That was a desire Sybille knew all too well, and she would have followed this English devil to the very gates of Hell to gain the stones that were hers by right.

And so she waited. As did he. Because after so many years, this was the closest they had come.

When the door opened, a slight figure slipped inside the back room. “I have but a few moments.”

“Shouldn’t be here to begin with,” milord complained.

Both women ignored him.

“He won’t marry me,” Miss Murray told them. “He won’t. Not as long as there is a possibility that he might have
her
.”

“What do you care if he will marry you or not?” the man complained, rising from his chair—the only chair in the room—and coming to stand before the girl.

Not one to be cowed, even by this fierce man before her, Miss Murray stabbed his chest with her finger. “You said the aunts would give up the stones when he became engaged—but if he takes her over me—then they are lost.”

“Bah. He must marry you. He is all but ruined.”

“He loves her,” Miss Murray shot back as if that was answer enough.

Not to this man who had clearly never loved anything or anyone.

“Missish nonsense,” he declared. “If Lady Eleanor hasn’t turned them over to her nephew, then you must see to it that you continue on to Marshom Court without delay.”

Miss Murray, who hadn’t Sybille’s patience, turned to her and said in rapid French, “She is dangerous enough to uncover the truth.”

“Then she must be dealt with,” Sybille said, trying to soothe the younger woman’s concerns.

That wasn’t good enough for Miss Murray. She whirled back to milord, taking out her dismay on him. “Boarding school, lies, promises, and for what? Bah!” She waved him off, her frustration filling the crowded room.

Of the three of them, her part had been the most demanding, the one that had taken years to orchestrate. But she was young and impatient, and couldn’t see the great gains before them. The years of reward about to become theirs.

“What is this?” he demanded in English.

Always demanding.
Sybille tamped down the fire banked in her chest.

For he wasn’t speaking to Miss Murray, but to her. And though she knew he spoke French perfectly, knew exactly what had been said, he had to be in command of everything.

“Miss Hathaway is proving problematic,” Sybille said, switching back to English.

“Then we shall have to—”

Whatever he thought to do to Miss Hathaway was lost as there was a commotion going on out in the shop.

“But I saw her come in here. Miss Murray. You cannot have missed her,” a deep male voice insisted.

“I am sorry, monsieur,” the shop owner was saying. “You must be mistaken. Perhaps it was the shop next door that she entered—”

“I know what I saw—” he continued in that arrogant English way.

“Fieldgate,” Miss Murray supplied, glancing over at the door. “Wretched fellow—”

“Isn’t he the one who has followed you, rather, followed Miss Hathaway here to Bath?” Sybille whispered.

“Yes,” Miss Murray complained. “A fortune hunter chasing after a penniless girl of no consequence. Beef-witted fool!”

Sybille cringed at the contemptuous tones the girl used. She’d picked up this highborn attitude at the finishing school to which milord had insisted upon sending her. But Sybille would deal with that problem later.

Out in the shop, the viscount continued pressing his case. “She was wearing a blue bonnet and a matching pelisse. Quite fetching lady. You can’t have missed her.” His steps echoed around the small shop as if he were inspecting all the corners.

“Fieldgate?” The man beside her eyed the door warily. “Troublesome fellow. Too bad he hasn’t listened to what they are all saying at White’s and carried that gel off.”

Sybille had been about to ignore his complaints, but then she paused. “Carried her off?”

The man made a distracted wave of his hand. “Eloped with that Hathaway chit.”

Sybille smiled at this and glanced over to find Miss Murray smiling as well.

“Why should we risk getting rid of Harriet Hathaway ourselves when we have just the fool to do it for us?” Sybille mused aloud.

And then she whispered her instructions to Miss Murray and sent the lady on her way.

Poised and ready, Miss Murray slipped out the door of the storeroom and made a loud exclamation of surprise. “La! Is that you, Lord Fieldgate? However did you find me out? I was hoping to gain a new bonnet without anyone noticing—”

“How could the world not notice you, Miss Murray!” the viscount said, all charm and wit.

Sybille nodded at milord with her own form of charm.
All is well now.

In the shop, Miss Murray’s voice was all enchantment. “You are exactly as Miss Hathaway claimed—the most charming man alive. What a terrible shame Miss Hathaway isn’t with me this morning—she was ever so thrilled last night that you had come to Bath. Why you are all she talks about. Lord Fieldgate this . . . My dear Fieldgate that . . .”

“Truly?”

“Lord Fieldgate,” Miss Murray said in all confidence, “whyever would I lie to you?”

“R
oxley! What the devil are you doing here?”

The earl looked up and found Harriet standing at the garden gate. The afternoon shadows had lengthened and before long it would be dark.

“Watching the house,” he said, holding fast to his spot in the mews. He didn’t dare come closer—for here she was. His Harriet. Her dark hair done loosely in a knot, a plain muslin gown and a look of determination on her face. He didn’t dare take that step that would bring them together and put him right back on temptation’s path.

As it had last night. How had that happened—one moment he’d been ordering her back to London and the next . . . dear God, what had possessed him?

Harriet, that was what.

He glanced up and found her studying him. “Yes?”

“Yes, yourself,” she shot back.

“Well, nothing,” he told her, feeling a bit mulish, knowing he should apologize but also remembering her threat to go get Miss Murray’s pistols if he dared. “What are you doing out here?”

“Escaping!” she said with a long sigh.

“My aunt, yes,” Roxley replied.

“Oh, good heavens, not your aunt. She’s delightful,” Harriet enthused.

Auntie E? Delightful? Roxley considered calling a surgeon.

Harriet continued on with her story. “That demmed impostor of yours brought
him
home.”

“Him?”

“Fieldgate,” she shuddered out. “He’s in there still, fawning over your aunt and winking at me every time she looks away. So when I told them I wasn’t feeling well and needed to be excused, it was truly no lie. I thought I was going to cast up my accounts if he called me ‘his fairest girl’ one more time.”

Roxley laughed.

“It’s not funny. I should be in there with my hands around Miss Murray’s neck rattling the truth out of her,” she shot back. “It works, you know. I did it once to Benjamin when he claimed I’d eaten all the jam tarts.”

He had to imagine she would, and that was his worst fear. “Harriet, something will trip Miss Murray up and it won’t be you.”

She pressed her lips together as if stopping the words that looked ready to come spilling out.

But that was the way it had to be. He had no idea how dangerous Miss Murray could be and as it was he’d already entangled Harriet deeper into this mire than he cared.

But I’m already entangled.

Her words from last night echoed forth as if she’d said them again.

And it wasn’t just a statement, but a declaration. She was entangled because she chose to be.

She was entangled because she loved him. Just as he loved her.

Roxley looked at her, remembered how he felt with her, and found himself drawn toward her yet again.

Like turning onto the long drive at the Cottage.

This is home
, his heart told him, with all the conviction of one of Mr. Hotchkin’s reports.

It
was
exactly as she’d said.

Separate they were just that—apart. Incomplete. At odds.

Together . . . Well, he knew what that meant. And beyond the words that immediately came to mind—passionate, combustible, aflame—there was also the one word that trumped them all: unstoppable.

Together they were unstoppable.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, tentatively testing this notion.

Together they were unstoppable.

“Yes—” she answered just as hesitantly.

“That all this, this—”

“Problem?”

“Quandary,” he decided, “is a long game.”

“A what?”

“A long game,” he repeated. “At least that is what Chaunce and Mereworth always call them. A long game. When a plan has been in the works for years. Planting an informant. Gaining a confidence.”

Harriet nodded, and he could see her quick and agile mind working over the implications to the situation at hand. “Miss Murray.”

“Exactly.” Roxley smiled. “Someone put her into all this years ago—if only to gain her an identity, a past.”

“Your aunt thinks she’s French,” Harriet told him. “Not completely. Perhaps a by-blow.”

“Good heavens, my aunt shouldn’t be discussing such things with you.”

She made a bit of a snort, and shook her head. “As if I don’t know what one is. Really, Roxley. Theodosia Walding back in Kempton is the natural daughter of someone—who, no one knows—but I’m not so sheltered that I don’t know what that means. Especially after last summer—I can see how such things might happen.”

Roxley blanched at bit, for her jibe hit the mark. “Be that as it may,” he said, moving the subject along, “I’ve been standing here considering why someone who has waited all these years to discover where my parents hid the diamonds—”

“Would suddenly decide the time was perfect to ruin your life?”

“Yes, quite,” he said. “Why now?”

“More to the point, what changed?” Harriet asked, all practical miss once again. And it was just the question that put an exclamation point onto why Roxley needed her.

For Harriet was spot on. What had changed?

And when he looked up at the woman before him, he had his answer. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Everything changed the moment I decided to marry you.”

“Marry me?” Harriet’s mouth fell open a bit. “You mean to marry me?”

“Of course, Kitten. Why else would I be in Bath and trotting about the countryside with a faux betrothed if I didn’t want to marry you.”

“When you say it that way—” she huffed, arms crossing over her chest.

“Oh, bother, you aren’t the type for a flowery proposal, and you demmed well knew I was going to marry you and all.”

“And how was I supposed to know that?” she shot back, her Hathaway temper rising to the forefront.

“Well you know it now,” he told her.

“I know nothing.” The set of her jaw was positively murderous.

Now who was being mulish?

“Demmit, Harriet Hathaway, will you marry me?”

Her chin notched up a bit. “I’m undecided on the matter.”