Our Wicked Mistake (24 page)

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Authors: Emma Wildes

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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Alex St. James owed him nothing. Yes, he’d helped straighten out a small misunderstanding between Lady Amelia’s family and the St. Jameses, but in his mind, it was little enough compared to his debt.
“I was thinking of John,” Michael said neutrally. “I think he might be in a unique position to help me with a delicate matter.”
Alex looked amused. “My notorious older brother, at work for the Crown? I am sure the idea would appeal to his adventurous spirit. What can he do that you can’t? After all, you are also a marquess. How is his assistance needed?”
“He can talk to Baroness Schaefer on a personal level I cannot, for I believe they were once good friends.”
“That’s a polite way of saying she was once his lover.”
“I am polite to a fault, as you know.”
“Especially when it serves your purposes.” Alex grinned. “So, tell me, what should he ask of his former light o’ love? I’m trying to imagine what the lady might know that could help you.”
The envelope was in the pocket of his tailored jacket, and Michael reached in to retrieve it and hand it over. “Just give him this, if you will.”
“Of course.” Alex eyed it curiously but didn’t ask questions. “Can you stay for dinner? Amelia would love to play hostess, even if she is napping at the moment. I’m afraid the pregnancy makes her sleepy in the afternoons.”
“I’d like to stay.” Michael rose. “But can I accept the invitation for another time?”
“Urgent business?”
“You might say so.”
“I’ll get this to John right away.” Alex tapped a forefinger on the envelope lying on the table, his gaze inquiring. “But before you dash off, you said there were two salient points that made you wonder if Luke’s involvement with Madeline May was wise. The first is obviously there is more to the theft of the journal than meets the eye. What’s the second?”
Michael considered for a moment and then said quietly, “He isn’t free.”
“Because of what happened in Spain.” Alex’s dark eyes held a troubled glint.
“Because of what happened in Spain, yes.”
“I knew he was involved with Maria, of course, and she was killed sometime after Badajoz.”
“Involved? Yes, he married her.” Michael’s smile was bleak.
Alex was shocked. It was clear in the way his eyes widened and the sudden stillness of his posture. “He
married
her?”
Was this his story to tell? Michael wasn’t sure, but this was Alex, and Michael thought that though Luke hadn’t spoken of it himself, he wouldn’t mind. “They found a small church with a priest who would perform the ceremony, but it was dangerously close to the French lines. On their way back to the convent where she had taken refuge, they ran into a small French patrol. Maria was killed and Luke wounded badly enough he was left for dead. The Frogs burned the convent to the ground.”
“Good God.” Alex sat back, his dark eyes bleak. “On their wedding day. He never told me.”
“He never told me either.” Michael had learned about it through intelligence channels. Luke had not ever mentioned it, so neither had he.
“I knew it had happened,” Alex slowly said. “I knew she’d died, but not about the wedding. No wonder he is so . . . closed. She was killed on their wedding day. How does a man recover from that? As one who dearly loves his wife, it makes me rethink my preoccupations with insignificant matters. How could I not know this?”
“He doesn’t want to discuss it. Can you blame him?”
“No,” Alex agreed softly. “No. Why revisit that pain? I wouldn’t be able to bear it. How does he cope with it?”
“I’ve never been married, so I can’t answer with any accuracy,” Michael said grimly, “but I am going to venture a guess and say he doesn’t. But perhaps Lady Brewer can help him.”
 
“I thought we were going to the opera.” Madeline peered out the window of the carriage, her shadowed features showing surprise, the length of the journey finally registering.
Luke smiled with bland reassurance. “I thought I’d surprise you with something more entertaining than doomed lovers and pathos. Perhaps it sounds less than cosmopolitan to admit it, but I have never cared all that much for Italian drama. It overshadows my enjoyment of the music, however superb it might be.”
“What do you have in mind instead?” She sounded suitably wary, and so she should be. Tonight she was dazzling in white satin with a deep gold trim at the neckline and hem, the sleeves ending at the elbow in a froth of lace, her fan a work of art with ivory carvings on the handle and an exotic motif of leopards and charging elephants. The earrings he’d given her dangled in an enticing sway against the slender column of her neck as the carriage moved along the cobbled street, and her eyes were large and dark as she gazed at him in open, charming confusion.
Good. She had
him
fairly confused as well, and seeing her wearing those earrings had sparked a certain unreasonable possessiveness, as if they were a symbol of a bond he wanted to ignore but couldn’t.
The facts were actually quite simple. He was deeply attracted to her and he had never tried to deny it. He knew she was absolutely the wrong woman to become involved with, because with Madeline the word
involved
took on a frightening significance.
And yet he’d done it anyway.
“I wanted you to myself tonight,” he said with uncharacteristic candor, trying to gauge her reaction. “I’m following an unprecedented whim.”
“You are never whimsical, Altea.”
“Try me,” he said softly to her challenge.
Her fan snapped open, ostensibly to remedy the lack of fresh air. “Oh, I’ve
tried
you,” Madeline murmured, her lashes lowering provocatively. “I believe that is what got us both in trouble in the first place.”
“
Are
we in trouble?” The moment he said it, he wished he hadn’t.
“I don’t know. Are we?”
There was no question of him answering that volatile inquiry. Instead, he chose to return to sexual repartee. “If we are speaking in innuendo, my lady, may I say I enjoyed that initial sampling immensely?” Comfortably sprawled on the seat, he regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Too much so, as I was unable to resist a repeat performance. I had no intention of seeing you again after that night last year.”
That was honest.
“Can I express how delighted I am you changed your mind?”
There and then, she silenced him, and it was ironic that
he
was delighted too. And he had every intention of being particularly delighted
this
night. If sybaritic pleasure was all they had . . . then he wanted to make the most of it.
“I think we are in accord there.”
“Will you tell me, then, where we are going?”
“No.” He smiled to lighten the denial. “Don’t you like surprises?”
“Only pleasant ones, Altea.”
He stifled a laugh. The austere tone of her voice was balanced by the speculative look in her eyes. He said, “I always strive to be infinitely pleasant to you. Have I not succeeded?”
She didn’t answer at once but continued to examine him before she finally murmured, “You have succeeded to an unsettling degree.”
“Is that a compliment or a criticism?”
“Both, I suppose. I don’t know.”
He debated the finer points of addressing the ambiguous nature of her response, but she looked too young and uncertain in contrast to the sophisticated cut of her gown, so his reaction was more of tender indulgence.
A revelation in and of itself, as he was more a passionate lover than a sentimental one. With Madeline he was both. “I’d say, then, that I wish you would trust me in this instance, and if I disappoint, feel free to be as vocal as you wish. How is that?”
“It isn’t a secret,” she said quietly. “I have gone this far. So it is clear I trust you.”
I have gone this far . . .
The inn was outside Mayfair, discreetly so, and as he’d made all the arrangements ahead of time, they were expected. Luke got out and helped Madeline alight. The unprepossessing exterior made her glance uncertainly at him, but he took her elbow and guided her toward the doorway, leaning close to whisper, “You can trust me.”
He meant it. All four of those usually simple words.
In this case, they weren’t simple at all.
Inside the establishment was quiet, the delicious smell of food in the air, and as he’d requested the best parlor for their meal, they were seated in a small room with low ceilings and an unlit, massive stone fireplace. Tapers burned and the windows were open to the small walled garden, making the flames flicker. The courses were to his specification: chilled cucumber soup, Dover sole, a rich duck confit with port wine, beefsteak, and, from his own pastry chef, a beautiful concoction of custard, caramel, and whipped cream for dessert. He’d also had a variety of wines brought in, and champagne was served after the last course by one of his staff, a young footman who was the grandson of the butler who had served the Daudet family for decades, his silence guaranteed by both loyalty and a healthy monetary incentive.
Renting out the entire homey inn for the night was a stroke of genius, he decided as he watched Madeline daintily lick her spoon after devouring her dessert. The neighborhood was out of the way of the beau monde; the elderly proprietor unlikely to gossip, considering what he’d been paid; and, for once, they could spend the entire night together. He’d planned this the moment Madeline had mentioned her sister in law was taking Trevor along with his cousins to the country for several days. Once the idea had occurred to him, it wouldn’t let him be until he’d made the arrangements.
Perfect. He wouldn’t ask her to take time away from her son, but with the opportunity right in front of him to get her entirely alone, how could he resist?
That’s the trouble
, he thought.
I can’t.
“There’s no one else here,” she observed, setting aside her glass. “I know there is staff in the kitchen, but otherwise it is very quiet.”
“The walls are thick.”
“But I am not.” Madeline’s observation was dry. “We are the only guests, aren’t we? Why go to all this trou ble and expense when we could simply stay at my town house?”
“A quiet dinner together cannot be given a price. Be sides, I don’t want to have to watch for the dawn.”
“My maid already knows.” Her dark eyes were more exotic than ever in the candlelight. “She hasn’t said any thing to me, but I have been the recipient of more than a few sly smiles.”
“But she has never seen me in your bed.” He was more worldly, more in tune with the subtleties of the ra zor teeth of the
ton
. “It matters. A guess is different. If she caught us fair out, imagine that scandal.”
“You are too gallant.”
“I’m a damn fool,” he said out loud, which he didn’t intend, but to be in this moment, looking into the depths of her eyes and knowing—knowing—what was to come in the hours ahead when he had her alone and all to himself, made him reckless when he was rarely out of control. He wanted her and wanted her freely, and as sentimental and absurd and simple as it was, he had a fantasy of waking next to her.
“Aren’t we both fools?” Madeline laughed, the light sound stirring him, and not just his passion, but his heart.
Good God, his heart.
No, not so. He didn’t have one any longer. It was in a grave on a Spanish hillside. When Maria had died, he was so sure he had figuratively died along with her.
Maybe you were wrong
.
God help him, maybe he
was
wrong.
“Yes,” he said in dark agreement, and stood, extend ing his hand. “Shall we go upstairs? This surprise has just begun.”
Chapter Eighteen
 
 
 
I
t was a fairy tale scene, albeit a somewhat humble one. Lit candles on the mantel, a comfortable tester bed taking up most of the space of the room, mullioned windows letting in a soft night breeze, and rose petals liberally scattered . . . everywhere. Across the linens of the bed, the floor, even on the windowsills. The scent of the crushed flowers was heady.
Madeline had to stifle a laugh at Luke’s expression. He muttered, “I believe I said
romantic
. I didn’t realize that included decimating innocent flowers.”
He said
romantic
.
That, she found, was romantic enough in itself. Not to mention the closeness of his tall body in the small room, his height such that his head was just below the beams of the timbered ceiling, his elegant evening wear an accent for the classic, fine-bone structure of his features.
“All this effort is worth a reward, I think.” Madeline heard the husky undertone in her voice, and knew a man of his sophistication wouldn’t miss it either. She took the step necessary to be close enough to reach up and touch him, lightly running a questing fingertip along the curve of his lower lip. “Can you think of anything you fancy?”

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