A Bride by Moonlight (11 page)

“No.” He paused for a long, pensive moment, looking suddenly awkward. “Well. Perhaps. You see, Cordelia—my great-aunt, Lady Hepplewood . . .”

“Yes?”

“She has some unfortunate . . . notions.”

When Lisette merely looked at him pointedly, Napier rolled his eyes, and went on. “Sir George says that Lady Hepplewood has taken it into her head that I’m to marry the companion.”

“Marry
Miss Jeffers?” Lisette drew back an inch, a hand set dramatically over her heart. “So
that’s
why you need me so desperately. But if I’m to have competition for your favors, I shan’t take it well, I give fair warning. I’m not just opportunistic, Napier. I am
possessive
.”

His smile was muted, his eyes flicking over her face as if somehow taking her measure yet again. “Excellent,” he finally said. “Be quick and brutal if you must. I’ve no wish to disappoint anyone—and in truth, how could the woman want a man she’s scarcely met?—but Aunt Hepplewood says that since the poor girl was to marry . . .” Here, his words dwindled and to her shock, Napier’s ears began to turn faintly pink.

Diplomatically, Lisette consulted her notes. “I believe the lady was to marry Lord Saint-Bryce.”

“Just so,” Napier muttered. “And I suppose that they imagine . . . well, that I am now he.”

It took a moment for this to sink in, then Lisette’s pencil clattered to the floor. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “The heir to the Duncaster viscountcy—Baron Saint-Bryce—is toiling away in government service?”

Irritation sketched over his harsh visage. “Nothing about this is settled.”

“Well, I am admittedly no expert,” said Lisette, “but if you were born on the right side of the Tarleton blanket and all your uncles are dead without sons, then there’s no
settling
to it.”

Napier cut his gaze away again. “Good God, you sound just like Sir George.”

“
Are
all your uncles dead?” she demanded. “Where is the third?”

“The eldest proved a rake and a scoundrel,” said Napier emotionlessly. “He preferred the pleasure of other men’s wives—until one of his cuckolds shot him dead on Primrose Hill.”

“Truly?” Lisette’s eyes searched his face. “And . . . you haven’t another, barking around somewhere?”

“I think we’ve established that I have not,” he said coolly. “In any case, just make it plain out of the gate that you and I are betrothed and that your family has strong expectations that I will—”

He stopped, and turned to look at her oddly.

“That you will what?” Lisette pressed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes almost softening. “Do you even
have
a family? I didn’t think . . . I mean, with the Ashtons dead. They
are
dead, I gather?”

“Yes, both.”

“Then there’s someone on your mother’s side, perhaps?”

But Lisette wanted no one’s pity. “Oh, indeed!” she said, drawing herself up haughtily. “You’ve the pleasure of addressing the only living granddaughter of the ninth Earl Rowend. Would you care to kiss my ring and pledge fealty?”

The softness vanished. “Do be serious.”

“I’m quite serious,” she said. “And I can act as high in the instep as any Tarleton. Why, until Papa couldn’t pay her, we had a French governess—and no one teaches hauteur like a Parisian born and bred.”

But Napier’s expression had turned inward. “An earldom, eh?”

Lisette arched one eyebrow. “What, the daughter of Sir Arthur Colburne, dashing but faintly scandalous
bon vivant
was not good enough for you?” She gave a regal wave of her hand. “Very well, use the noble Lord Rowend as you will.”

“Is your grandfather living?” asked Napier tersely.

“No, but it scarcely matters. The whole family despised Papa, and very nearly disowned me. They rarely know where I am or what I’m doing.”

“Good,” he said pensively. “That’s good. Perhaps we shall survive this preposterous plan after all.”

Lisette was unwisely pleased by his use of the word
we
. Then it dawned on her just what he implied. “Oh, no, Napier, wait one moment,” she said, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Do you dare suggest someone might make you honor this sham of a betrothal? Or worse, that
I
might?”

Some inscrutable emotion flared behind his eyes. “Theoretically, a gentleman may not break a marriage engagement.”

“Oh, how you do flatter yourself!” Lisette scowled across the compartment. “Only in your fantasies, Napier, would I have you. Moreover, the only family contact I have is when they send the family solicitor round twice a year in the faint hope I’ve died and will no longer inconvenience them. So be damned to you and your presumption.”

But Napier seemed to have absorbed little of her invective, and this time his mouth did decidedly quirk. “I likely am,” he murmured, relaxing onto the banquette again. “Damned, that is.”

The train rumbled on, the compartment silent, with Lisette glaring across the distance at Napier. After a time, however, his unflinching stare wore her down and she broke it off by scrabbling about for her pencil. “Very well, then,” she said when she’d found it. “I’ll have the family details memorized by Swindon. Now we‘ve our personal history to settle upon.”

As if stirred from a trance, he blinked. “Ah, yes. That will be necessary.”

“Regrettably.” She gave a sour smile. “And since this betrothal has come about on the heels of a scandal we must explain that away, for it’s always the little lies that trip one up.”

“There’s nothing so welcome as the voice of experience,” said Napier dryly. “Very well. What do you suggest?”

Lisette didn’t bother to rise to the insult. There was, after all, a painful amount of truth in it. “My name was briefly mentioned in the
Times
as a witness,” she simply said. “I daresay they do read newspapers, even in a
godforsaken
backwater
. How shall we handle that, Mr. Napier?”

“Ah,” he said. “How indeed.”

“Were we already betrothed?” she prodded, looking him up and down. “The papers made no mention of such a coincidence. So was it a secret betrothal? Are we
in love,
Mr. Napier? Or do we dare not tax our thespian skills so far beyond the credible?”

He shook his head. “It cannot be an arranged marriage; that won’t hold.”

She sighed. “And I haven’t quite enough money to entice a viscount’s heir.”

Napier studied her with his cool, steady gaze. “The truth will suffice,” he finally said. “We’ll say we met when you called upon me in my office to complain about Lazonby, and that I was immediately taken by your . . .”

“—spirit?” she supplied helpfully.

“Actually, it was your proclivity for bribery and seduction,” he countered, “along with that tiny peek of your left breast. But yes, let us call it
spirit
.”

“How gallant,” she said. “And perhaps we met again from time to time so that you might update me as to how the case against Lord Lazonby progressed?”

“Doubtless we did, since I was so charmed by your willingness to unbutton your gown in my office.” Napier settled back onto his banquette. “Do keep talking, Miss Ashton. We’ve all of two hours left.”

“But of course, my darling,” she said.

“Wait.” Napier sat bolt upright again, all pretense vanishing. “Why don’t we say you’re Elizabeth Colburne? Are you attached to the name Ashton?”

Lisette had learned not to get attached to anything. Upon arriving in Boston, she’d begun using the name because she’d been twelve years old and the Ashtons, childless, had insisted. It had scarcely mattered to Lisette; her father and sister were still just as dead. But the trust documents Bodkins had presented upon her return to England—and even as late as last week—still carried the name Elizabeth Colburne, and she’d spared it not a thought.

“My father had his name legally altered,” said Napier pensively. “Did you?”

She shook her head. “I suppose that I
am
Elizabeth Colburne,” she murmured. “It feels . . . odd, somehow, to realize it.”

He sat now on the edge of his seat, occupying the whole of the compartment, it seemed, with his wide-set knees and hands clasped loosely between them. He was thinking. And looking at her in that dark, deeply intense way of his; looking with such cold penetration that for an instant, she shuddered from the chill. How she would hate to be a criminal under his investigation!

But in a way, she was. And perhaps that’s all she was to him: a criminal—for he doubtless suspected her of things more heinous than even Lisette was capable of.

Or perhaps he did not. For when he spoke his voice had softened, with no hint of sarcasm. “And will you do it, then?” he asked. “You don’t have to; it wasn’t part of our bargain. But if I can say that I’m betrothed to the granddaughter of the Earl Rowend—even an estranged granddaughter—Lady Hepplewood will be unable to find fault with that.”

“Why wouldn’t I do it?” Lisette held his gaze steadily. “My word is my bond, and I’ve accepted your bargain. I don’t admit to anything, mind you. But whatever else I may be, I am not a cold-blooded murderer, a thief, or a liar—well, not unless I have to be. Now all I ask, before I get off this train in Swindon, is
Do you
have the power to protect me from Lazonby if he turns vengeful, whatever his reason?”

He was regarding her with utmost gravity now. “So far as the judicial system goes, yes,” he finally said. “I can’t control what the man says in the street. But even Lazonby hasn’t the power to hang someone. Not against my will.”

That
Lisette believed sincerely.

“Then let’s agree to this properly,” she said, peeling off her glove and thrusting her hand across. “I shall faithfully uphold my end of the bargain if you’ll uphold yours. I want your word, Napier, as a gentleman.”

He looked at her outstretched hand—even pondered it a moment, she thought—then reached across the narrow compartment and shook it, his large, long-fingered hand warm and sure.

“You have my word, Miss Colburne, as a gentleman—
provided
you are not a murderer or a thief or a liar—that I will protect you from Lazonby’s retribution to the utmost of my abilities, legally, and in whatever other capacity I may.”

Her gaze holding his, Lisette clasped Napier’s hand for an instant longer than she ought to have done, then let it go, wondering if she had truly lost her mind. Wondering when pride and the foolish wish to be thought well of had displaced her good sense.

And worrying about those two little words Napier had
not
echoed.

Cold. Blooded.

CHAPTER 6

In Which Mr. Napier Grasps His Grievous Error

N
apier would give the devil her due. Elizabeth Colburne was a master.

And he—well, he was a damned fool. Or a genius.

By the time they stepped down onto the platform at Swindon Junction, his self-described blackmail victim was a woman transformed, having spent the last half hour of their journey rummaging about in her overstuffed carpetbag like some Covent Garden magician tugging rabbits from a hat.

“I’m glad I came a little prepared,” she had grumbled into the bag as she extracted a satin jewel box, “rather than simply accept your vague instructions. After all, aspiring to become Mrs. Napier is one thing. But if one aspires to become Baroness Saint-Bryce of Burlingame, a little tarting-up is wanted.”

Napier had watched in quiet awe as she redressed her hair, exchanged all her jewelry, dashed a little powder on her cheeks, and stuffed away the simple gabardine cloak she’d worn into Paddington Station. When she was done, she looked nothing remotely like a tart.

Indeed, she scarcely looked like the woman with whom he’d left London. And she looked so little like a radical newspaper reporter that Napier ceased to be certain of his entire theory about how Sir Wilfred Leeton ended up dead in his own dairy.

Elizabeth Colburne now wore a jewel-toned paisley shawl swathed like a cashmere cloud about her shoulders and a short strand of perfectly matched pearls about her neck. A square-faceted emerald identical in color to the green of her velvet carriage dress dropped from the pearls, catching the afternoon light.

Tiny, tasteful emeralds studded her ears and dangled with pearl teardrops. And through her hair she had twisted a length of cream-and-emerald satin roping in a neoclassical fashion that turned her hair into a tousled, flaming tumble of curls.

After whisking her around the hideous twenty-foot marble monstrosity adorning Burlingame’s carriage drive—Hades abducting Persephone, he thought—Napier had handed her down from their hired gig and felt for the first time a measure of appreciation for the massive family pile.

And then he realized in some disconcertion that it was because
she
looked so grand. He wished his home to look equal to her visit. Disconcerted by this bizarre notion, he cut Miss Colburne another sidelong glance and felt his breath catch. She stood at the very foot of the grand stairs, looking rich, beautiful, and with her unusual hair, faintly avant-garde.

But Burlingame was not his home. And Miss Colburne—well, she was just a bought-and-paid-for actress, or something near it. A wise man would take care to remember both those things.

“Well, there it is,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Burlingame’s grand façade in all her Baroque glory.”

But Elizabeth Colburne merely took his proffered arm, and lifted her nose. “Has it only
three
wings, then?” she said a little haughtily. “Rowend Hall—the seat of my dear, belated grandpapa, the Earl Rowend—has at least
six
.”

“Has it indeed?” he had murmured, escorting her up one side of the wide staircase. “I should very much like to see how the architect managed
that
feat of engineering. But these are called pavilions, I believe. Ordinary wings would never do for the Tarletons.”

But the aspiring baroness did not deign to answer, and instead turned the full force of her newfound hauteur upon the erect, elderly woman who stood just inside the front door.

The Countess of Hepplewood leaned much of her weight upon a solid ebony walking stick and watched their arrival with something less than unbridled enthusiasm. Beneath her elaborately coiffed, graying hair, she wore deep mourning and a piercing, hawkish gaze.

Napier greeted her civilly, but not warmly. He did not dread his aunt; indeed, he scarcely knew Lady Hepplewood, and cared even less for her opinion. Or so he told himself—perhaps in self-disillusionment, for he felt oddly grateful for the small, warm hand upon his arm as they suffered the first formal introductions.

It was a slender reed indeed he clutched, relying upon a disingenuous virago who’d been pressed into his service. But moments later Miss Colburne sat as if holding court in Burlingame’s grand salon, her spine stiff as a duchess, a delicate ivory teacup held just so, one pinky tilted elegantly aloft—along with her nose—and Lady Hepplewood watching her with a sort of wary curiosity.

Though decorum precluded mentioning it, Lady Hepplewood had reserved a special sort of attention for her visitor’s unusual hair, and Napier realized his demand had been not just selfish, but shortsighted. No lady of his acquaintance wore anything but bland buns looped about with heavy braids. But that fierce red chaos of curls and satin . . . well, it was simply
her
. And he would as soon not think about why that mattered to him.

“I fear, Miss Colburne, I know little of your family,” said Lady Hepplewood pointedly, “since Saint-Bryce wrote only that he was bringing his future wife.”

“Oh,” said Napier blandly, his teacup clicking softly back onto its saucer, “did I not mention a name?”

Lady Hepplewood shot a disapproving glance in Napier’s direction. “You did not,” she said. “Did I hear my grand-nephew aright that you’ve a connection to Lord Rowend?”

“Oh, indeed, ma’am, the ninth earl was my grandpapa.” Miss Colburne made a nonchalant gesture that set her brilliant curls shimmering in the light slicing through the tall windows. “Though I cannot claim we were close. Mamma was his favorite, but dear Grandpapa disapproved, you know, of her marrying a mere baronet—a tragic lapse in discernment which I, of course, was resolved
never
to repeat—” Here, she paused just long enough to turn a doting sunbeam of a smile on Napier, who had wedged his length into an overstuffed chair at her elbow. “—wasn’t I, my darling?”

“Oh, you are nothing, my love, if not resolved,” he managed.

“How single-minded of you,” said Lady Hepplewood coolly, her teaspoon tinkling around her china cup.

Miss Colburne laughed lightly. “Actually, I fear, Lady Hepplewood, that I am quite
incorrigible
.” Again, the doting expression fell upon him—row upon row of brilliant white teeth and eyes that sparkled blue-green fire. “And my dear Mr. Napier makes little answer, for he knows I am teasing him.”

“Oh?” Lady Hepplewood barely cracked a smile. “May I know in what way?”

Miss Colburne leaned conspiratorially near the lady. “When we first met,” she said in a dramatic whisper, “my dear Mr. Napier did not trouble to tell me of his family connections. Can you imagine?”

“Actually, no.” Lady Hepplewood looked down her nose at Napier. “I cannot.”

“Indeed not, for he was very cruel,” she declared, “and for weeks on end quite happily let me think that I’d fallen in love with a pauper.”

“And there was such a string of gallants before me,” Napier dryly remarked, “one marvels you spared me a second glance.”

“Really, my darling, you mustn’t fib to your aunt,” she warned, eyes firing with humor. “Despite my fine lineage, my age was against me, as well you know. And the hair—well, not every man will have a redhead, I admit, for we are thought quite—”

“—incorrigible,” Napier interjected, “I think you said.”

“No, willful and hot-tempered, I meant to say,” Miss Colburne supplied. “But there, my dear, I never quarrel with your opinion, do I? I’ll take a mere
incorrigible
and be glad of it.”

“And what of your family?” said Lady Hepplewood delicately. “Have they no objection to your traveling such a distance unattended?”

Miss Colburne looked only slightly abashed. “Frightfully American of me, isn’t it?” she said. “When my aunt died two years ago, I gave propriety less thought, perhaps, than was wise. But I had quite resolved not to marry, so I set up housekeeping with dear Fanny, and my elderly nurse. Until Mr. Napier swept me off my feet, I expected to live out my days a spinster.”

Here, she broke off to sip her tea, still held so gracefully. “My heavens, Lady Hepplewood, is this a most unusual brew. Do I detect a hint of . . . yes, jasmine, is it not?”

Lady Hepplewood tilted her head in stiff acknowledgment. “It is scented with jasmine flowers,” she said. “An unusual tea which I’m told is quite superior to all others.”

“Indeed, you were told rightly,” said Miss Colburne with an air of sophistication. She paused to sip again. “
Mo li hua cha
, the Chinese call it. But in a green base here, not some common oolong.”

“Er, yes.” Lady Hepplewood looked surprised. “I believe it is green.”

Miss Colburne sat her cup down and gazed about the opulent chamber with an expression that suggested she’d just made up her mind that Burlingame was not, after all, flea infested.

“Lady Hepplewood, I compliment you on your discerning palate,” she finally said. “One never knows what inconveniences one might have to suffer in the country, does one? But the house is quite admirable, I think, and the best hostesses in London would not be bold enough to serve such a tea as this.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Hepplewood, showing little sign of thawing. But the countess had, at the very least, sheathed her claws.

“Well, whatever it is,” said Napier, “it’s most welcome after a dusty drive.”

The claws came back out with a near-audible
snick!
as she turned her disapproval upon him. “And as I hope I made plain, Saint-Bryce, I do wish you’d sent word from Swindon,” she said frostily. “Really, it will not do for Duncaster’s heir to be seen haring about the county in
hired
equipage.”

“Lady Hepplewood is quite right, my dear.” Elizabeth Colburne shot him an affectionately chiding glance. “I said as much at the station, did I not? But as usual, you would not listen.”

“Does a gig from Swindon’s livery even rise to the level of
equipage
?” said Napier evenly. “But if you please, ma’am, I mean to cling to my surname a while longer.”

At that, Lady Hepplewood’s spine drew another notch straighter, if such a thing were possible. “What nonsense,” she replied. “Indeed, Nicholas had no business working himself into such a puerile snit as to change it in the first place. And a Gretna Green marriage in the bargain! He was just a boy, yes, but what he did to spite Duncaster defies all logic.”

Napier was on the verge of snapping back that perhaps his father had changed his name to reflect the family he
did
have rather than the one that had cast him so cavalierly aside. But the truth was, he was no longer sure of his father’s choices. And after a chary glance at him, Miss Colburne leapt to Lady Hepplewood’s rescue.

“Your great-aunt’s point is well made, my darling,” she said sweetly. “Do as you please in London, to be sure. But here it may confuse people.”

Just then, a tray laden with dainties was brought in and set down beside the tea service.

“I thought at this hour, you might be famished,” said Lady Hepplewood stiffly. “Do help yourselves.”

“Thank you,” said Napier, who was starving.

“Ooh, lemon biscuits!” Miss Colburne exclaimed, plucking one. “Wait—” Her gaze fixed on Napier’s plate, then narrowed disapprovingly.

“What?” he said.

She reached across and snatched from his plate the sliver of sandwich he’d just picked up. “
Cucumber!
” she chided. “You know, my darling, that it unsettles your digestion. Take a plain bit of cake, if you please.”

Napier shot her a dark glance and watched his sandwich go. She bit into it with her sharp white teeth and then, turning her head ever so slightly, shot him a saucy wink.

And in that split second, it happened. Lust shot through him like a red-hot poker, visceral and fierce—along with the burning desire to snatch Miss Colburne up by her bright red curls and lay the business side of his hand to her bottom.

But the spell was immediately broken.

“Or perhaps the egg mayonnaise with cress?” suggested Lady Hepplewood, turning the plate to offer them. “I always find that soothing. Might I ask how the two of you met?”

Napier put his plate down with an awkward
clack!
and attempted to throttle his emotions. Good God, was he taking leave of his senses?

Elizabeth Colburne carried on without him. “Why, we met at a literary reading,” she smoothly lied, brushing a crumb from her green velvet skirt. “An evening of poetry at the home of our mutual friend Lady Anisha Stafford—she’s the Marquess of Ruthveyn’s sister.”

“Poetry?” Lady Hepplewood turned to Napier. “I would not have taken you for the literary type, Saint-Bryce. Who was the poet?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Napier. “I turned up because I owed the lady a favor. The fellow was a dead bore.”

Just then, the ormolu mantel clock struck the hour. Lady Hepplewood turned to frown at it. “Gwyneth and Diana should have returned from the vicarage by now,” she said irritably. “How that pair does dawdle. Really, I wish I had known to expect you today. Anne and Sir Philip are in London—he sits in the Lower House, you know—and Duncaster is unavailable.”

Anne was none of Napier’s concern, and his grandfather was likely resting at this hour. “I beg you will not trouble yourself over it, ma’am,” he said. “I mean to stay some time, as Duncaster requested.”

But just then, a faint sound caught his ear. He glanced up to see a liveried footman sweep open one of the massive doors. A pretty, round-figured female in brown stood in the shadows beyond on the threshold, holding a girl’s hand. The footman had bent forward to whisper something in the woman’s ear.

Her expression stiffening, the woman swept almost haughtily past. In the light, Napier recognized the girl as Beatrice, Saint-Bryce’s only child by his second wife—and now, sadly, an orphan.

Beatrice, Napier had noticed, seemed a peculiar girl. At the age of perhaps ten or eleven, she seemed by turns alternately childlike and guarded. But Napier thought the artlessness a ruse, for unless he missed his guess, there was a certain perceptiveness hidden in her eyes.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said the woman in brown, “but you did say we might come down?”