A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (14 page)

“Impetuous ones, obviously. Sit down, Sebastien. They’ll stop if you act as if you can’t hear them.”

He settled back into his seat. “If this persists, I shall have him, them, thrown out of the theater.”

“No, you won’t.” She eyed his strong figure in secret delight. “We must appear to be a well-behaved man and wife. It doesn’t help our other cause to attract notice.”

“Our cause? Well, all right.”

Her words appeared to calm him. After a moment he laid his hand upon hers, a gesture of warm possession that she wished were not so pleasant. Clearly he had no idea that she was still grieving the child she’d lost. Did he even remember? She thought of how alone she had felt, of how angry that he hadn’t been there to comfort her, and tried unsuccessfully to pull her hand from his. He wouldn’t let go.

Her fan slid from her lap to the floor. They
reached for it at the same moment, his clean-shaven cheek touching hers. The accidental intimacy, the scent of his mossy eau de cologne, disarmed her.

But not nearly as much as when he asked, softly, “Don’t you want a child, Elle? I thought you did once.”

“May I have my fan?” she asked instead of answering.

“I saw the christening gown in the drawer.”

“Oh,” she whispered, biting the inside of her cheek. “Then you do remember?”

He nodded. When he handed her the fan, she gave him a tremulous smile that went straight through his heart like an iron shard. The pain turned him inside out. But whether it would prove to be a necessary pain of healing or an irreparable break, he could not predict. Perhaps he should not have mentioned the baby. Until he’d seen that gown, he had not truly understood …

… how small a baby was.

He fidgeted. She gave him another look. Surreptitiously he lifted his opera glasses and scanned the other boxes for signs of her smitten admirers. At last he saw several pair of gloved hands waving in his direction.

He frowned, lowering the glasses, then raised them again.

“For goodness’ sake, what are you doing?” she whispered, trying to peer over his arm.

“There are three elderly women waving at us.”

“Well, wave back.”

He handed her the glasses. “I don’t know them—do I?”

“No, but I do. They’re agents for the duchess,” she confided, studying the enthusiastic trio who formed part of an elite spying network, comprised mostly of gentlewomen and street girls, that the duchess operated in London. On any given day one of them might be employed to spy on an unfaithful husband and report back to his wife. Another might sneak into a milliner’s shop and scrutinize the hats in progress so that the duchess would always appear in an original creation. Sometimes her grace wanted to know the inside odds on a racehorse. Her underground ladies took pride in their assignments. As did she.

“They must be in their seventies,” he said in disbelief. “And you say that they’re—”

“Lady Savile is ninety-three,” she murmured. “And still going strong.”

“Agents?” he said, blinking. “You don’t expect me to believe that an association of old ladies—”

“I’m hardly ancient.”

“—are agents?”

She glanced at Sebastien, restraining a smile at his astonishment. How naughty of her to enjoy unsettling his manly assumptions. “Underestimate us at your own peril.”

“I’m learning that.” His voice was resigned, but droll. “Do they know that you’re the Masquer?”

“They will if you announce it to the whole theater.

Dear heavens, I thought I was bad enough. Can’t you sit still?”

“I can if there’s nothing better to do.” He looked perplexed. “I sat for hours in cellars, in caves, in kegs, in coffins even. I didn’t move a muscle.”

“Men do have all the adventures,” she said with a sigh of envy.

“You haven’t done so badly yourself.”

A compliment. Why did his approval move her so deeply?

“Thank you.”

She stared at him.

He stared at her.

Then she stretched upward and kissed his cheek.

He blinked again, his nostrils tightening. “That was nice. I’d like more, please.”

“Wait until we get home,” she whispered against his chin.

“Why?” His heart was thundering. He placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her toward him. “I asked politely.”

“Sebastien,” she said, more breathless than reproachful.

“Isn’t this a private box?” He pressed hard, hot kisses down her neck. His finger circled the pendant, slipped inside her gown to twirl the tips of her breasts. “And you’re my wife.”

She gasped, then slowly lifted her hands to his chest. “People can see.”

He glanced up. From the corner of his eye, he
spotted a footman hastening from his post to close the curtains on this
acte d’amour
. For this favor Sebastien would tip him excessively at the end of the performance—and make arrangements to attend the opera with Eleanor again soon.

“I can’t see anything,” he murmured. “Except you.”

She smiled, arching her neck as he kissed a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. “You’d see the stage if you used the opera glasses properly,” she whispered rather weakly.

“No,” he said, his voice stubborn. “I’d still only see you.”

And there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that his powers of persuasion had taken effect and that presently she, seeing reason, would put aside her masquerade and concentrate on him.

She awoke two hours before daybreak and dressed in the dark. When she’d finished, she crept back to the bed to make certain Sebastien hadn’t roused. She studied his broad forehead, the strong cheekbones and spell-caster blue Boscastle eyes that, if opened, would shatter her concentration for several hours. Even though he was interfering in her duty, not to mention his scandalous behavior at the opera last night, she had to admit she liked awakening beside the handsome devil.

And a good thing she had awakened first. She spied his boots and a small case of house breaking utensils by the door. Subtle, wasn’t he? Or did he
assume that all his delicious lovemaking had left her witless? Or … was it possible that
she
had exhausted him?

She sat down at her desk and scribbled a message to remind him that she would be breakfasting with the duchess. If he thought for a moment that he had diverted her from her duty, he had a surprise coming. He was still sleeping as she propped the note on her pillow and sneaked outside.

Even when she stopped to stare up at their window from the street, she did not see a figure behind the curtains.

What a relief. She still had a wit or two left that he hadn’t stolen.

She hadn’t thought it would be that easy to escape. He might not have stopped her, but it had been damned hard to leave his bed.

Shadows shifted in the street, some endearingly pathetic, some to be avoided. Scavengers scoured the gutters for treasures to sell at market. Bone-pickers poked sticks into mounds of pungent horse ordure, their bags already bulging. An errand boy rushed past her, breathless, his spectacles gleaming in the mist. She almost collided with an apprentice who was chasing a dog who’d stolen his master’s cane.

London. Dirty. Teeming. Lovely city.

She wiggled her fingers inside her black kidskin gloves. Will had parked in his customary place on the corner, her disguise hidden within the carriage. The Masquer would not be his dashing self this morning, but a mere servant girl instead, whom no
one would look at twice. She hurried forward without looking back at her house again.

Not that she wasn’t tempted.

In fact, it was the first time since beginning her masquerade that the life of Lady Boscastle seemed more enticing than that of her other identity.

Tess Elliot had fallen upon hard times to judge by her current dwellings. Her lodging house occupied an unfashionable corner off Covent Garden near a pawnbroker’s establishment.

The only person Sebastien spotted in the vicinity was a buxom laundress in a frilly cap who, upon sighting him, froze and then began haphazardly yanking half-damp sheets and shifts from a communal clothesline that stretched between the houses. That she seemed unnerved by his appearance did not offend him in the least.

What sensible woman would wish to attract the attention of a big man skulking about the back alleys of London at this hour? At any hour, if the truth be told. He only wished his own wife would observe such cautions.

He watched the rotund laundress scurry off with her wicker basket. Sorrowful. Did every woman in London have to make him think of Eleanor?

Miss Elliot’s bedchamber overlooked a stygian back alley that bore the scent of chamber pot slops
and stagnant rain. Sebastien jimmied the servants’ entry door and proceeded inside while his manservant Mick acted as crow in the alleyway.

From the partially opened door of a bedroom emerged a duet of snores. He glanced inside.

Tess sprawled, bare arse rising, across her corpulent partner, who was also naked, but for a grimy cloak fastened about his flabby neck. A flintlock musket stood propped against the bedpost.

His mouth flattened in distaste. Hardly a challenge here. He’d be halfway across Town before this pair could disentangle themselves to give chase, let alone possess the wits to find their clothes.

He was glad Eleanor had not accompanied him. He disliked the notion of bringing her to a low neighborhood even if she had ventured to such dives with Will serving as her dubious protector.

She believed herself invulnerable, a lady of adventure. He could teach her a trick or two about the art of furtive ingress and infiltration.

He moved silently around the bed to a dressing table thumbnail-thick with dust. As he lit his pocket taper, he thought of his wife, of her soft red mouth swallowing him, inch by inch, their bodies bathed afterward in the fragrance of sex and intimate secrets. His head swam with a black desire.

A blob of wax slid onto his glove.

Damn
.

She distracted him even when they were apart.

If he didn’t concentrate, he’d set this heap on fire, himself included.

He frowned, searching the wardrobe and dressing case of Mistress Elliot. Sad, really, that a beauty had come to this. Baubles—a comb, a broken watch, some cheap paste jewelry, two letters from a cousin in Surrey demanding payment on a loan, a golden sovereign.

Nothing. Nothing of interest.

In his mind he could hear Eleanor laughing, teasing that she would beat him at his own game. He smiled and imagined how he would tease her back. She would probably still be with the duchess when he got home. He would try to be modest about besting her. She’d forgive him and admit to his superior skill once they were alone again.

The colossus on the bed behind him emitted a gurgling snort.

He knelt at the low chest of drawers. More trinkets. No signs of intrigue. Bloody waste of time. Humiliating.

Ah, a … chastity belt? Apparently never worn. Eleanor had been chaste on their wedding night. Was it all that long ago?

She wasn’t innocent now, God help him. Why hadn’t she taken up another pastime like writing poetry or painting—

No. Not painting.

Probably not reading poems, either.

The last drawer.

Concentrate.

His lower back ached, an unwelcome reminder of the past.

He found a folded paper buried under a fan of broken peacock feathers.

He unfolded it and scrutinized the message in the faint light.

A reluctant smile tightened his mouth. How had she gotten here first? Why? To remind him again not to underestimate her?

He’d never do that again.

A short blow on a whistle came from the alley.

Mick’s warning.

He closed the drawer, straightened, and escaped the house with only seconds to spare before a mastiff bounded from the drawing room with a deep-throated growl.

She felt wickedly victorious as she reached her room, dropping the wicker basket of damp laundry at her feet. She’d find a way to return the stolen laundry later. For now she would have to hide it. She suspected that her lady’s maid had witnessed her clandestine return to the house. Eleanor was certain she’d seen a shadow at the bottom of the stairs when she had been running up.

But then Mary had witnessed many peculiarities
in the course of her service, and had never uttered more than a sigh of censure.

She untied her frilly cap and withdrew the bulky breast padding from beneath her cloak. Sighing with the pleasure of another letter recovered, she leaned her head back against the door. Her heart had finally slowed enough that she could breathe.

How she would have loved to be in Miss Elliot’s room when Sebastien discovered her hidden note. Had he laughed? Sworn to get even? Was he this moment tromping back home in defeat?

Not that she meant to gloat, but she had to admit that her changed husband had brought out a competitive energy she hadn’t felt since she’d been a girl vying for her father’s attention between patients. The odds were that the male would win, but if he didn’t—