A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (21 page)

“I’m no one’s hero.”

“In fact, my dear, you are. And with heroism comes responsibility.”

Eleanor swallowed. How would Sebastien escape if he were caught in an establishment of this nature? No mystery there. He would remove his mask, perhaps even his clothes, revealing the beauty of a Greek god, and Audrey would move heaven and earth to support his cause because he wielded that power over women.

All Eleanor had now as a weapon was a peacock feather, a bent one at that.

A quiet knock came at the door. A man asked in hesitation, “Madam, do you need us?”

Eleanor felt the tendons in her back tighten another notch. Was it only last night that she’d pitied the unfortunates who had been stuffed in rock-weighted sacks or hogsheads and dropped to the bottom of the Thames? The disappearance of Lady Boscastle would make the morning papers. She thought of Sebastien’s reaction when the tide washed her body to shore.

“Have I met you before?” Audrey asked unexpectedly.

“No.” Not a lie exactly. They
had
attended the same exhibition last year but had not been introduced.

“What am I to do with you?”

Eleanor ground her teeth. “I don’t give a damn at this moment. Call the police for all I care.”

“The police? Oh, please. How uncouth.”

They stared at each other again, enemies, allies, women who shared an unconventional streak. “I had you watched from the minute you approached my house. But I confess I did not guess your identity. I would have invited you inside had I known.”

Eleanor grasped Audrey’s hands on impulse. No going back now. “Then I beg you—if you have any sympathy at all for the Masquer, let him leave.”

Audrey smiled slowly.

“I think I might be persuaded.”

“And the letters?”

“No.” Audrey’s mouth firmed. “You’re fortunate that I have a weakness for rogues. Do not test my tolerance further.”

“Madam,” the voice at the door said, more forcefully now. “Do you require our intervention or not?”

Audrey broke free and quickly hid the letters inside a gold urn on the mantelpiece. “I have never betrayed a secret in my life,” she said as she turned. “If you trust me, you will not have cause to regret it.”

“Sadly, I am past the age of trust.”

“Madam,” the voice said at the door, as tough as an ogre’s now, “do you—”

“Yes,” Audrey said impatiently. “I require your help, but only from one of you. I wish you to escort our special guest outside in the most discreet manner possible.”

She was blindfolded and escorted by a guard down another staircase that led to a back courtyard. From there he took her through a stuffy tunnel that she guessed lay beneath several of the neighboring houses. The solicitous hand at her back guided her up a short flight of stairs and onto the pavement. She drew several deep breaths.

Then she was free, her blindfold removed, her face bathed in cooling fog—no, her mistake. She was trapped again, surrounded by flames. His Satanic Majesty Sebastien Boscastle awaited her, his features dark and unforgiving. She steeled herself for what was to come.

“If you ever do this again,” he said, grasping her by the shoulders, “I will personally shackle you to—”

She pushed around him, not having the heart to fight. He cursed loudly, using the most shocking words she’d ever heard. How he’d known to wait for her here she did not care.

“Where is the carriage?” she muttered, walking several steps before he stopped her.

“In the other direction.”

“No, it—”

“For the bloody love of God, Eleanor.”

“Are you praying or cursing me? Where
is
the carriage?”

He brought his hand down on hers in a vise that sent a shock through her torpor. “I moved it.”

“Where is Will?” she asked in bewilderment.

“I moved him, too.”

“You—”

“Never mind Will. What happened to
you
?”

She shivered as his gaze impaled her. She felt his fury, his concern, and then suddenly she allowed herself to feel her own vulnerability again. His arms closed around her. She let him hold her, knowing that she deserved his anger but that even more she needed his strength.

“Are you all right?” he whispered roughly as she laid her head on his chest, biting her lip when his large hand stroked her nape.

She nodded, wishing there were a way to avoid telling him she had failed.

“How did you manage to escape?”

“I’m not certain that I did,” she said slowly. “It might be only a reprieve.”

“Didn’t you get the letter?”

“No.” She broke away, shaking her head in bitterness. “There were two of them. I was caught.”

“By the guards?” he asked, glancing back down the street.

“No, by—”

The murmur of male voices carried from some unseen doorway. He gripped her hand again and propelled her down the street. Her boot heel caught on a cobble. He steadied her, swearing to himself, or at her. She only knew she could breathe again and that his hand felt warm and reassuring.

Will was pacing beside the carriage, a fashionable figure in his camel wool cape and high beaver hat. His blond-red hair appeared disheveled, however, and Eleanor detected the scent of brandy on his breath as she approached him.

“Your husband,” he said, with a fearful glance in Sebastien’s direction, “is a veritable monster. I thought he—he was going to—”

Sebastien stepped between them. “Chatter like a chambermaid at home. Your job is to drive.”

Will nodded meekly and scrambled up onto the driver’s box. A moment later Eleanor found herself all but stuffed into the carriage opposite her brooding husband, who sat back slowly as the pair of grays took off at a racing pace.

For an eternity he regarded her, then said, “Do you wish to explain what happened?”

“Audrey Watson caught me red-handed, and let me go.”

He frowned, absently rubbing his face. “Why?”

“I think—I believe she might have some understanding of why I am doing this.”

“Pray that she will enlighten me,” he bit out. “Why, Eleanor? Why did you start this?”

She turned from his forbidding scowl.

“I asked you a question, madam.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy stealing in and out of bedchambers, risking disgrace?”

“It was a way to pass the time.”

“Does Mrs. Watson know who you are?” he inquired after a pause.

“Not yet.”

“You’ve met her before?” he asked in surprise.

“We both attended a royal academy auction last summer to view Bellisant’s watercolor exhibition.”

He threw up his hands. “Of course.”

Eleanor shrank down against the squabs. Sebastien’s well-deserved disapproval stung. It would only be a matter of time before Audrey Watson placed her. The duchess would suffer a double humiliation, not only by having her husband’s alleged indiscretions exposed, but by the most popular half-world hostess in society.

“I lost my favorite pistol,” she muttered.

“A small price to pay for your freedom. I was ready to storm the house to bring you out.”

“That would have caused a scene,” she said with a reluctant smile.

He grunted. “It would have been nothing compared to what I’d have done had anything happened to you.”

She sighed. It wasn’t fair that all the blue in the world should be concentrated in one man’s eyes.
Or that the concern in his voice dissipated every cold and resentful feeling she’d hidden behind to protect herself from falling in love with him again.

And it
wasn’t
fair that for years she would have sworn he avoided looking at her when now his stare cut straight to her core.

“Why take these risks?”

He moved onto the seat beside her.

He was breaking her down with his concern.

She wanted to cry. “For the reward, of course.”

“Which is?” He frowned. “Is it monetary? Did the duchess offer you wealth?”

“Not exactly. You do realize that the duke will return to England one day and become an important political figure?”

“It is assumed.”

“There are benefits to being attached to those in power,” she said slowly. “Benefits promised to one’s family.”

He shook his head. “Then this is not just make-believe over tea? The duchess
has
promised to reward you?”

“Yes. And
you
, as well as any children we might conceive. Is that the answer you wanted?”

“I’m not sure, but at least it is one I can understand.” His hard chin brushed her cheek. “Promise me that you will not put yourself in danger again. I know you to be a woman of her word.”

And yet he still had not been honest with her. Would he ever admit that he was not acting under the duke’s orders?

She twirled her fingers into the crisp hair at his nape. “I do keep my word,” she said softly.

He reached up to grasp her hand. “Are you done with this dangerous affair?”

She looked up into his piercing gaze. After her close call on Bruton Street, she had to admit that danger had lost some of its appeal. Or perhaps she had all the danger she could ever crave sitting right beside her.

“Well?” he said, his mouth close to hers.

“Not tonight. I have to think.”

“Then think of this.” He laced his fingers in hers. “There will be children for us,” he said.

“But not the one we lost.”

“I’m sorry for that, Eleanor.”

“I know.”

“Our children cannot have the Mayfair Masquer for their mother.”

“Probably not,” she murmured.

He looked down, shaking his head.

This, he thought in frustration, had been the threat to their marriage all along. Not Bellisant or any other young buck, but a monster of her own making. One larger than life. One who did not even exist but against whose fictional acclaim he must compete.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t let me lose you, too.”

Sebastien brought tea and the morning paper to his wife’s bed the following morning. Her maid, Mary, shook her head in mute reproach when she intercepted him on his way back up the stairs.

Her gaze lowered to the paper tucked under his arm. “The mistress usually likes the tray set by her door after an evening abroad.”

Which he supposed was Mary’s way of reminding him that she knew more of Eleanor’s habits than her husband did. “I’ll manage,” he said, winking at her.

She smiled back without enthusiasm. Sebastien had to grin. She really hadn’t warmed to him. “Would you like me to have a tray sent up for you, my lord?”

Probably one that offered mercury-laden biscuits and hemlock tea.

“No, but thank you.”

“Lord Boscastle—”

“Yes, Mary?”

“Forgive my impertinence, but her ladyship does not care to be awakened this early in the day.”

“That I remember,” he said wryly. “Leave her temper to me.”

Indeed, when he carried the tray into the room and gently touched his wife on the shoulder, she sat up with a disoriented shout that caused him to reconsider the maid’s warning. Eleanor had never been a sunny morning girl. He knew that from the start. Pity he hadn’t known what a late-night firecracker she would become.

He sat the tray down on the bedside table, whistling cheerfully. He couldn’t pretend he was not delighted that she would finally be all his again.

“I need to talk with you,” he said before her drowsy beauty could distract him.

She stared blankly at the window as if she’d just risen from the dead.

“Later. Tomorrow. Next month. My thoughts are afog.”

“Have a cup of tea first, darling. This cannot wait.”

He stood at the window, fiddling with the curtains while giving her time to rouse. An entire pot of tea later, he heard the paper he had laid upon the bed rustle, a sharp gasp, and then silence.

He wondered what another man would do in his place. He did not know what it said for his character, but he’d rather be the husband of a woman who held London in thrall than one who had been cuckolded.

“Oh, Sebastien. This is awful.”

He made a soothing sound in his throat. She was
staring aghast at the print that depicted the latest of the Masquer’s exploits.