A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (22 page)

“You brought me this to gloat,” she accused him, wide awake now.

“Untrue,” he said.

“Did you read it?”

“‘What does he seek?’” he quoted, moving out of the late-morning light.

“‘A few crumbs of love and the attention of the most beautiful ladies in London,’” Eleanor read on. “‘Two Bow Street Runners were summoned to a notorious Bruton Street brothel at two o’clock in the morning. The proprietress gave evidence that she had caught and confronted the man whose appearances in numerous bedchambers has caused an uproar around the city these past three months.’” Eleanor groaned, quoting Mrs. Watson’s report. “‘I convinced the Mayfair Masquer to unmask.’”

Sebastien sat down on the bed.

“‘And when he did—’”

“‘—he revealed himself to be one of the most hideously scarred gentlemen it has ever been my misfortune to behold.’” He read over her shoulder, savoring the intimate contact. “‘Upon gently questioning his motives, he confessed that he was a Cornishman who had been disfigured in a mining accident. His only pleasure, this pitiful creature confided, is to pay secret visits to beautiful women who would shun him were his disfigurement revealed. His crime is a love of beauty and lonely desire.’”

“What a fable,” Eleanor said with a little frown. “I’ve never set foot in Cornwall.”

He was enticed by the scent of her tousled hair. “Would you like to spend a week in Penzance? We can walk along the beach together. I’d enjoy that.”

She turned slightly at the shoulder, still for several heartbeats. “Did you
see
this picture of the Masquer?”

He laughed. “One could hardly miss it.”

And they both stared down in grave contemplation at the caricature of a short, hawk-nosed gentleman who had not only removed his mask but also pulled down his trousers to bare his buttocks in a celestially rude gesture.

“He’s got a bit of a cheek,” Sebastien said unhelpfully.

“Did she have to make him out to be so unattractive?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Those of us who truly know him would tend to appreciate the diversionary tactic.”

“I can’t very well insist she revise her evidence.”

He said, after another pensive silence, “At least it lays all his romantic pretensions to rest.”

She sighed. “To be honest, I find his past more compelling than I did when—it didn’t exist.”

He wouldn’t win. Surely he should ignore the devil on his shoulder that urged him to argue the point.

“But his element of intrigue is gone,” he said. “He’s more an object of sympathy now than a dashing figure.”

“Poor Masquer,” Eleanor murmured, smoothing her hand over the cartoon of her fallen self. “I had no idea he was so tragically scarred. I’m quite moved by his story.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastien said, wresting the paper from her hands, “we should place our attention on giving him a happy ending.”

“I haven’t failed, after all,” she said, her spirits apparently rallying.

He gave her a look meant to quelch her resurging confidence. “You cannot do this again.”

“I agree.”

He lifted the tray from the bed and put it on the floor. “Ah. Shall we inform the duchess together?”

“If she sees this, which she will, I’m not certain I shall be able to show my face to her again.”

“Not after this picture shows—”

He laid his head back onto the pillow; she leaned back against his chest. He knew she had evaded a commitment. And that he’d have to resort to more persuasive means to secure her word.

He waited a few moments to make his move, only to realize she had beaten him to the start line.

“I do have to disagree on your previous remark,” she said, her fingers straying down his thigh.

She might be playing him, but still he savored the moment, the closeness that he was learning led to indescribable sex. His body heated. He smiled inwardly, wondering which of them would prove the more persuasive.

“The Masquer’s romantic pretensions have
not
been laid to rest,” she ventured at his lack of response.

“To hell with it,” he said, and pulled her between his thighs.

A knock at the door resounded through the chamber. Mary’s frantic voice brought husband and wife off the bed and onto their feet.

“Lord Boscastle! My lady! I would never disturb you under other circumstances, but the duchess has sent her page to the door. It seems she is in high dudgeon. She demands to see both of you at four o’clock.”

And then, as if she hadn’t made the urgency of this request perfectly clear, she added, “In formal afternoon attire.”

Eleanor did not need the mystical insight of Sir Perceval to understand what Sebastien had left unsaid about last night’s fiasco. He knew she had blundered. But it was what he didn’t know that worried her. She would shrivel up in shame if he found out that Mrs. Watson had been on the verge of seducing her. And even though the woman had apparently done her a good turn, she remembered that Audrey had mentioned a price. One did not become a demimonde hostess without an instinct for marketing.

Instinct.

When had Eleanor ever done anything
except
on instinct? Look where it had landed her. She was so upset that she practically vaulted over Sebastien
like a steeplechaser to drive their curricle to their interview with the duchess.

He was clenching his teeth as she guided the horses past a crowd of urchins who stood watching a fight on the corner. It was that sort of day in London, the air unbreathable with soot and pent-up passions. If she slowed down, she knew she would see house-wives and tradesmen studying the posters of the Mayfair Masquer that had been pasted up overnight.

From the corner of her eye she saw Sebastien studying a large copy of the cartoon that showed the Masquer exposing his bum.

She could elude the entire city of London, she could trick the police, but not the man sitting beside her. “You needn’t look so pleased about this.”

“I’m not.” He shook his head. “I’m just trying to hang on to my molars. It’s not as if I enjoy seeing my wife’s posterior on every corner and tavern window in town.”

“That’s not my—well, mine.”

He glanced down. “There isn’t any resemblance.”

“Mrs. Watson must be having a good laugh at my expense.”

“Possibly. But at least her description won’t lead anyone to your door.” He folded his arms. “I heard the footmen telling each other that the Prince of Wales has challenged the Masquer to give himself up and seek political sanctuary.”

“At the Royal Pavilion in Brighton?” she asked. “With Carême doing the cooking?”

“His offer was not meant to be a private holiday,” he said. “But it does indicate he understands the threat the Masquer faces from his admirers as well as the threat his existence poses to the rest of London.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“It appears that his unmasking has sparked a wicked trend in Town.”

“Breaking into ladies’ bedchambers?” she asked in consternation.

“No. Pulling down a stranger’s pantaloons and making a run for it.”

She drove a little faster, a little more recklessly. “I hope the duchess doesn’t hear that disturbing piece of news.”

“She’d have to be walled in the family vault for it not to reach her,” he said with infuriating certainty. “We can only hope she understands it was a bit of exaggeration.”

“It was ever so much more than a bit of exaggeration!” She veered toward a group of pedestrians, who made a run for the pavement. “I did not take anything off except my mask.”

“Did Audrey take anything off?” he asked casually.

“What a mind you have,” she muttered.

He studied her from the side of his eye. “Well, she is a courtesan. And—”

She raised her brow. He stopped. She said, “Oh, do go on, he who owns a floating brothel, but has never frequented one.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “Darling, it’s only that I have a curious mind. And the Masquer did take off his clothes, or so the story goes—”

“The story is an utter fabrication—”

“—according to the newspapers,” he amended. “Good heavens, you do not think me a total dolt to believe everything I read.”

“I—What are you doing?”

She drew back sharply on the reins as a pair of street beggars in plaid coats dove for the handful of shillings he had tossed into the street. She bumped down hard on the seat.

“You seem flustered,” he said in a concerned voice.

“You are an oracle of perception.”

He smiled. “Why don’t you allow me to take the reins?”

She glanced up as a dark shape appeared in the sky. An enormous raven flew overhead, then settled spread-winged on a church spire. A messenger of impending evil, Sir Perceval and Mary would say, although Eleanor’s father would only laugh in scorn at such a superstition.

How could a bird predict the future? he would ask her in his grumbly voice. Doesn’t a predator have to eat? She recalled Sir Perceval’s last prediction, of a large family and a happy marriage. Naturally she
wished to see these hopes realized. Still, one could not believe in signs of good fortune without acknowledging the bad omens, too.

Sebastien swore, startling her. He placed his hand firmly upon her wrist. “Eleanor, I must insist.” He did look rather white, now that she took a moment to examine him. “You are quite inattentive. Allow me to drive.”

“As you like. I didn’t realize that city driving unnerved you.”

“It doesn’t,” he said through his teeth, as if she hadn’t nearly bowled over a snake charmer at the curb and prompted a hackney driver to hurl curses back in their direction. “In fact, I could use some practice myself. An apple cart led by a lone donkey on a Norman lane isn’t quite the same as navigating the streets of London.”

She sighed and pulled over so that they could exchange positions. “You wrote me a letter once, from an apple cart,” she reflected. “I always wondered how you managed to drive and write at the same time. And why that was the only letter you ever sent me.”

“I wasn’t driving at the time. I was hiding. And I was afraid it might be my last letter to you.” He reached across her lap for the reins she had taken back without thinking. Their eyes met.

“Have I become that difficult to live with?” he asked.

She pursed her lips in admiration as he expertly merged back into the street between a coal-seller’s
cart and a lumbering carriage. “Perhaps
I’ve
become too accustomed to living alone.” She didn’t mean to provoke him, only to be honest, and he appeared to understand.

He nodded. “Then what ever I must do to remedy that ailment, be assured that I will.”

“That seems more like a gauntlet thrown than a reaffirmation of our vows.”

He laughed richly, as sure of himself as the day they’d met. “It might be, depending on you.”

The former Kitty Packenham, now known as Catherine Wellesley, the Duchess of Wellington and wife of the most important man in the world, received Lord and Lady Boscastle in an aggrieved mood. Foreign and local newspapers lay scattered about the Aubusson carpet of her brother-in-law’s drawing room in Apsley House. The duchess’s usual empathy for Eleanor was displaced by a stab of envy as she surveyed the strikingly handsome man who accompanied her.

So, the officer-saboteur had finally come home. How he’d persuaded the duke to let him meddle in Kitty’s private affairs she didn’t know. It was only evident that the demon threatened to spoil all the fun. And if he wronged her dear friend and favorite agent, Eleanor, the duchess would make certain he’d pay. Still, he was pleasant on the eye in his black top hat, gray frock coat, and pleated black pantaloons.

She kicked one of the scurrilous papers describing her own husband’s activities under a chair. The duke might have his hands full as the world’s foremost
arbitrator, but his family had paid a price. He might have died at war for all his children knew him.

“Lord Boscastle,” she said as the elegant figure led his wife into Kitty’s presence. “How delightful to see you home.”

And how she wished it were Arthur standing in his place instead of this unfairly magnificent example of English manhood. It wasn’t that long ago that her own beloved had been an impoverished captain of dragoons. Now, as Kitty sat on her duff collecting dust, the crowned heads of the Continent fêted her husband. And their empty-headed female counterparts pursued him between church sermons and state banquets.

Kitty prided herself on how she had endured both his neglect and the criticism of society with dignity and ducal grace. Let the morally bankrupt assign her the insulting sobriquet of ugly ambassadress—a dull sparrow unfit to soar into her conquering husband’s lofty sphere.

His wife she was indeed, the mother of his two fine young sons. As holder of this privilege, Kitty had surmounted countless scandals. She viewed her obligation from the heights of unclouded maternal instinct. She understood her influence as one capable of charting a course that even the duke could not imagine. For her children she would sacrifice so that posterity might benefit from her absent husband’s brilliance.