The Devil In Disguise (31 page)

“Lady Lucinda.”

“Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda replied with as much confidence as she could.

He gestured for Lucinda to sit, then did the same. “I trust that Lord Weston was a satisfactory escort.”

Lucinda took the offered chair, thinking back on Weston’s role in tonight’s meeting. When she’d threatened to expose the Corinthians if he did not arrange the introduction, he’d agreed, though many colorfully voiced misgivings had accompanied his promise.

“Of course,” she answered with conviction.

Lord Carmichael settled back in his chair and propped his elbows on the arms. “Lady Lucinda, please know that we had no other choice but to proceed in such an aggressive fashion.”

Lucinda had not come for an apology. While the Corinthians’ presence was bothersome, at the moment, they were most comforting as well. All except one.

“Thank you, Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda said, pausing to clear her exceedingly parched throat. “But that is not why I’m here. I wish to speak to you about the Duke of Clairemont.”

Lord Carmichael fixed his sharp blue eyes on Lucinda. “Clairemont is the best man I have, though his involvement with you beyond a professional level is—”

“With all due respect,” she broke in, the heat traveling to her cheeks only humiliating her more. “I do not wish to discuss the personal nature of my relationship with the duke.”

Lord Carmichael looked confused at Lucinda’s words. “I’m sorry, Lady Lucinda. Then I’m afraid I do not understand the purpose of this conversation,” he said gently.

“I would like him to be removed from my situation,” Lucinda said plainly.

“That is impossible.”

His tone was resolute, his answer immediate.

Lucinda’s heart dropped. “Nothing is impossible, Lord Carmichael,” she replied desperately. “Surely not for the Young Corinthians.”

“Lady Lucinda—”

“Please, my lord,” she interrupted, loosening the strings of her cape. “Do not tell me what you cannot do, but rather what you can.”

Lord Carmichael rose from his chair and walked to the heavy door, murmuring to the men outside before closing it firmly. “Lady Lucinda,” he began, coming to sit on the edge of his desk across from Lucinda. “Your life is in danger. To remove Clairemont from the situation would guarantee your death.”

He toyed with the large signet ring on his right hand, the engraved band of gold twisting round and round. “I am sorry for the discomfort that his presence causes you,” he paused, his gaze enigmatic as it met hers, “but I cannot endanger you further by making such a tactical error. It is out of the question.”

It was clear from Carmichael’s tone that he would not change his mind, which meant that there would be no relief from the emotional onslaught that Will brought on with his nearness. His very voice made Lucinda want to weep; his touch when he took her arm in the interest of appearance caused her heart to break all over again.

“I will die either way,” she said quietly, hardly aware that she’d uttered the words out loud.

“There is something.”

Lucinda looked up slowly at Carmichael, the hesitancy in his eyes giving her pause. “Lord Carmichael?”

He was struggling with how to proceed, that was clear. “May I speak plainly, Lady Lucinda?”

“I insist.”

“What I am about to propose to you,” he began, pausing to clear his throat. “It will enrage Clairemont. In all honesty, it might cause him to quit the Corinthians.”

“The proposition, Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda pressed, her anxiety growing.

“If we were able to draw Garenne out into the open, our considerable forces would most assuredly capture him, bringing what has been an impossible situation for both you and His Grace to an end.”

“And how would we go about doing such a thing?” Lucinda asked, her heartbeat quickening.

Carmichael grimly gazed at Lucinda before answering. “With bait, Lady Lucinda.”

“The kitchen exit?”

“You’ve already asked after that one, Will,” Weston said smoothly, the two surveying the Foster masquerade with expert eyes. “Twice, actually.”

“Humor me,” Will replied in a barely restrained growl.

Weston winked at a group of giggling young misses in Grecian costumes and golden masks as they strolled past with their mamas in tow. “Four men at the kitchen exit, eight at the main entrance, another four near the doors that—”

“Thank you,” Will interrupted, fidgeting with his cuff.

“Try to relax,” Weston urged, stopping a servant and taking two flutes of sparkling wine from his tray.

Will accepted a glass and sipped, but his eyes continued to scan the Foster’s grand ballroom for signs of danger.

The news that Lucinda had agreed to be used as bait had enraged Will. He’d all but quit the Corinthians, his argument with Carmichael both savage and futile. He’d said such cruel and vicious things to his superior that Will was sure the man would never forgive. His threats of physical harm had failed to affect the man, Carmichael merely standing his ground and urging Will to do what he felt was needed.

Something in Will had wanted Carmichael to fight back, a physical encounter preferable to his superior’s steady implacability. But Carmichael had coolly refused, choosing instead to recount the reasons why the plan was the only option left. Will’s rants had fallen on deaf ears, and eventually he’d stopped yelling long enough to listen.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Clairemont, and Lord Michael Randall.”

The announcement of the arrival of Will’s family pulled him from his brooding. The two made their way toward him.

“William,” his brother said, briefly nodding in greeting.

Will returned the gesture and turned to the duchess. “Mother, you look lovely this evening.”

Her Grace smiled at the words, clearly pleased. “Thank you,” she replied, leaning in to offer Will her cheek. She smoothed the skirt of her rose-colored gown, the silver spangles sewn into the bodice shimmering with her movement.

“The Duchess of Highbury, the Marchioness of Mowbray, Lady Charlotte Grey, and Lady Lucinda Grey,” the majordomo announced.

“But nowhere near as fetching as Lady Lucinda,” the duchess replied, turning to watch Lucinda and the Furies enter the ballroom.

Will had been informed of Lucinda’s costume ahead of time, though the description had hardly done the dress justice. She moved gracefully toward him, her head held high and a smile on her face. Her deep blue gown floated about her, the silk shimmering in the candlelight. Rows of beadwork in hues of green, purple, and blue danced about the dress in a fanciful design that echoed the peacock feathers adorning her cleverly designed mask. Her golden hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in a waterfall of soft curls.

Will felt the world stop as she approached.

He loved her. She’d captured him, heart and soul, and now, as he drank in the sight of her, he knew he would never recover.

She swept toward him, coming to stand next to his mother. “Your Grace,” she said to the duchess executing a perfect curtsy, then turning to Will and the rest of the party. “Your Grace, Lord Weston, Lord Michael. How perfectly delightful to see you this evening.”

“Lady Lucinda, you look stunning. Is Madame Beaufont the one we must thank for creating such a beautiful costume?” the duchess responded, kissing Lucinda’s cheek in a warm greeting.

“Yes,” the Duchess of Highbury answered succinctly as the Furies joined the group. “Madame Beaufont’s cup of inspiration overflows, as you can see.” She gestured to herself and her sisters, whose dresses exactly matched the hues found in Lucinda’s mask and gown. Each woman wore a peacock feather neatly tucked into her coiffed hair and a mask that matched her gown.

Will grimaced at the woman’s poorly hidden indignation, knowing full well that her ire was aimed at him. The ladies had been instructed to wear the matching gowns so that they were clearly visible among the throng, a precaution that, despite their misgivings, the Furies had not been able to refuse.

“It is quite original, each of you complementing Lucinda’s gown,” Her Grace reassured the Furies.

“Well, that is one way of looking at things,” the dower duchess said acerbically. “Though I have to question whether Madame—”

“Is that a waltz I hear?” Will interrupted, eager to stop her before she continued.

The orchestra had played the opening notes of the next dance and couples moved smoothly to the floor.

“Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering her his arm. “I believe this waltz is mine.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Her hesitation was so brief as to be barely noticeable by any onlooker. She took his arm and addressed the Furies. “I’ll return shortly,” she said reassuringly.

Will led Lucinda to the dance floor, a reluctance in her step that belied her agreeable expression. He didn’t allow her to tarry for long when stopped by a friend or admirer, a glare from Iron Will proving sufficient to clear the path before them.

They reached the far end of the room. The musicians were situated on a dais at the edge of the polished marble dance floor. Potted palms and tall baskets of flowers were arranged about the perimeter and a multitude of candelabras added their glow to the chandeliers suspended high over the room.

Will turned to face Lucinda and took her in his arms. The music began, and he expertly swept her into the dance steps, encircling the floor before he spoke.

“Why have you refused me entry into your home this past week?” Will asked simply, the frustration over being kept on duty
outside
the town house—and having to hear of Lucinda’s demand from Weston—still lingering in his gut.

Lucinda smiled and nodded at a passing couple before looking at Will. “I did not want to see you.”

Her honesty stung. “And your role tonight? Was that an effort to end our acquaintance as well?”

“I certainly have no desire to pit myself against a notorious French assassin, if that is what you are thinking,” she replied caustically, turning lightly at his lead.

“You must know that I adamantly opposed your involvement tonight,” Will growled, the feel of her in his arms straining his control.

Lucinda stiffened at his words, her mouth thinning to a firm line. “And you must know that you’ve no right to feel anything beyond professional concern in this matter, Your Grace.”

He wanted to kiss away the anger and hurt that had filled her eyes—tell her he’d been a fool to deny his love for her, and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to forget every last reason that had kept him from following his heart.

“Lucinda, please,” he began, his voice harsh and strained with emotion. “You’re a woman who deserves much more … More than I could ever provide.”

She faltered and he caught her, easing her back into the rhythm. “I’ve no need to hear your excuses,” she replied bitterly.

Will knew what she needed to hear.

I love you. God help me, I always will
.

“Lucinda …” He looked away from her, the pain in her eyes clawing at his heart. His gaze was caught by Weston, who stood propped against the wall just to the left of the orchestra. He gave Will the signal to follow, then started walking.

“Yes?” Lucinda asked, her tone taut.

He stopped abruptly and caught her hand, drawing her with him to the other end of the ballroom. “I’m sorry,” he said, his body tightening with grave foreboding. “Something requires my attention at the moment. I’ll return you to your aunts.”

“Do not touch me,” she whispered angrily, tugging her hand from his.

“Lucinda, please—” He reached for her arm.

She recoiled at his touch. Belatedly remembering their audience, she pasted a small smile on her face. “Release me,” she said through her teeth.

“I cannot leave you alone.”

She glanced behind them to where a hall led to the ladies’ retiring room. Two Corinthian agents stood near, pretending to be deep in conversation. “I need a moment to myself, Your Grace,” she answered testily, though there was a pleading quality to her tone. “As you can see, I will not be alone.”

Will’s gaze flicked over the two agents and down the hall. He could not follow her into the retiring room. The need to play this evening perfectly if they were to catch Garenne made it absolutely necessary that everything appear as it should.

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, but caught Lucinda’s elbow as she turned to go. “Do be careful.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said hotly, the fresh tears that showed on her cheeks just below her feathered mask betraying her.

Will watched as she walked down the hall and disappeared into the room, his heart in her hands, though she did not know it.

He vowed then and there that when Garenne had been captured he would tell Lucinda that he loved her. And then he would never let her go.

Lucinda waited until Ladies Turner and Hightower had exited the retiring room before dissolving onto the settee in a puddle of blue silk and hot tears. She yanked off her feathered mask and dropped it into her lap, then savagely tore her gloves off.

She was not a stupid woman. She’d managed to avoid marriage to countless men. She owned a portion of what would surely become the most successful breeding stable in the whole of England. She’d survived despite the deadly threat of a maniacal Frenchman.

No, she was not stupid in the least. Yet she’d bared her heart to Will and asked for his in return—no, begged. And he’d refused.

She breathed deeply in an effort to regain her composure, opening her eyes at the sound of someone in the room.

Hastily, she wiped her tears, embarrassed to be found crying. A woman walked out from behind the curtained area at the end of the room. Lucinda blinked with disbelief at the sight of her.

“Lady Lucinda, I presume,” the woman said.

Lucinda had the oddest feeling that she was peering into a mirror. The woman standing before her was the image of herself from head to foot. Same hair, same dress, same voice. It was uncanny, and altogether unsettling.

“Who are you?” Lucinda asked, rising from the settee.

A small malicious smile lifted the woman’s lips. She stepped nearer. “That is not important.”

“I dare say it is,” Lucinda responded with asperity, the hairs rising on the back of her neck.