A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (6 page)

“Perhaps we should go home, after all,” she added. “I never dreamt that the miscreant would be so brazen as to appear at a party. I believe my knees might buckle.”

“I’ll be sure to catch you,” he said gallantly.

She gave him an ironic smile. How brave she was to tease him. “What a comfort you are, dear heart.”

“I’ll do anything to protect you from the Masquer, my precious pearl,” he replied.

“I doubt he presents a danger to you, Lady Boscastle,” Nell Gwyn said, sizing up Sebastien from the corner of her eye. “It’s hard to imagine the plucky devil getting past his lordship’s guard.”

“He has more pluck than any of us can imagine,” Sebastien said with an unwilling laugh.

The lady cocked her head. “Do you have a personal association with him?” she asked shrewdly.

He grunted. “Not as personal as I might—”

“My husband knows him as little or as well as anyone in London,” Eleanor broke in promptly. “And he admires him, as I do.”

He sent her an appreciative smile. “My admiration for him knows no bounds. Nor does my desire to see him retire for his own sake before he strikes again. I should love to meet him alone in the dark and convince him to cease his dangerous adventures.”

“You’d have to be quite persuasive,” the major remarked.

“Take my word on it,” Eleanor said. “He is.”

“This all sounds a little wicked,” Nell said, pursing her lips in speculation.

Eleanor tapped her tail against her thigh. “Wicked is his lordship’s middle name.”

“I’m enjoying this conversation immensely,” Nell confessed. “Why have we waited so long for our reunion?”

Her husband scowled at her. “Hoist up the ear trumpet, dear. Didn’t you hear? His lordship’s just come back from France.”

Sebastien glanced over at the fireplace, then back at Eleanor. Major Dunstan had lowered his vizard to inspect her gray-striped doublet and close-fitting black breeches, or rather the ample curves accentuated by the snug wool.

“What a novel costume,” he remarked.

Sebastien loudly cleared his throat and frowned at Eleanor. “Do you want me to fetch your cloak?”

“I’m quite comfortable,” she said. “Are you feeling a chill, my lord?”

“I could be warmer.”

“Perhaps you should stand by the fire,” she suggested.

“But then who would be here to protect you?” he asked quietly, shifting his stance to remind her he had reclaimed that duty.

“The good major, possibly,” she answered.

He let the comment pass, aware that she was trying to provoke him. His interference in her work for the duchess had not helped heal their estrangement.

“Would you like a cup of hot tea?” she asked solicitously.

He gazed at her. “Not unless you’re offering to go home and boil it for me.”

She turned.

It was time.

Straightening to follow his wife, he gave a faint nod to the harlequin waiting beside the fireplace.

A basket of oranges gripped against a wrinkled pair of bosoms obstructed his path. “What do
you
think the Masquer wants?” Nell Gwyn breathed, her obsession with the man who was his wife grating on his nerves.

He shrugged, counting backward. “Only he can answer that.”

Five
.

“Do you know that at least one description of this villain could match your own?” she asked, edging a little closer.

He curbed his exasperation. “Say it isn’t so.”

“Oh, yes. Well, as far as I can remember. How tall are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“
Four
.”

She giggled. “You’re ever so much bigger than that.”

“Mrs. Dunstan,” he said in mock reproach, “do not tell me that a lady of your good sense ascribes heroism to this character’s acts?”

“Well, one feels a certain sympathy for the rogue.”

Three
.

She attempted to squeeze her husband to the side
to continue the conversation. “I will admit only this—if the ladies of London are hesitant to venture out after nightfall, it is only because they hope he will visit them in the privacy of their homes. I—I wish he would come to my bedchamber, my lord. I would give him what ever it is he seeks.”

Two
.

“Madam.” He touched his heart, a perfect gentleman embarrassed by this candid confession. And—where the hell had Eleanor gone?

“Cat giving you the slip?” Major Dunstan asked with a shrewd glance at the black-trousered form weaving across the ballroom, tail swishing across her backside.

One
.

A series of deafening cracks and impressive flashes of red-gold light erupted from the fireplace. Smoke followed in tendrils that writhed toward the chandelier like unleashed demons.

Nell Gwyn shrieked, flinging her basket in the air. Her oranges flew into orbit.

Before Sebastien could escape, she feigned such a dramatic faint that he was obliged to catch her in his arms. The instant she appeared to be steady on her feet, he thrust her back at her partner, who had not uttered a word, his face chalk-white under the sausage ringlets of his long black peruke.

Swearing to himself, Sebastien picked up several oranges and plopped them back into her fallen basket.

It was tempting to waste time reassuring the
bewildered guests that they were in no danger from this illusionary pyrotechnic peril, as convincing a display as it was. Sebastien had practiced similar effects a few times himself in empty brandy kegs when he’d hidden aboard French schooners and had required a distraction to jump overboard.

Still, he should have known better than to dally admiring the amateurish trick.

Before the smoke thinned, he realized Eleanor had taken the opportunity to escape. As should he.

À bon chat, bon rat
. It took a good rat to outwit a good cat.

He cut a path across the ballroom to the door behind the corner stage where the orchestra had burst into a deafening rendition of “Rule Britannia.” He’d lost an opportunity, hoodwinked by his wife. While he had been gathering oranges, Eleanor had sneaked off to search Lady Trotten’s bedchamber for the next letter in the missing collection. So much for impressing her with his professional wiles.

Truthfully he could not care less about a handful of scribblings describing an affair that may or may not have even occurred. He’d rather dazzle Eleanor with his bedroom skills than his ability to set off little bombs. He intended to make up for six years of neglect, as her husband and lover.

What remained uncertain was whether he could persuade her that he deserved the chance to try.

A change of plans. Sebastien congratulated himself for having the foresight to exit the small door behind the musician’s stage, thus circumventing the crush that Eleanor would meet outside the ballroom. From there, he anticipated it would be easy work to find the letter. He soon discovered that Lady Trotten did not keep her private belongings in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. She maintained a separate suite at the opposite end of the hall. It was a good thing he’d learned to anticipate these unexpected detours. No doubt Eleanor was still searching the wrong chamber.

It took him an additional thirty-five seconds to pick the brass lock to a darkened anteroom furnished with a massive velvet chaise lounge that sat upon four lion-clawed feet.

Encircled in the far corner by three standing mirrors, the couch was clearly placed to invite moonlight encounters. One would hope, however, that what ever trysts her ladyship enjoyed in that corner were waiting for a more convenient moment.

At least, more convenient to the man who’d broken into the room.

No sooner had he slipped into his tunic the letter, designated as the one desired by its broken crimson seal, than he realized he was not alone in her ladyship’s room.

Neither was her ladyship. She was steering a man to the couch. Lovely time for her to conduct an affair.

“
Je vous en prie, madame
,” her enthusiastic lover gasped as he stumbled onto the chaise, so flattened beneath her generous form that all Sebastien could discern of him was one outthrust arm and a stockinged foot.

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” she whispered breathlessly. “But please don’t stop. I know our countries have been at war. Let’s make peace on our own terms.”

Sebastien leaned against the wall, sighing heavily.

Well, wasn’t this delightful?

If he failed to meet Eleanor at their agreed-upon time, he would never hear the end of it. She would accuse him of being an amateur.

He waited for several moments behind the dressing screen, trying to ignore the cries of passion that rose from the couch. At one point Lady Trotten’s lover screamed that she had killed him. Sebastien resisted the urge to look.

In an hour or so, he hoped to be suffering a similar turmoil himself. His wife had to know how much he wanted her. And he thought she wanted him, too.
But then again he wanted her enough for both of them.

“Your breasts are like Anjou pears,” the adulterous man beneath Lord Trotten’s wife gasped as he resurfaced for air. “Your belly is an orchard of ripe offerings, a meadow of fertile pleasures, a—”

“Do speak in French,” she moaned. “And hurry up. My husband thinks I’m changing my shoes.”

Sebastien glanced up instinctively as the door opened to admit a silent black shadow. The eyes of the shadow caught his.

He smiled.

She moved toward him.

He shook his head in warning, waited until Lady Trotten gave another insensible groan, and stole from behind the screen to join Eleanor at the door.

Moments later Lord Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and his faithful cat, descended the main staircase arm-in-arm. Lord and Lady Boscastle had been separated for years by circumstances beyond their control. The ton understood the significance of an early departure. Who did not sigh in pleasure to see the tall, dashing baron and his loving wife reunited at last?

Lord Boscastle thanked their cuckolded host for a marvelous time, and walked his wife sedately to the carriage parked on the next street. Eleanor’s cousin was hunched over the coachman’s box, his harlequin masquerade disguised beneath a brown serge cloak and the reins looped over his wrists.

“You’re three minutes late,” he exclaimed as they
approached. “I thought I was going to have to rescue you.”

Sebastien snorted. The day Will Prescott rescued anybody would be one for the history books. The young actor was as thin as a twig and half as intimidating, with barely a stubble of beard to prove his manhood. He quailed at the sight of fake blood on stage. He’d had nightmares since childhood. But he was Eleanor’s family and constant companion. Sebastien felt a reluctant fondness for him even if he suspected that she was the one who took care of Will, despite his claims to the contrary.

He climbed the steps after Eleanor and closed the door.

The carriage trundled off at a neat pace before either of them had a chance to sit.

Eleanor removed her cap, her dark red hair tumbling free. Sebastien smiled to himself as she dropped back against the seat and began tugging impatiently at her trousers. He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was trapped. And that he was willing to help her if she would only ask.

“I recovered the letter as promised,” he said, pretending not to notice her predicament until her indignant gasps grew too loud to ignore. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“You closed my tail in the door!”

“I didn’t—” He glanced down, grinning slowly. “Did I?”

She collapsed to the floor of the coach, flinging him
a look. “Are you going to sit there with that awful smirk while I struggle to get it free?”

“You only have to ask if you require my help.”

“I thought I was asking.”

“It’s an honor,” he said, leaning over her. “After all, how many times is a husband asked to extricate his wife’s—well, it’s probably better not described.”

“No.” She swallowed as he bent his head to hers. “It’s better untrapped. This is very uncomfortable.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s tempting to believe you did it on purpose.”

He tutted. “Should I ever have the pleasure of trapping you, it won’t be in a carriage racing through the streets of London.”

“I hope that isn’t a threat?” she asked softly, falling still.

He chuckled. “When have you ever known me to resort to physical force?”

“Sometimes I think I’ve never known you at all.”

“I intend for that to change. Assuming that you’ll give me a chance to prove myself.”

Her lips tightened in a beguiling smile. “I’m hardly in a position to do anything else.”

Ah, an opening.

Or was it wishful thinking on his part?

Damn if it mattered in the end. A man learned to put his foot in the door and make a place for himself.

“Sebastien,” she whispered uncertainly.

He took a breath. Her soft mouth tempted him.
He leaned closer to kiss her at the inopportune moment that Will turned the corner on two wheels.

“Hell,” he said, and caught her under her arm, steadying her against the bouncing motion of the carriage. She started to laugh. For a moment he contented himself to hold her. Then slowly he lifted his other hand, stroking his fingers down her face, her throat. Her eyes darkened, holding his, drawing him to her.