A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (22 page)

"I'm not gawking, I'm exhausted." Mariah rubbed at her eyes, then read the time on the mantel clock. Just past four. "What... what happened?"

Spencer picked up the bandboxes even as he tossed the paisley shawl at her so that she automatically reached out and caught it. "It's not what happened, Mariah. It's what's going to happen. Quickly, before they discuss the thing and decide I might take it into my head to disappear."

She would have thought he was being melodramatic had she not seen Renard for herself. As it was, she wanted nothing more than to be shed of this hotel, this place, the memory of Nicolette's pleadings, the sounds of Renard beating her.

Anguish led them down steep servants' stairs and through the boiling-hot kitchens of the hotel, the smell of roasting chickens fairly turning Mariah's stomach, and then she was all but tossed into the dark interior of a nondescript coach with the side windows covered.

Spencer sat in the seat facing hers, dropping one of the shades to keep a watch out of one window for the few minutes it took for the coach to push through the crowds of people and vehicles before the horses were pulled up and the coach stopped, the off-wheel sinking low into a small ditch.

Such a fine beginning. Such an ignoble ending.

Then it was a barely controlled dash across the wide, still-bustling beach to the longboat and the half dozen seamen waiting inside it to row them out into the harbor to where the
Athena-
dubbed
Respite
waited. As they reached the side and the rope ladder, it was to see the anchor already being hauled up, the sails unfurling and flapping loudly, filling with the constant breeze from the Channel.

It was the retreat from Detroit all over again. Only better managed, thank God.

Mariah put up her hand to be hoisted aboard and felt her wrist clasped tightly and given a hearty yank. She scrambled the last few feet and landed with a thump on her knees on the deck, thoroughly winded and more than a little upset.

"You weren't hauling up wood, you know," she muttered, shaking back the hood of her cloak as she stood up to glare at the bandy-legged little man who was grinning at her as if she was the most amusing thing he'd ever seen.

"Ah, now look at that hair, would you, buckos. Like living, breathing flame, ain't it?"

Mariah narrowed her eyes, any vestiges of civilization flown out of her head at the man's comment, which had filled her cup of patience to overflowing. "Oh, stubble it, you old fool," she said flatly. "Spencer? I'll wait for you in our. ..your cabin."

Spencer stepped back to bow as she brushed past him before shaking his head at Billy. "Lucky for you my bride-to-be doesn't carry a knife,
you old fool."
He headed for the wheel then, barking out commands as he went, and the
Respite
was soon threading its way through the ships clogging the harbor and out into the open sea. Had half of England anchored here on their way to see Paris?

"I can take it from here, Spence, if you want."

"Thanks, Kinsey. Don't spare the sail and get us home before full dark if you can," Spencer said, turning the wheel over to Billy, who was still busy greeting old friends he hadn't seen in a while and telling them how he couldn't wait to get back to Becket Hall and a good joint of beef because "those bloody frogs eat snails, it's no lie I'm telling you, buckos, no lie at all."

Spencer stripped off his cloak, folding it over his arm as he nimbly jumped down the short flight of steps and strode toward the captain's cabin, pushing open the door to see Mariah standing in the middle of the room, still wearing her own cloak and looking faintly dazed. But she hadn't questioned him; she'd swiftly obeyed him. Definitely a soldier's daughter.

"Madam," he said, smiling at her as he picked up the crystal decanter and poured them both glasses of wine. "I apologize for the rude treatment, but we needed to be shed of Calais as quickly and quietly as possible. I'm afraid I may have worn out my welcome."

She'd thought it had been something like that. "How? What did you do? Did you lose your temper? Renard suspects you?"

Spencer was about to answer her when he realized all that she had said. "Renard? If that's French for dangerous bastard, then yes, I'm fairly certain he does suspect me."

Suddenly Mariah felt mulish. Childishly, stupidly mulish. "You lied to me and then locked me in that hotel room. I told you I wanted to help. How could you do that to me?"

Spencer set down his glass, shook his head.
"How,
Mariah? What else was I to do with you? I couldn't let you come traipsing along to my meeting with— never mind that. You don't stay where I put you, anyway, so what does it matter? Now, who or what is Renard?"

Mariah took a sip of her wine, hoping it would build her courage because she'd need it once she'd told Spencer what she'd done. "Renard is the man I encountered once I'd found my way out of the hotel room. You forgot to lock the doors leading to the balcony."

"Sweet Jesus. Not me. Clovis. But it's still my fault. I should have tied you to the bedpost. You did warn me, after all. Tell me what you did."

"I shouldn't It was stupid of me, even dangerous." She lifted her chin. "But I didn't know it was going to be dangerous when I did it. I just wanted to prove to you that I could follow you if I'd wished it. I was
so
angry with you."

"My apologies. I'd do it again—better, I should hope—but my apologies at any rate. Now, go on. You went out onto the balcony? Why?"

Mariah concentrated her gaze on the wineglass in her hand. "I thought I could knock on one of the other doors along the balcony and someone would allow me to pass through to the hallway. After that I'd—well, I'm not quite sure what I planned to do once I was free." She looked at him, smiled. "I think I mostly wanted to annoy you."

Spencer didn't return her smile. "In that case, madam, my congratulations. You succeeded."

Obviously Spencer had never been dressed-down by her father. But she had. Her papa could make the rafters shake with just the sound of his voice. "Oh, stop scowling. I'm not in the least impressed. Now, where was I?"

"Out on the balcony, knocking on doors," Spencer said, subsiding into a chair. "Obviously, someone answered your knock. And, just to show you that I'm an inept gaoler, but not completely obtuse—that someone who answered your knock was a man. A man named Renard."

Mariah nodded furiously. "I suppose I was hoping the person who heard my knock would be a woman. And that the door I knocked on would be to a parlor, not a bedchamber."

Spencer leaned his elbow on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "You knocked on the door of a strange man's bedchamber? Go on, this gets better and better."

"Actually, Spence, it does," Mariah told him, slipping into the chair across the table from his, her palms flat on the tabletop. "Except for Nicolette. Things certainly didn't get better for her, poor thing."

Spencer looked across the table at her. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?
Who
is Nicolette?"

"You know, if you stopped asking questions and just let me speak, we could be done with this," Mariah pointed out.

Spencer held up his hands in defeat. "Amazing, isn't it, how the blame for everything you've done, stowing away aboard ship, knocking on the doors of unknown men—all of it—keeps landing on
my
shoulders. But, please, tell your story."

All right, so perhaps it wasn't exactly jolly, having Spencer be so calm. So even-tempered, instead of
blustering, the way her papa would do. But that was only, she believed, because she could
feel
Spencer's temper beneath the calm and knew that his anger was simmering there, ready to burst into flames.

So she told him quickly and as dispassionately as she could. "Then," she ended in a rush, "I went back to peek in the room.again and he was.. .he was beating the woman for something she'd said, for asking about an appointment he had. I still wasn't sure, but when I saw him slip a black hood over his head and then check his reflection to make sure he couldn't be recognized before stuffing the hood in his pocket, I knew he was the man you were going to meet."

"Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus," Spencer said, getting to his feet, all but slamming his chair against the wall. "Mariah, we can't tell anyone about this, do you understand? I can't allow you to be involved."

"But, Spencer—I
saw
him. I'll recognize him when I see him again. This is
good
news." She hesitated, seeing the dark storm in his eyes. "Isn't it?"

"No, Mariah, it's not. In fact, it's not any news at all because nobody can know you saw the man's face. You're done, you've proven yourself or whatever in bloody hell you thought you were doing by following me. But nothing more. Swear it, Mariah."

"How can I swear to that when I can help you now? I'll admit it, I was frightened when I realized who Renard was—and he's a mean, terrible man. But I didn't give myself away."

"No, you didn't. Because, Mariah, if you had, you'd be dead and we wouldn't be having this conversation," Spencer said, his heart pounding as he realized how empty his world would be if this infuriating woman were no longer in it. "Swear to me."

Mariah knew when she was defeated. "I swear," she said quietly. "But tell me what happened, please, because the man I saw in that bedchamber couldn't be Ainsley's old enemy. He was too young, not much older than you, Spence. So this is something entirely different you've discovered, something that doesn't involve that man?"

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to find the words that would let her know what he knew. "It's worse than anything I imagined, anything even Ainsley imagined."

"Tell me."

Spencer gave in, pulling the chair back to the table and sitting down once more. "I don't know. My age, you said? With the hood and situated as he was in shadows in the bedchamber of the suite when I was finally ushered in, it was impossible to say for sure. But I sensed that he wasn't much older than I. There was a Frenchman with him, which means nothing, because I only heard his voice for a few moments and he was also standing in the shadows. It could have been Jules, I suppose. It could have been any of ten thousand Frenchmen. But it doesn't matter if this Renard is one of Edmund Beales's men, Mariah, or if Edmund Beales is involved at all. What these men are planning is so diabolical..."

"Bonaparte's escape from Elba," Mariah said, nodding her head.

"Yes, that's part of this ambitious, two-pronged plan. Hell, there may be even more he didn't tell me."

"Only part of it? What else could there be?"

Spencer looked into her eyes, acknowledging the intelligence there. He could trust her; they all could trust her. Just as she'd wanted to do, she'd proved herself. He might as well tell her everything. "The Prince Regent's damnable spectacle, that's what. They're all coming together for some grand celebration or are already here. Alexander, Czar of all the Russias. Prussia's King Frederick, as well as Blucher. All the allies and most of the generals, Mariah. Wellington, the entire Royal family, all of them gathered in one place in London to gloat, to celebrate peace and victory in very public venues. Imagine Bonaparte loose in Europe again, Mariah, and then imagine he and his
Grande Armeé
loose in Europe...and the leaders of the Russias, Great Britain and Prussia and their generals assassinated as they stand together to enjoy one of Prinney's absurd parties."

"All those men, dead? Murdered? There would be mourning, confusion—anarchy. Everywhere," Mariah Maid, her fingers tightening on the stem of her wineglass. "And this Renard, he told you all of this? Why?"

Spencer smiled ruefully. "When you already have given a man five thousand pounds in good faith, and promised that man fifty thousand pounds sterling more if his answers please you, Mariah, you are allowed, even expected, to ask a few questions. And you get a few answers. Unfortunately, not quite enough answers. He kept insisting to paint in only very broad strokes, veiled hints. I don't know
how
they're going to free Bonaparte. I don't know
how
they plan to assassinate Prinney and the rest during the celebrations. Only the date, the first of August—the same day they plan to move Bonaparte from Elba. Two-pronged, Mariah. And, even more unfortunately, I'm afraid I asked too many pointed questions, went too far, pushed too hard. The one you call Renard was about to answer one of those questions when the Frenchman stopped him— that's probably the only reason I heard his voice at all, not that I understood him. After that, I was quickly dismissed and told I would be contacted later tonight. By a knife to the throat, I believe, which is why we're on our way back to Becket Hall. I couldn't risk not getting this information to Ainsley. And I couldn't risk you."

"No, no, you were right to leave. The Prince Regent must be warned. What did he say, this Frenchman?"
■■

Spencer rubbed at the back of his neck, which still,: tingled as it had when he'd turned and walked out of;: the meeting, half convinced a knife would find its way ; between his shoulder blades before he reached the -hallway. "I'm not sure. I remember only the simplest words. Something like
un lion pours—no,
damn it all to hell, that's not it.
Un lion pour effray
—then something else, and then—
un hups?"

Mariah got to her feet and began to pace the small space. Spencer's accent was atrocious, but she thought she knew what he was trying to say.
Un lion pour effray?
No. Effrayer?
To frighten?
Yes, that was it. "Lions and wolves, Spencer. He was saying something about lions and wolves. Lions and wolves frightening someone?"