A Scandalous Proposal (21 page)

“My Jerry's with him, Minerva,” Clarice soothed quickly. “And where they are, Darby's sure as check to be, as well. Our job is to be strong, and to finish what we were commissioned to do. Aren't I right, Your Grace?”

“Yes, my dear, you're correct. Sadly. Come, Minerva, we must get back to work. We're nearly done, but then the whole must be gotten to Paternoster Row by this evening if it is to see publication tomorrow.”

Dany looked to Clarice, who was already seating herself behind the writing desk once more. “You...you're writing a chapbook?”

“Indeed, yes. Took a devilish long time to come up with a new title. Viv, read the girl the title.”

“Certainly.” The duchess extracted a pair of diamond-studded spectacles from the bodice of her gown, and carefully wrapped the ends around her ears before sorting through the small pile of papers until she found the correct one. “Here it is.” She cleared her throat, and read, “‘The Chronicles of a Hero: Wherein the Hero of Quatre Bras Is Tried and Tempted to the Limits of His Endurance, and Boldly Decides on His Future and His Rightful Place in Society: Third and Final Volume.'” She looked to Dany, who did her best to summon a compliment, and decided to simply lightly applaud instead.

The duchess removed the spectacles, tucking them back into her gown. “Yes, it might still need some work, I agree. But we had to move on.”

“My Jerry thought of it,” Clarice said proudly, picking up the quill once more. “He and I spent all day yesterday visiting the print shops up and down the road, offering a tidy sum to the owners if he could purchase a print of the handsome hero of Quatre Bras as it appeared on the cover of Volume Two. For me, you understand, who would die, simply
die
, if I didn't have one for my very own.”

Dany was amazed. “And that worked? You found the print shop that has been producing the chapbooks?”

“We did. On only our very second try. I cry most convincingly, you understand.” She grinned, and then patted at her ample and well-displayed bosom.

“Nothing like a perky young pair to convince a man to do what he wouldn't believe he would. Cooper should have thought of that on his own,” Minerva said, obviously recovered. “Not the method, of course. That wouldn't have worked for him. But he should have thought to trace down the printer. Still, hard to believe he was outthought by Rigby, of all people. The printer admitted rather proudly that he had been commissioned for the other two, and had actually been in the process of readying his presses to print Volume Three.”

Dany clapped a hand to her mouth. “Were you able to stop him?”

“We were. I told you Rigby had brought along a purse. It was a comfortably heavy purse. The man was also promised something else to print, another Volume Three to replace the handwritten one he was setting in type. Would you like to see it? We're keeping most of it the same, but making drastic changes to the ending, because that certainly did not flatter the baron.”

“Coop was right. Volume Three's planned ending was to brand my son as a despoiler of women, including allusions to doing so at the direction of the Crown for some ungodly reason. I only skimmed, since it was all nonsense. Quatre Bras wasn't even mentioned save for a demand Coop be stripped of his land and title and cast out of Society.”

The duchess was pouring herself another measure of gin. Her cheeks had already gone rosy, and she was smiling, pretty much to herself. “The populace is expecting an end to the hero's story, and we are going to give it to them. Otherwise, there would always be speculation, and poor Coop has suffered enough. Minerva, I've just had the most delicious idea. Instead of sneaking out into the gardens for a clandes
tine
assignation—so very
done
,
my dears, by others—we could write about the time Basil and I tiptoed past the guards and up into the bell tower of Saint Paul's. We had to hurry with what we were about, of course, because of the bells, you understand. Our heads would have
rung
right off our necks. So what we did was—girls, leave us. Minerva and I will finish up here.”

“But...but won't we just be able to read the chapbook when it's published?”

“Yes, Clarice,” the duchess said. “What I'm going to say to Minerva is
not
going to be published anywhere. Titillating as it might be otherwise, in
our
Volume Three the assignation leads to yet another silly young twit being rescued from her own idiocy by the hero, who then returns to his estate, to live out his days—what was that he's going to live out his days doing, Minerva?”

“Cultivating a new variety of turnips in order to feed more of the masses,” Mrs. Townsend answered dully. “We'll have to work on that, as well, won't we? Ah, well, we'll think of something. So long as London knows that Volume Three is the very
last
volume.”

The duchess clapped her pudgy hands (with much more enthusiasm than Dany had been able to muster). “Yes, that's it. The turnips stay. We'll first titillate, and then
bore
them to flinders, that's what we'll do. They'll have some other nonsense to engage them soon enough, and your son can get on with his life. Ah, we're brilliant. Go on, girls. Minerva and I needs must
create
.”

Dany was more than agreeable to leaving the room, taking Clarice's hand and all but dragging her back to the hallway.

“Where can we be private?” she asked her.

“We could walk in the square.”

Dany shook her head. “No, that's not good. Coop wouldn't approve.”

“Would he approve of you being here?” Clarice asked, winking at her.

“Probably, if he thought about it long enough. He would not approve of me being foolish, putting myself in possible danger.”

“And walking in the square would put you in possible danger?”

“We were
shot
at earlier today, Clarice, remember?”

“Crikey, you're right. No sense in the chicken stretching out her own neck on the block all helpful like, while the farmer sharpens the ax, hmm?”

Dany put a hand to her throat. “Yes, that seems to about sum up the matter. Now tell me where they are. I have something I must tell him. Where did they go?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know, or you're not supposed to say?”

“I don't know, Dany. I'm so sorry. I just don't know.” Then she put out her arms and Dany walked into them, at last giving in to the fear that had settled in her heart earlier, and let herself cry.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HEY
WERE
SITTING
at the table in the drawing room of Coop's Pulteney hotel suite, listening to the small fire as it crackled in the hearth. The only other sound came from the ticking of the mantel clock and the creaking of Rigby's chair as he occasionally rocked it back and forth, then stopped each time Darby threw him a cutting look.

They'd been sitting there for over an hour now, the clock having struck the hour of seven not long since.

“Do you ever remember Coop being so quiet, Darby? I don't remember him ever being so quiet. Not that he's the sort that talks your ear off, never was, but he's just sitting there, Darby, just sitting there, staring at the drink he isn't drinking. Making me nervous, that's what he's doing. What do you think, Darby?”

“I'm thinking how you'd look with your neck cloth stuffed down your gullet,” the viscount said in his affable tone. “Let him alone. He was shot at, remember?”

“That's not it,” Coop said, dragging himself out of his thoughts. “I've been shot at more than once. By people with better aim. Dany was with me. Do you understand what that means?”

“I don't think so, no,” Darby said, looking at Rigby, who only shrugged his shoulders. “Why don't you explain it for us.”

“She could have been hit, you idiots. She could have been killed, just because she was with me. Because I was stupid enough, selfish enough, to want to be with her today, and damn the consequences. Because I underestimated Ferdie's ability to improvise once he'd heard about Geoff's broken arm.”

“We've all underestimated Ferdie. You weren't the only one.”

Coop shook his head. “That's still not it, not all of it.” He looked to his friends, and then lifted his drink, let the wine run down his gullet before flinging the glass into the fireplace.

“Sad waste, that,” Rigby said. “They'll put it on your bill, you know.”

“The ever practical Jeremiah Rigby,” Darby said, chuckling.

They subsided once more into silence.

Rigby laid his head in his arms on the tabletop, and actually began to snore not two minutes later.

Darby had pulled a slim book of poems from his waistcoat pocket, and was slowly turning the pages.

The clock struck eight.

“I'll tell you what it is,” Coop said into the silence.

Darby closed the slim book and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket.

Then he nudged Rigby with the tip of his Hessian under the table, waking him. “It's time.”

“What? What? What did I miss?”

“Nothing. The oracle is about to speak.”

“I don't know how either of you put up with me,” Coop said.

“We like you, that's why. Gabe says you keep us anchored, isn't that right, Darby? Lord only knows where we'd all be if it weren't for you being so commonsensible. Not that we're half so wild now. Gabe's all mellow with his Thea, me soon to be with Clary. Settles a man, having a woman in his life.”

“And me, Rigby?” Darby asked.

“Don't even attempt to answer that,” Coop warned, still trying to shake off his doldrums.

“I agree. I might be put to the blush. All right, Coop, you said you're going to tell us something. We're more than ready to listen.”

“I learned something about myself today. I'd already figured out some of it, or else I'd have to condemn myself as a bastard, but it truly wasn't until I heard the crack of that shot that it hit me squarely between the eyes, nearly jolting me from my seat.”

“But the ball missed. Didn't come anywhere near your eyes.”

“Rigby, let the man speak.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“No, that's all right. I'm the one being melodramatic here. It...it's just all so new to me.” He looked at his friends once more. “I realized, in just that split second, that if I died today, my only regret would be leaving Dany. And...and if she had died today, I'd have no reason to go on.”

Rigby put a hand on Coop's forearm. “I understand.”

“Unfortunately,” Darby said, “so do I. And it's my fault. It was my plan to have you two engage in that sham betrothal. How will you ever convince your Miss Foster that you truly love her? That's what this is all about tonight. You're intent on stopping Ferdie, yes. We all are. But for you, there's a separate problem. Because, although it's most certainly obvious to us that you love the woman—yes, even to me—it may not be quite so visible to her. I'm sorry.”

“Now I don't understand,” Rigby said. “The truth should serve well enough. Just tell her, Coop.
Tell
her. Do you want me to...?”

“No!” The answer came from both Coop and Darby.

“There's more,” Coop said, lacing his fingers together, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. “All I wanted to do was deliver Dany and Harry to her sister and then drive straight off to run Ferdie to ground, and wring his neck. I was seeing the world through a red haze of anger, and it took everything within me to return here, wait for the two of you to talk me out of throwing away every happiness I might hope for, just for the satisfaction of seeing that bastard dead.”

“See? He's still the sensible one,” Rigby said, sounding satisfied. “You did just right, Coop. You always do. Now, what do
we
do?”

Coop reached across the table and picked up the wine bottle. As he raised it to his lips, he smiled. “Now, you see, Rigby, I was hoping you might have the answer to that question. You've been bloody brilliant so far.”

His friend blushed to the roots of his hair. “Yes, I have been, haven't I? Although it was Clary who first complained that things certainly would be easier all 'round if
we
could pen the third volume. I pointed out that we'd need a printer for that, and she, dearest, dearest Clary, gave me a slap on the arm and said, ‘Well, then, Jerry, let's go find ourselves one.'”

“You're marrying above yourself, friend,” Darby commented drily. “Did she happen to mention how we're to rid Coop of his nemesis?”

“No.” Rigby's chin sank into his neck cloth. “I asked, mind you, but she said she'd been brilliant enough for one day and her shoes pinched so I should take her back to the duchess. Perhaps tomorrow I could apply to her again?”

“I don't think there's anything more we can do tonight, in any case,” Coop told them quickly, before Darby could comment on their friend's last statement. “Unless you two are of a mind to climb Ferdie's gutter pipe and take a turn at housebreaking. There's still the matter of the countess's letters to retrieve, remember? I doubt Ferdie will hand them over willingly.”

Darby gestured down at his well-cut evening clothes. “I fear I'm not dressed for the occasion. I hesitated to mention it earlier, but it appears you've both forgotten Lady Huddleston's ball this evening. As his lordship is known to keep a high-stakes card room to amuse the gentlemen, most everyone will be there, either to gamble or to watch.”

“Including Ferdie,” Coop said, his mind already whirling. He was beginning to feel better, even if not fully in charge of himself quite yet. It was good to have his anger behind him, his fear for Dany behind him. And Darby and Rigby had patiently waited for him to come back to his senses. He couldn't have better friends. “And if he's there, then housebreaking doesn't sound all that impossible. Rigby, are you up for a small adventure?”

“Not yet nine. I'd told our friends here we'd give you until ten to come up with a plan. Congratulations. Rigby, I believe I owe you ten quid.” Darby was already getting to his feet. “Now, since I'm the only one dressed for it, I'll adjourn to Lady Huddleston's, and keep an eye on Ferdie. What do you say? Two hours for you to locate and recover the countess's correspondence? But not a minute more. If he surprises me and leaves the ball before that, you'll have forced me to trip him on the stairs or some such thing. Not that I'd be crushed to have to appear so clumsy.”

“Agreed.” Coop put out his hand above the table and the other two clapped their hands atop it.

And then, suddenly, there was a fourth hand capping the others.

“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,'” Gabe Sinclair said, as was the friends' custom before battles during the late war.

“Gabe! How the devil did you...?”

“Get in here? Quite easily, old friend. Or did you forget you stationed Sergeant Major Ames outside your door while you all sat in here like brood hens, hatching plans. You have hatched a plan, I take it?”

“Yes, but first tell us how you knew we'd be here.”

“Uncle Basil summoned me, saying I was missing all the fun. Thea's with the ladies, and Minerva directed me here as a hopefully good starting point. I met your Miss Foster, Coop, and was given strict instructions to guard your back, and that the letters—whatever they are—must be recovered by tomorrow morning. She said you'd understand.”

Oliver must be closer than we'd hoped. As for her finding her way to the duchess? He had to resign himself—Dany did what she did for reasons privy only to her.

“Yes, I understand. Thank you. At least I know where she is.”

“Don't thank me. She wouldn't let me leave until I'd promised to tell you. Not precisely shy and retiring, is she? Very unlike anyone I would have supposed you'd choose, when you finally got around to it. I like her. Oh, and Rigby, Clarice informed me that you're to
hightail
it back to the ladies, with the mission of delivering an opus to Paternoster Row. I didn't ask questions, not once Minerva told me our friend here was shot at today. Now that I've fulfilled my role as messenger, what are we going to do about that pernicious gray worm?”

Coop glanced at the mantel clock. “I'll explain on the way. Gentlemen?”

It was good to be moving again; he'd sat and stewed and wrestled with the unfamiliar feeling of helplessness long enough.

Within moments, Rigby was on his way to the ladies, Darby was off to the ball and he and Gabe were in the back of a hackney cab and en route to Ferdie's residence.

They left the hackney a block from the Lanisford mansion and proceeded on foot, turning down an alleyway so that they could approach from the mews.

But then Coop stopped, putting out an arm to halt Gabe's progress, as well. “No. We go to the front door. I'll be damned if the man will turn me into a housebreaker, let alone the future Duke of Cranbrook.”

“Hopefully, unless the Cranbrook curse my uncle is so worried about is true, I have a long time before I'm duke of anything,” Gabe pointed out. “Are you certain? I was beginning to feel some excitement about the whole business of the clandestine approach.”

“Yes, but that's why you've all always let me be in charge of strategy. Just follow my lead, all right?”

“This should prove interesting,” Gabe said, lifting his hat to slide his fingers through his blond hair. “Am I presentable enough to pass muster for a marquis's majordomo? I've been on the road all day.”

Coop smiled, as he was sure he was supposed to do. “Just stay clear of the light, and we probably won't be sent around to the tradesman's entrance. All right, here we go.”

Coop climbed the marble steps to the impressive front door and lifted the heavy brass knocker. Banged it three times in quick succession, with enough force to have those inside believe they were about to usher the Prince Regent into their humble abode.

And so far, so good. A liveried footman pulled open the door, to reveal an imposing figure who had to be Gabe's imagined majordomo.

“Step aside, king's business,” Coop commanded, already advancing into the black-and-white tiled foyer.

The majordomo moved to physically block him, but Gabe could always be counted upon to step into any breech. “Here, here, man, what do you think you're about? Don't you know who this is? My lord Cooper Townsend, the hero of Quatre Bras. Oh, and I'm Gabriel Sinclair, heir to the Duke of Cranbrook, not that I believe that's of any real import at the moment. I am here only at the request of Lord Townsend. Now—
step aside
.”

“Your pardon, my lord, sir,” the man implored, clearly impressed.

Coop took a moment to feel comforted that he was finally getting some sort of benefit out of being the hero of Quatre Bras.

“Very well, but step lively, my man. As I said, I am here on the king's business. Show me to your employer's private study. Come on, man, don't dawdle.”

“But...but to his lordship's private study? If I may be so bold as to ask why, my lord?”

“You most certainly can do that. Gabe, summon the guards from outside if you please, and have them escort this inquisitive fellow to— Well, no names need be mentioned.”

“Certainly,” Gabe said, already turning for the door.

“No! Wait! I've read the chapbooks,” the majordomo rushed on, nearly breathless. “I know you serve the Crown, my lord. I... I... Forgive me. If George here can be allowed to relieve you gentlemen of your hats and gloves?”

“Certainly.”

Lying becomes easier the more one engages in the practice
, Coop realized as he stripped off his gloves and handed them to the young footman.
I imagine Dany could have told me that. I'll have to warn her that I'm fast becoming more proficient in the practice.

The majordomo preceded them down the wide hallway to the rear of the mansion, the typical location of private studies.

Although Ferdie's study's decorations were not as ordinary. The leather couches were there, the bookcases, the large, intricately carved desk, a well-stocked drinks table. But rather than globes and busts of ancient Greeks, the marquis had chosen to display an array of brass and stone carved nudes, a few of them faintly artistic in nature, but for the most part rather grotesquely enlarged in certain areas, very nearly cartoonish.