My Favorite Bride (20 page)

It was a day for admissions. “There's been more than a glance. I kissed her.”

“Once?”

“Once.”

“Hell, that isn't worth going to confession for. Are you tempted to do more?” Duncan laughed. “Of course you are. You've made that clear.”

“I shouldn't.” Not until . . . but he must concentrate on the success of their mission before he made his move.

“Why not? I told you the first time I saw her she was the one for you.” Duncan nudged him with his elbow. “Come on! You've done what's right your whole life. Have a little fun.”

“Take her as my mistress, do you mean?” William shook his head. “It wouldn't be fair to her. She's an innocent.”

“Oh.” Duncan's sideburns drooped, and he sighed. “Back to sleeping with your cock in your hand.”

“Anyway, it's not possible.” William was relieved. “I placed her in one of the cottages, far away from me.”

Duncan stopped in the act of taking a sip. “You moved her—”

“Out of the house.”

“—And into a cottage, where you and she can have a bacchanal all night long without worrying about your children?”

William's jaw dropped.

Duncan slapped him on the shoulder. “Good work, mate. You'll never sleep in your own bed again.”

William followed Duncan and watched as his friend sauntered into the dining hall.

Is that what William had done? Is that why he'd
been so willing to let Samantha escape from under his roof? Had he, in the depths of his mind, been plotting to get her out so he could spend the nights in her arms?

He didn't know himself. He didn't know himself at all.

He stood listening to the clink of silverware, the voices . . . Samantha's voice. He loved her voice. Rather deep for a woman, husky and soft, as if she'd been making love all night long and had worn herself out with moaning. Her voice alone made a man want to see if he could make her moan. And William could. He knew he could.

She was alone in that cottage with only Clarinda for a chaperone, and most of the time, Clarinda had her duties in the house, so . . .

Duncan came out of the dining hall as if he were shot from a cannon. Out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to William. “In your study. Now.” He kept walking.

Now? No, not until William's condition had subsided, for Duncan would know what caused it and no matter how important the information he'd discovered—and from the looks of things, he had discovered something magnificent indeed—he would still take the time to mock William. Perhaps he had reason. By God, William was thirty-four years old, the father of six, a rampart of propriety and honor. To spend his time behaving like a randy schoolboy was embarrassing and . . . well . . . rather gratifying. He grinned. Better not tell Duncan
that
.

He strolled along, taking care to smile and nod
as he passed a single guest, hurrying to catch the meal, and when he reached his study, he was back to normal. Or what used to be normal, before the advent of Miss Prendregast. Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him. “What is it?”

Duncan stepped out of the shadows, and his usually cheerful face was gaunt and worried. “That damned fool Featherstonebaugh. Teresa heard him talking to Lady Featherstonebaugh.”

At once, William concentrated. “Where?”

“In the music room, just now.” Duncan pulled a long face. “It's not as if he's devious.”

William nodded. “Why did Teresa come to you?”

“Because she thought the conversation odd, and you weren't in the dining hall to tell.” Duncan's eyes flashed with irritation. “Listen! Featherstonebaugh said Lady Featherstonebaugh should give the map to Pashenka or there would be more trouble.”

“Map?” William's mouth turned grim.

“Teresa didn't hear everything, but it sounds as if Lady Featherstonebaugh stole a map on the way up here and she's holding it as a surety so Pashenka won't”—Duncan shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets—“kill her.”

“So Pashenka did give her those bruises.”

“I think we can safely assume that.”

“I'd feel sorry for her . . . if she hadn't caused so many deaths.”
His wife. Mary
. William's hands clenched convulsively. To think of her dying like that . . . “What map could it be?”

“They stayed at Captain Farwell's home on the way up here.” Duncan stroked the whiskers that feathered down his cheeks. “Send a messenger to him and find out, but really, it doesn't matter. Lady Featherstonebaugh's a damned sharp woman. You know the map is important.”

William's mind raced. “Where is it?”

“Featherstonebaugh didn't know.” Duncan paced to the desk. “The old fool would betray her if he could.”

“Probably.” William had some of the most powerful, intelligent men in the nation at his party under his command, but none of them were in field operations. None of them were worth a damn in a situation like this. “Tonight, when the ball starts, you'll search their bedchamber, but she'd be as big a fool as her husband if she kept that map anywhere but on her person.”

“That's what I thought.” Duncan fiddled with the pens on William's desk. “We could arrest her and take it from her.”

“But we want to send her back to him with all the false information she's gleaned at the party.”

Duncan picked up one of the pens and examined it, then lifted a quizzical brow at William. “I don't suppose we can make an old woman strip down?”

“You're the great seducer.” William grinned. “You do it.”

Duncan stroked his chin and pretended to think about it. “I just remembered. I'm not such a great seducer, after all.”

“We need to do an exchange.”

Duncan nodded. “Give her a fake map for the real one.”

“If we knew where it was, and if someone could pull off that trick, we'd do it.” William considered and discarded strategy after strategy. “But who, and how?”

Chapter Twenty

Teresa viewed her pièce de resistance. To the wonderment of all, the peach-colored silks hung from the ceilings and draped down the walls, transforming the ballroom into a plush pastel harem. The crystal chandeliers sparkled above with a thousand beeswax candles. The orchestra played with precise brilliance. Champagne flowed freely, and the ladies were swamped with invitations to dance—of course, with the difference in numbers, how could it be otherwise? The gentlemen gathered in knots, talking in serious tones, and only occasionally did they visit the card room or go outside for a smoke—always a good sign that they were enjoying themselves. Even William was keeping his attention on the business at hand, rather than staring like a lovestruck adolescent at
Samantha. In fact, he looked very serious, and Mr. Duncan Monroe was missing.

Good. If all went well, he would stay missing.

As Teresa gazed across the glittering assemblage, she couldn't remember doing anything dreadfully wrong in her childhood. She'd been reasonably obedient, willing to learn, smart enough to stay out of trouble, a comfort to her parents, but . . . obviously she was paying for some celestial sin, because nothing, absolutely nothing had gone right about this party. About this whole trip.

First, there was William with his ridiculous infatuation with the governess. Gossip spread like wildfire, but Teresa had not learned to handle social crises for nothing. Throughout the houseparty, she had frequently stopped and visited with Samantha, and always spoke of her in glowing terms to the biggest gossips at the party. She had even made sure Samantha's ballgown of royal blue satin broche was perfect, adding lace on the skirt and miniature white roses to the neckline. She had stifled the worst of the rumors, but if William continued to watch Samantha as he did, Teresa would be helpless to stem the tide.

And the longer she was with William, the more she wondered if she cared enough to have him. She liked him well enough. But . . .

Well. That led to the second problem, Mr. Duncan Monroe, formerly of the Third King's Own Light Dragoons and still a royal pain in the fanny. He watched
her
, Teresa. Watched her so hungrily she occasionally found herself fanning her hot
cheeks and marveling at the power of that man's warm gaze. What he had not cared about before now interested him, and he couldn't have made it more clear. And she . . . she didn't want anything to do with it.

Well. She did. But pride stopped her. Pride, and . . . a woman made plans. A woman had a right to change those plans, but Teresa didn't change her plans under pressure, and Mr. Monroe was putting her under pressure. Not with words, but with that heart-stopping intense gaze. Flipping open her fan, she once against fanned her hot cheeks.

And now, further proof Teresa must have sinned at some point in her past—Lady Featherstonebaugh was limping toward her. Lady Featherstonebaugh, who started talking before she reached Teresa. “What an extraordinary young woman Colonel Gregory has hired as his governess.”

Teresa viewed the older woman critically. Her straw-colored silk gown with its narrow sleeves and low lace collar would have been appropriate for an ingénue, never for any woman over forty, and certainly not for a lady forced to lean on her cane to walk across the marble floor. Her gilded feather fan and the gilded feather in her hair were nice touches, but somehow the shimmer made Lady Featherstonebaugh look tired. In fact, she had bags under her eyes as if she weren't sleeping well. Guilt, Teresa decided affably. Guilt about that mysterious map. She'd been furious with Lord Featherstonebaugh for mentioning the map, and Duncan
had been in a dither when Teresa had told him about the conversation she'd overheard. Apparently, the map was of some importance, although why Teresa didn't know, or care.

“Miss Prendregast can play, she can sing, she can care for children, she has every man at the gathering panting over her . . . she can seduce her employer . . .” The orchestra played, the dancers swirled across the floor, and Lady Featherstonebaugh smiled beatifically. “Rather mortifying, heh, Lady Marchant?”

Teresa did
not
like Lady Featherstonebaugh. She had never liked Lady Featherstonebaugh, and Lady Featherstonebaugh energetically returned the favor as she did with every woman of her acquaintance. Teresa thought the woman vapid and cruel, and growing bitter in her old age. Here was the proof. The first conversation they'd passed, and Lady Featherstonebaugh was already sticking needles in Teresa's hide. Needles that drew blood. “Don't worry about Colonel Gregory. I don't. Miss Prendregast is a sensible female, as well as lovely, and she knows better than to set her sights on a man as wealthy and landed as he.”

“Someone had better tell him, then. He's been making cow eyes at her for two days.” Lady Featherstonebaugh flipped her hand, dismissing the subject now that she'd painstakingly planted the seed of apprehension. “But that's not why I came over. I wanted someone to confide in. Another woman . . . and there are blasted few in this gathering.” Leaning closer, she lowered her voice. “I've
remembered where I heard Miss Prendregast's name.”

Teresa's ears perked up, although she took care not to let on. “Have you indeed?”

“Miss Prendregast is that infamous cutpurse who haunted London about six years ago. She used to hang about the theater and take the gentlemen's wallets, and all the gentlemen would brag about how she flashed them a smile as she escaped.” Closing her fan, Lady Featherstonebaugh pressed the handle to her puckered lips. “I suppose Colonel Gregory should be told about that, eh?”

Stricken dumb, Teresa stared at Lady Featherstonebaugh, pristine in her chic garments that failed to promote the illusion of youth, with spots of rouge highlighting her cheeks . . . or was that the faintest of bruises?

Then the import of Lady Featherstonebaugh's revelation registered.
Damnation.
Teresa remembered the tale now. Adorna had taken the girl-thief under her wing and taught her how to walk, to talk, to read, to teach. As a governess, the girl had a reputation for being a fearless defender of her charges, and she'd taken down that idiot Wordlaw. Teresa had applauded her for that. Now . . . what should she do with this knowledge? She couldn't decide immediately, but she would enjoy spiking Lady Featherstonebaugh's guns. Taking a glass of champagne from a passing footman, she sipped it with a fair imitation of boredom. “I know who you're talking about, but dear, you've the name wrong. It's Miss Penny Gast”—she enunciated
clearly—“who's the pickpocket. It's an easy mistake to make.” She sipped again. “Especially for the elderly with their hearing troubles.”

Lady Featherstonebaugh heard
that
well enough. She turned a delightful shade of purple. Her headdress trembled as she shook with rage, and for one moment, Teresa wondered if she should move out of range of that cane. Instead in a low, intense voice, Lady Featherstonebaugh asked, “Are you sure?”

“My dear lady, I like attention as well as the next woman, and Miss Prendregast is getting most of it.” Teresa blinked in her patented,
aren't I innocent
look. “Don't you think I would take care of the matter if it were so easy?”

Lady Featherstonebaugh nodded and swallowed. “Yes. I suppose you would.” Groping at her side, she found her black-spangled reticule and squeezed it until something inside crumpled. “I need to sit down.”

“Would you like assistance?” Teresa meant it. Since her arrival, Lady Featherstonebaugh had been hobbling badly, as if all the gout in the world had caught up with her. Not that it didn't serve her right. Teresa had never met such a malicious old woman, but that didn't make watching her pain any easier.

“I can make it over to my alcove.” Lady Featherstonebaugh grinned at Teresa with such implicit evil, Teresa stepped back. “I hear very well over there.”

As she left, Teresa rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. If she could, Lady Featherstonebaugh
would hurt her. Hurt them all. Teresa looked for Samantha and found her speaking to Lord Hartun. Certainly Lady Featherstonebaugh would hurt Samantha if she could—and she could.

Excuses could be made for Lady Featherstonebaugh. The woman's husband pranced across the floor with one of the young matrons, his hands meandering over her back. The filthy old lecher would drive any woman to folly and cruelty, but Teresa doubted he'd had much influence on his wife. Lady Featherstonebaugh was too strong-willed.

Teresa's gaze wandered to William. He stood speaking in a low voice to that worthless mongrel, Duncan Monroe, who had finally decided to put in an appearance. Duncan . . . William's best friend. Duncan—always taunting, always watching . . . always desirable. Damn his eyes.

She jerked her gaze back to William. William and Duncan had been having a lot of those low-voiced conferences. Duncan had certainly flown out of the dining hall when she told him about that map, and neither he nor William had made an appearance at the supper. And only the night before, when the other guests had gone to bed, she had sneaked downstairs to get a drink of whisky—ladies were never offered whisky, their constitutions were too delicate—and she'd heard their two voices in William's study. Although she'd pressed a glass against the door, she'd been unable to pick out more than a few words.
Featherstonebaugh
, and
Pashenka,
although when she'd left London Count Pashenka had put forth the rumor
he was ill, when in fact everyone knew he'd left for some assignation.

Had he come here to the Lake District? Had William and Duncan accidentally picked him up on one of their night rides? It seemed a stupid mistake to make, especially for two relatively intelligent men, but they'd made the same mistake with her . . .

She stared down at the bubbles in her glass, and her eyes narrowed.

Featherstonebaugh. Pashenka. William and Duncan's thief-catching activities.

Her head jerked up. She scrutinized the ballroom.

Too many generals. Too many ambassadors. Too many dark-clad men who had neither the antecedents nor the money to be present at a party like this, but who exuded power and secrecy. Men from the Home Office. She had recognized them, although she hadn't realized the import of their attendance.

She saw William again, and Duncan. They hadn't stopped her coach because they thought her a bandit. They'd feared she was a spy, fleeing London on the heels of her leader, Count Pashenka. Oh, yes. Teresa had lived in India, known firsthand the rivalry between England and Russia for the riches of the East. Knew full well that spies operated in every city and on every mountaintop in India. She hadn't realized they were here in England, too.

Well. Now she knew better.

Spies. She had landed in a nest of spies.

* * *

Samantha thanked Mr. Langdon for the dance—his second and last tonight—and excused herself. The doors onto the veranda were open, the breeze billowed the peach silks, but as midnight neared, it was growing warm in the ballroom, and Samantha was growing weary. Weary of the dancing, the constant chatting, the endless flattery, and the fact that Colonel Gregory had not once sought that waltz from her. Instead, he'd been distracted, speaking seriously to Mr. Monroe, and then to Lord Hartun.

Not that Samantha cared, really. She might fancy herself in love with Colonel Gregory, but she valued love as it should be valued, as puffs of smoke up a chimney to hover and dissipate in the wind. Perhaps if she kissed other men, she would fancy herself in love with them instead.

Yes. That was a sound plan. She'd kiss and compare, and under the influence of other men's passion, this ache in the region of her heart would dissipate and she would once again be herself, Miss Samantha Prendregast, independent, willful, and sure.

She smiled, nodded, curtsied, nodded, smiled, and escaped to the elegant and empty ladies' retiring room. Mirrors lined the walls, stools sat before every table, with pitchers of water, handkerchiefs, and powder there for anyone's use. With a sigh of relief, she poured water into a basin, dipped in a handkerchief, wrung it out and blotted her face. It was cool. Blessedly cool. She closed her eyes in bliss.