Scandal of the Year (21 page)

James had seen that for himself at the family dinner when Blythe had expressed a desire to visit the manor. Edith Crompton had looked aghast at the notion and had cited numerous reasons why such a journey was out of the question. George had concurred in no uncertain terms.

Thornton picked up the teapot and refilled his cup. “I quite understand your point, sir. There is the social season, as well, to consider. Since they are marrying off the youngest girl, the family will wish to stay in London.”

Blythe wanted to affiance herself to the duke. If the truth came out before the wedding, Savoy would toss her aside like a piece of common rubbish. If it came out afterward, he would have grounds for divorce. Either way, her life would lie in ruins.

Yet James had little choice. It was unthinkable to allow the crimes against his cousin to go unpunished.

Frustration filled him as he prowled the tiny parlor. “If Mrs. Bleasdale cannot appear in a London court, I will need a sworn affidavit from her declaring that Mercy is masquerading as Edith Crompton. Yet it’s impossible for the woman to give one without coming face to face with Edith. The situation is quite the Gordian Knot.”

Thornton sipped his tea and then ventured, “What if Mrs. Crompton were to receive word somehow that her mother lay dying?”

James considered that a moment. Edith had kept the last letter from Mrs. Bleasdale all these years. Did that mean she harbored a fondness for her mother that could be exploited?

Thinking of the wealthy life of privilege she led now, he shook his head. “Mercy Bleasdale no longer exists. She cut off all contact when she sent a letter announcing her own death. She’d never risk losing her status, her place in society. Not even for her own mother.”

“Then what will you do, sir?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to give the matter some thought.”

As James bade farewell and left the house, the seed of an idea took root in him. He rejected it at first as a despicable act unbefitting a gentleman. But the more he considered the notion, the more he became convinced it was the only way to lure Edith and George to Lancashire.

James would have to use their youngest daughter as bait.

Chapter 19

“This scheme is the height of lunacy,” Portia fretted with a shake of her head. “There are too many things that can go wrong. It will never work.”

On the evening of the party, the sisters tarried in one of the spare bedchambers at Pallister House. All three of them were dressed in their finest gowns, Portia in primrose silk, Lindsey in celestial blue crepe, and Blythe in filmy white muslin with delicate gold trim.

“It most certainly
will
work,” Lindsey said. “I’ve seen to the details myself. Besides, I quite relish the notion of tricking Lady Davina. She was very rude to Blythe and deserves a comeuppance.”

“Not at the expense of a scandal,” Portia retorted. “If Blythe wishes to speak to the duke alone, I shall call Lady Davina out of the room on a pretext. Then there will be no need for such an elaborate hoax.”

“Would that it were so simple,” Blythe said, annoyed that they were discussing her as if she wasn’t even present. “Ever since Davina realized that I’ve an interest in her father, she has stuck to his side like a burr. She will be drawn away by nothing less than the meeting with Prince Nicolai, and that’s that.”

“If indeed a footman can play a credible prince,” Portia said. “I shall have to see him to believe it.”

They all turned in unison to stare at the closed door to the dressing room, where James was changing into his costume. Blythe had accepted Lindsey’s offer of the borrowed garments, after all. In the end, it had seemed too pigheaded not to do so.

Now, her errant imagination supplied a picture of him in there, stripped down to his bare skin. James was built so much more powerfully than the half-clothed men she’d seen on the streets of India, and Blythe fancied herself helping him disrobe, smoothing her palms over the brawny contours of his naked body.

Feeling the rise of a blush, she strolled to a table on the pretext of picking up the porcelain figurine of a shepherdess. It would be a disaster if her sisters were to guess the direction of her wayward thoughts. They’d be aghast to know that Blythe felt such a forbidden attraction to a footman. To save her reputation, they might feel obliged to report the matter to their mother, and James would be summarily dismissed.

Blythe set down the little statue. That wouldn’t happen. She had no intention of acting on her desire for him ever again.

Once had been enough.

She had spent too long preparing for this masquerade to let matters go amiss. This morning, she had informed the head footman that James was needed to assist in serving the guests at her sister’s soiree. Godwin had attempted to offer his own services instead, but she’d refused him with a cool smile. Lady Mansfield, she’d claimed, required a footman precisely the height and size of James. No one else would do.

She also had made up an excuse to convince her parents that she needed to arrive ahead of them in order to help Lindsey with last-minute preparations for the party. Accordingly, the coachman had dropped her off early, along with James, who had gone in through the back entrance and then met her up here in this bedchamber.

Her sisters had joined her a few minutes later.

Now, she prayed that James played his part well. Ever since writing the second note to Lady Davina a few days ago, he had acted distant and aloof. Blythe had the distinct impression that he was angry with her. And little wonder. She had brought her sisters in on the ruse when he had expressly asked her to keep it a secret.

Had she been wrong to do so? No, the circumstances would be much easier to control here at Lindsey’s house. There would be less chance of something going awry.

“It’s taking him too long,” Portia said, gliding to the window and glancing out at the street below. “The guests will be arriving soon.”

“When precisely did he go in there?” Lindsey asked Blythe.

Jittery with nerves, Blythe glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Perhaps fifteen minutes ago. And mind, he does not have the benefit of a valet’s assistance.”

“Wonderful,” Portia muttered. “He likely will have his shirt on backward and his cravat in a tangle.”

“If so, he will have ample time to fix it,” Lindsey said, plopping down on the blue coverlet of the bed and looking far more nonchalant than Blythe felt. “His rendezvous with Lady Davina isn’t scheduled until over an hour from now.”

The plan was that Prince Nicolai would not attend the party itself. His latest note to Davina had stated that he wanted their first meeting to be in a private place, away from the throngs of people who would be sure to swarm around visiting royalty.

“She may not have swallowed the bait,” Portia said.

“Of course she did, she accepted the invitation here,” Lindsey said. “A snooty girl like her won’t be able to resist catching a prince.”

“Meanwhile, our sister will attempt to charm the Duke of Savoy,” Portia said. “Personally, I hope this ruse will have the opposite effect. I hope she will come to her senses and realize he is
not
the right husband for her.”

Portia raised an eyebrow at Blythe, and Blythe stared defiantly back. She was well aware that her sisters were cooperating only because they believed that closer contact with the duke would cause her to change her mind.

They would be sorely disappointed.

But now that the scheme was finally under way, she felt the prod of misgivings. What if she’d misjudged James and he failed to pull off the scam? She couldn’t bear it if her sisters found fault with him.

“The both of you should go now,” she told them. “You’ll want to be in the entrance hall when the guests arrive.”

Lindsey languidly arose from the bed. “We’ve a few minutes yet. Thane and Colin can greet anyone who is rude enough to arrive early.”

“Our husbands are probably speculating right now about why the three of us went off together,” Portia said darkly. “I don’t like keeping secrets from Colin.”

“We’ll tell them after the fact,” Lindsey said. “Anyway, it’s a harmless masquerade.”

“I certainly hope so,” Portia said. “Because if something goes wrong—”

The quiet rattle of the knob sounded like a gunshot. As one, they pivoted to watch as the door to the dressing room opened and James stepped out.

Or rather, Prince Nicolai.

He wore a superbly tailored coat in coffee-brown superfine over a gold striped waistcoat and buff breeches. His cravat was perfectly tied and a ruby stickpin glinted in its folds. From somewhere, Lindsey had procured a crimson sash on which gleamed a variety of medals. A sword in a jeweled scabbard hung at his side.

He walked toward the women and gave a royal nod, regarding them with the perfect trace of hauteur. “Good evening, ladies. How enchanting to make your acquaintance.”

His deep voice held the hint of a foreign accent. Blythe could only gape at him in astonishment. He was James—and yet he wasn’t.

She lifted a gloved hand to her throat. Words escaped her. Even in her wildest imaginings, she had not thought he could look so magnificent.

“Oh my,” Portia said faintly.

“A pity he isn’t a real prince,” Lindsey murmured to Blythe. “Lady Davina would be out of your way for good.”

Blythe agreed, but only in part. Little could they guess that it wasn’t for the sake of the duke’s daughter that she wished James really was a prince. It was for herself.

Foolish, foolish fancy!

With effort, she collected her scattered thoughts. “There, you’ve seen that the disguise will work,” she told her sisters. “Now do hurry downstairs. I must give Prince Nicolai some last-minute instructions.”

“In a bedchamber without a chaperone?” Portia said, looking from Blythe to James and back again. “I hardly think that’s appropriate.”

Shooing her sisters toward the door, Blythe affected a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no impropriety. After all, he’s merely a footman.”

As Portia and Lindsey went into the corridor, Portia pulled the door almost shut, leaving a gap of a few inches. Blythe listened at the crack until the sound of their footsteps died out. Then she quietly closed the door until the latch clicked. The last thing she wanted was for any servants to come along and overhear this conversation.

When she turned back around, Prince Nicolai stood directly before her.

Blythe uttered a startled gasp. “You mustn’t creep up on me like that.”

“I most humbly beg your pardon, Miss Crompton. I did not mean to frighten you.”

James spoke in the foreign accent of Prince Nicolai, and his deep, rich baritone sent shivers over her skin. One white-gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he regarded her with cool arrogance. With the crimson sash across his chest, the medals gleaming in the candlelight, he looked every inch a royal.

Just gazing at him made her knees weak.

“You needn’t pretend with me,” she said. “We must go over again how you should behave with Lady Davina and what you should say to her.”

“How delightful. I find myself most intrigued by the notion of being instructed by such a beautiful lady as yourself.”

He continued to play the character of the prince. His dark eyes were intent on her, and Blythe found herself in danger of falling under his spell. But perhaps it was wise that he kept up the pretense. Practice would help ensure that he made no mistakes.

“Have it your way, then.” She stepped around James and turned to face him. “When you greet Lady Davina in the garden, you must pay heed to her sensibilities. It is better to be somewhat aloof than to be overly charming.”

“She will be enamored of me. Make no mistake about that.”

James was confident, but the prince was downright conceited. It shook her to see how well he’d adapted to the role.

Blythe pursed her lips, unsure if she liked the idea of him whispering sweet nothings into Lady Davina’s ear, giving her the full force of his magnetism. But wasn’t that the point? To keep Lady Davina occupied and away from the duke?

“Pray remember that she will be engaging in risqué behavior by meeting a man to whom she has not been introduced, prince or not. For that reason, it may be that she will take one of her friends along to act as chaperone.”

A frown darkened his face. He walked away, only to swing around to face her. “I requested that she come alone. These other fawning sycophants bore me.”

In spite of herself, Blythe felt a tickle of humor. “Excellent, James. But you needn’t be pompous, merely polite. And you really mustn’t tease her as you do me.”

He took a step closer, and his eyes held a gleam she recognized well. “You wound me, my lady. Do you not enjoy my teasing, then?”

She liked it entirely too much. Not that she would inflate his pride by saying so. “We are speaking not of me but of Lady Davina. Now, you surely have observed many of the rules of well-bred behavior. For instance, you must never sit so long as she is standing.”

A half-smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Do you truly think me so untutored? Allow me to put your mind to rest.”

He held out his gloved hand and after a moment’s hesitation, Blythe took it. She was keenly aware of the warm strength of James’s fingers through the thin kidskin of their gloves. He led her to a chaise in the corner of the room and with an imperious gesture, bade her to sit.

Watching him warily, she sank down on the cushion. She started to draw back her hand, but his fingers retained hold of hers and brought her hand to his mouth. He kissed the back, his gaze roaming down to her breasts, then back up to her face. “My lady, you are indeed the most ravishing creature I have ever beheld.”

Tingles scurried over Blythe’s skin and penetrated deep within her core. Was James directing those words to her or merely practicing his role? For the life of her, Blythe didn’t know.

I want to seduce you. And by God, I will do so if you give me half a chance.

The memory of that declaration made Blythe’s heart race. She extricated her hand from his. “You’ve certainly proven yourself to be an accomplished flirt,” she said coolly. “However, you cannot depend on extravagant compliments alone. I would suggest that instead you draw out Lady Davina by asking questions about her life and her interests. And for obvious reasons, it’s best that you speak as little as possible of your own—or rather, the prince’s—background.”