The Countess Confessions (20 page)

T
hey spent the next-to-last day of their journey at a charming galleried inn with dormer windows and a courtyard separate from the public stages. Emily stared out the window as the coach rolled beneath a stone arcade. Who would have known that the aristocracy could command a private entrance? Who could have guessed that
she
would marry a man whose name opened doors into private worlds that others only dreamed about?

She was so impressed that for the first time during her travels she did not jump at the blare of a horn as a smaller conveyance rattled into the common yard. She was even more pleased by the amenities offered by the high-priced inn. Below the sign hung another which said:

FINE WINES
PRIVATE DINING
HOT, COLD, STEAM BATHS

“A steam bath?” she murmured as Damien helped her down the carriage steps. “Doesn’t that sound like heaven?”

“We don’t have the time for that,” he said before she could plead a case for her aching body. And then, as if he regretted his abrupt reply, he added, “When the anarchists are thwarted I’ll buy you a house with its own steam bath.”

“Do we have time at least for luncheon?”

He watched a pair of footmen unload their luggage from the carriage. “I suppose we could manage a short meal. We might take it in a private dining room other than our own. It wouldn’t hurt for me to study the other passengers, in the event one is a potential assassin.”

“There’s the romantic in you coming out again.”

He smiled. “There will be time for romance once we settle into our own home.”

Our own home.

Did this mean they would live together after the charade ended? Would he leave her there alone while he went off on other adventures? Dare she ask his plans? But even Damien could not know whether the Crown’s mission to stamp out the conspiracy would work. The only thing she could do was to drop hints here and there during his receptive moments. She remembered that he owned property in London. But he’d made the offer to buy a house. The idea of establishing a household together had to have crossed his mind.

He might have said it only to placate her. She would dream of a home with him all the same.

•   •   •

Shortly after they returned to their chamber and Damien made a thorough search to determine that no one was lying in wait, he realized that Emily’s quest for social affairs was perfectly natural and would have to wait until they moved about freely.

They had by mutual accord lain upon the bed. Damien had started to remove his afternoon attire. He needed to think, to plan ahead, review the faces of strangers he had seen in the courtyard. He needed to recall behaviors that might have passed for ordinary but seemed suspicious in retrospect. He and his wife were not the only agents in England to employ a disguise.

“You look so intense,” Emily whispered.

“Something isn’t right. Something in the back of my mind tells me I’ve missed the obvious.”

She snuggled against his side. “Perhaps you should sleep on it.”

He closed his eyes again. “I think I shall.”

No sooner had she leaned over to take the newspaper he’d been perusing than she bolted upright in the bed. “What, in heaven’s name, is that racket? Is there a riot in progress below our room?”

Receiving no immediate answer from the male nodding off beside her, she grasped him by the collar of his shirt. “Damien, it sounds as if the inn has been invaded by soldiers.”

He opened his eyes, scrutinized her face, then reached up his hand and pulled her down hard against his chest. “If you want me again, there is no need to scream it to the world. Whisper in my ear the next time you need me. God forbid I should mistake you for an assailant. Ignore the noise. It’s nothing.”

For a moment she forgot what noise he meant because his firm muscles were so distracting. Then riotous thumping resounded again to shake the timbers of the inn. Oddly enough, Damien did not seem concerned by the disturbance. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

“Damien!”

He cracked open one eye. “What is it now?”

“Our bed is shaking, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she whispered, wondering what was wrong with the man that he could sleep with the floor shaking as if an army had occupied the rooms below. Was there a riot in progress? Would troops storm their chamber at any moment?

He lifted his head. “Why are you still awake?”

“How can anyone sleep through that noise from below! It sounds as if a farmer has driven a herd of cattle into the common room. You
have
to hear it.”

“Hear— Oh, that noise. I wondered what the blazes you were talking about. I should have warned you in advance.”

He dropped his head back on the pillow. “This is one of the finest inns in the country.”

“With cattle allowed inside?”

“That isn’t a herd of cattle, Emily. It is a dance being held in the assembly room below. It abuts the public house.”

She turned to him, her prior embarrassment replaced by sheer delight. “It’s a dance? This isn’t a tease? Truly?”

“Yes. It’s not unusual in the better hostels. Let me take off those slippers, sweetheart. We don’t want to tear holes in the sheets with those heels.”

She buried her slippered feet under the covers. “A genuine dance? At an inn? What a wonderful notion.”

“I wouldn’t call it that. The assembly is likely comprised of only a handful of well-paying guests and the local gentry. These tend to be small events. Certainly not a grand affair.”

“But it’s a
dance
.”

“If you tell me that you have never attended one, I know you’re fibbing. We danced at our wedding and at Lord Fletcher’s party.”

“But everyone who danced at the wedding had an obligation to please the bride.”

He stared into her face. “I danced with you. At the reception and at Lord Fletcher’s party.”

“Because it would have looked peculiar otherwise. And, yes, of course, I’ve attended balls. But no one except Michael and Lucy ever danced with me, and then only out of pity.”

“You can’t wait until we reach London?” he asked in a disgruntled voice. “Or the castle? There will be fancy balls at the viscount’s party. I would think that a castle dance would be more romantic than the stomp-about beneath our bed.”

“But, Damien,” she said in an appealing voice, “I won’t have your attention once we reach the castle. You will be keeping watch for rebels.”

“I will be keeping watch over you as well.”

“That is exactly my point. We shan’t be able to lower our guard to enjoy ourselves in front of the other guests.”

“There will be nights alone to enjoy each other, Emily.”

“That’s fine, Damien. You’re right, of course.”

“It could be dangerous. After seeing that sketch of you, I’d prefer not to mingle in public unless we have to. Besides, I’m in no mood to watch other men dance with you, radicals or not. For all we know, Lord Ardbury has figured out the true identities of the gypsy girl and Scottish man who disappeared from Hatherwood on the same night.”

She picked up the newspaper that had fallen between them. “I understand,” she murmured, sitting up straight to catch the light. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It isn’t a question of dancing. By next week, when Sir Angus doesn’t appear with either a gypsy girl or the gold he promised to deliver, Lord Ardbury might have us on our toes, whether we like it or not.”

“Yes.” She squinted to read the paper’s small print. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Although you deserve one night to pretend we are any other newlywed couple,” he admitted.

“Except that we aren’t.” She put the paper down on the coverlet. “What were you reading about before you dozed off?”

“Reading?” He frowned. “I was looking at properties for sale. There’s one in particular that sounds suitable for us.” He lifted the newspaper to the light and read, “‘A Most desirable Mansion, consisting of a coaching house, pavilion, and farmhouses on three thousand acres of fertile land.’”

“You aren’t serious?”

“If it doesn’t have a steam bath, we’ll build one.”

“I meant all that land.”

“Well, we’d be our own village. Little Shalcross? Emilywood?”

Emily shook her head, her lips twitching.

“We won’t buy the first hovel we see.”

She started to laugh. He rolled over onto his stomach, her unshaven, shameless, and adorable husband. “What are you staring at?” she whispered.

“Your breasts. They look like billowy clouds from this angle.”

“Full of romantic sentiment as usual.”

“I’m sorry.” He turned onto his back and slid to the floor to recheck the keyhole. When he returned to the bed she leapt up and threw her arms around his neck, pulling his head to hers. “I need another kiss before I go to sleep,” she whispered, straining upward to press her mouth to his. “And
I’m
sorry that I caused you and our country so much trouble.”

The strains of a Scottish sword dance reached them from the assembly room. The floor shuddered from the repercussion of footwork. Emily’s heart was beating a tattoo. She tumbled onto the bed, laughing helplessly at Damien’s efforts to undress and kiss her at the same time.

It was the most beautiful evening she had ever spent. And all because her decadent husband had taken the time to start looking for their home.

•   •   •

By the grace of God the dance below finally came to an end. Damien hadn’t been able to sleep again after Emily had demanded his attention.
This routine is getting too comfortable,
he thought. He liked falling asleep with her in his arms. He enjoyed sharing ideas with her on the style of house or villa they would buy. It was a relief to plan a peaceful future.

He wanted her voice to be the last thing he heard before he dropped into a sleep populated by the horrors of his past imprisonment. His soul had grown weary of his cynicism and search for material riches. To view the world through Emily’s eyes had restored his hope. It was impossible to hold anyone as sweet and strong as his wife without feeling his usual darkness lift. She shed light on the melancholy he had learned to live with.

Ambition might have corroded his spirit. But he wished that he could become the man he presented to the world—a newly wedded groom escorting his bride to a party in a castle instead of one entangled in a game of death and betrayal.

Trouble. Deceit. Desire. In that moment he cared for nothing except the woman whose kisses transformed him into an inferno of need for her.

At least he and Emily had two nights of intimacy left before reality intruded. He planned to use that time well. Or so he had decided when only an hour later a coded message arrived by private courier from Winthrop.

An attempt had been made on the viscount’s life. Lord Deptford had gone into temporary seclusion in a countryside cottage and was ready to cooperate with the Crown. He had asked to be placed in Damien’s custody.

T
he castle stood gray and majestic on the horizon when Damien’s carriage trundled off the main road. For almost two miles the coachman had traveled a bumpy track enclosed on either side by sessile oaks. Emily vented a sigh of relief when at last they came to a halt. In the midst of a clearing sat a quaint half-timbered cottage that she adored on sight. Behind it a stream bubbled over a bed of sun-dappled stones.

“It’s perfect,” she said to Damien who, ever the romantic, responded, “Deptford uses it as a retreat when he suffers an attack of gout and needs to soak his sore foot in the stream. The water is damn near freezing, from what I understand.”

“What an enchanting image. I vow that one day you should sit down and record all the romance in your soul for the world to savor. I was about to discard all my clothing and splash about like a water nymph.”

His smile promised a sweet revenge. “I must have forgotten to mention it in the excitement since our first encounter, but you are forbidden to splash or frolic in the presence of anyone but me.”

“The same goes for you,” she said as she stepped down from the carriage, only to notice that it wasn’t Damien’s footman who had opened the door but another man with a flintlock musket on his shoulder.

She hung back until she noticed Damien nodding at the behemoth stranger. “It’s all right, Emily. He is a footman. One of us.”

“Does he know that?” she whispered, noting that the musket did not waver even after Damien’s nod of greeting.

“He knows. He’s only making sure that no one followed us off the road.”

Emily offered the enormous footman a smile, which he returned with a broad grin. Relieved that he was a friendly giant, she followed Damien to the cottage door. Another footman answered the earl’s quiet knock and escorted her and Damien to a small musty parlor. There two men sat playing cards at a lamplit game table. The closely drawn curtains allowed no other light into the room.

The elder of the players half rose from his chair to acknowledge Damien. His unkempt gray hair and long lawn shirt made Emily think of an old buccaneer. His leathery face crinkled as he spoke to Damien. “I was a fool not to take your advice, Shalcross. I trust you did not meet our enemies on your travels here. I appreciate the inconvenience I’ve caused you. I know you were not supposed to arrive until the party formally began.”

“I might have suggested you hide out here if you’d trusted me,” Damien said. “I would even have arrived earlier, but then I had a lady to court and a wedding to attend. Lord Deptford, this is Emily Rowland Boscastle, my wife.”

“Lady Shalcross,” the viscount said, his eyes bright with mischief. “I am honored to make your acquaintance. But if you will pardon me for asking, how did a woman who looks like an angel end up with your devil of a husband?”

Emily realized that the viscount was full of flattery, but she welcomed the compliment all the same. And Damien? She waited in suspense for his answer.

“An angel she is indeed,” he said, and caught her wrist to hold her at his side. “It is a wonder that her wings stopped fluttering long enough for me to lead her to the altar.”

The viscount looked from Damien to Emily in amusement. “Did you have to chase her there?”

“Well, it was a—”

“—whirlwind courtship,” Emily said, sparing Damien an explanation that might embarrass either of them. “We didn’t know each other except through letters before the wedding. I’m afraid we are both guilty of misrepresentation.”

“Well, ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ You must have fallen head over heels, Shalcross, that you couldn’t wait to marry her until the conspiracy was crushed. But, then, I suppose you could not bear to be parted from each other. I notice your hand is wrapped like a padlock over her wrist. Are you still afraid that she’ll run away?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Emily said.

The viscount nodded in approval. “Good. Because your husband tried to warn me repeatedly that my life is at risk, and if the conspirators guessed his identity, then you might become their enemy by association. Now, please let us sit for tea so that I can make amends for not cooperating as I should have done.”

Damien took Emily to a wood-framed settle that had been drawn far from the window. It wasn’t her place to explain that this marriage was anything but a love match. Except on her part. She was afraid to admit to her husband that he had stolen her heart. She hoped only that he would protect it as he did her physical person. But it was nothing she would undo—he was everything a man should be and more. Honorable, heroic. As seductive as sin.

She sat, drawn back to the moment by the sound of his voice. He had diverted the conversation to the original purpose of this meeting.

“What happened during the hunting party?”

Viscount Deptford took the chair opposite the settle. “We had only set out when I reached the border of the woods and heard what I thought to be thunder.”

“You heard a loud noise,” Damien said, listening intently.

“I did not react at first. The dogs set up a furious barking. The stream running over the rocks made conversation impossible. Naturally none of the gentlemen were about to let a little rain ruin their sport. As we charged on through the woods I heard again what sounded like a deafening thunderclap above the trees. This time I realized it was not a storm.”

“How did you know?” Damien asked.

“There was another shot. I was pushed off my horse by Hamm before I could warn the others.”

“You were hunting for-– Did you say it was ham?” Emily asked, trying to picture this.

“It wasn’t a ham,” Damien said. “It was Hamm, my cousin Lord Heath’s footman and bodyguard from London. That was who met us outside with the musket.”

The viscount snorted, motioning to the other card player, who might have been the butler, to leave the parlor. “Bodyguard? The man is huge enough to shelter a small house. I was certain he had dislocated my shoulder when he pushed me down. Still, I wouldn’t be alive today without his intervention.”

Damien frowned, deep in thought. “And you have no idea who shot at you?”

The viscount glanced at Emily in concern. “Is this subject upsetting your wife? She’s quiet all of a sudden.”

“Are you all right, Emily?” Damien asked, turning to study her face.

She was touched by the worry in his eyes, but also surprised by it. Still, she refused to distract him from what must be done. He would puzzle this out until he identified the culprit. Fussing over her every moment would not help the cause.

“Yes.” she said. “I’m fine. But if this person has not been caught, who is to stop him from trying again?”

“I am,” Damien said, affirming what she had feared.

She lowered her gaze to hide her anxiety at his admission. She had known Damien would be gambling with his life, but now that the time for sacrifice came near she was not at all as complacent about it as she’d hoped to be. Yet he needed her to have faith in him. He needed her to believe he would win against his enemies. And she did. She believed in him with all her heart. But she didn’t want to consider what the cost would be. “Might this person still be at the castle?” she asked as an afterthought.

“Yes,” Damien and the viscount said simultaneously.

“It couldn’t have been an accident?” she asked in hesitation.

“One shot after another?” Damien shook his head. “No.”

“I wanted to believe that, too, Lady Shalcross,” the viscount said. “But it was no accident that put two pistol balls in the game wagon that traveled behind me. To be honest, I was convinced the threat to my life was an exaggeration. I no longer feel that way.”

“It was never the Crown’s intention that you serve as a decoy,” Damien said.

“It is damned insanity,” the viscount said with a gruff laugh. “But your life is in danger, too, I fear. You’re standing in the way of unprincipled men.”

“I’m hardly alone,” Damien said.

Emily felt her heart beating faster.

Both men lived in a world of plots and betrayals, a world she hadn’t really believed existed. Now it was her utmost hope that she and Damien could settle down in a village of farmhouses. She doubted, however, that when the time came, Damien would be content to trade his dangerous pursuits for domesticity.

How irrevocably he had changed her life. What if Camden had admitted in the fortune-telling tent that he loved her? What if he’d confessed that he was going to propose to her that night and hadn’t been able to find her at the party?

She might have shed her disguise on the spot and revealed herself to him. He might have fainted. He might have had second thoughts about marrying a woman who employed such devious tactics to wangle a proposal.

He had been her hero, the boy who had saved her a half-dozen or so wasp stings that she would have gladly suffered for his love. The most exciting event in his mind had been playing ghosts with his grandmother. She would have been invisible if Camden had chosen her. Invisible and buried in a small village’s society.

Damien, in comparison, had changed course to protect Emily from political zealots. She didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess as to what he considered had been the highlight of his life. She was fairly certain that it had nothing to do with his grandmother.

But she could state with confidence that he had been the most exciting thing that had happened in her previously tepid existence.

•   •   •

Damien’s regrets about dragging Emily into his battle seemed to mount by the day. It had been one thing to promise her protection while they traveled together. It was another to take her to a castle where she might be caught in the conspiracy’s crossfire. Then again, he’d had little time to make other arrangements. What else could he have done with her?

She wouldn’t have been safe at Hatherwood. Nor could she have galloped off with Michael on his mission. Damien had done what he’d had to do. He shook off these thoughts and stretched out his legs, wondering how he had been excluded from Emily’s conversation with the viscount. Then he realized that she had drawn the eccentric old man out of his shell because it was easy to talk to Emily about anything. Treasonous plots, family affairs, and the astrolabe that she had noticed on the viscount’s whatnot table. She showed interest in the small matters that Damien took for granted.

The last woman in his life wouldn’t have known what an astrolabe was if one had hit her on the ear. She would have gone into hysterics if he’d even mentioned an assassination. Emily didn’t have to feign interest to be agreeable. She had a mind of her own, a mind receptive to knowledge.

If Damien weren’t careful, he might come to need her. And that was a possibility he had never considered. He had never needed anyone. He could not allow himself to be at her mercy. He glanced up to discover the viscount asking Emily if she had chosen a permanent home yet and discussing Damien’s preferences as if he were not there. He cleared his throat. They appeared not to hear him. In fact, the pair of them had started to laugh. He could have been sitting in the next room.

“Excuse me,” he said lightly. “If I am to be the subject of your hilarity, I insist that you let me in on the joke.”

Emily straightened in her chair like a chastised schoolgirl.

The viscount made no effort whatsoever to hide his mirth. “Sorry, Shalcross,” he said unsympathetically. “It’s just that your wife and I both realized we had met you when you were Sir Angus Morpeth. No disrespect intended, but you are half the man you used to be.”

Another laugh escaped Emily. “Thank goodness for that,” she said, braving a look at Damien.

The viscount chortled. “He looks a damn sight better than he did with all that red moss hanging from his chin.”

Damien refused to smile. “What a couple of ingrates you are. Poor Sir Angus left this world having done what he could to protect you, and this is the thanks you show him?”

Emily attempted to look mournful. “If you like, we could hold a memorial service for Sir Angus. I’m sure we’d have to invite the sheep whose fleece he sells.”

The viscount slapped his knee and burst into unrestrained laughter. Damien folded his arms across his stomach and stared at Emily, who belatedly added, “I’m afraid that I’m also guilty of misrepresentation. Damien did not know me well before our marriage.”

His eyes narrowed. “It would seem that I do not know you now.”

“All women are unfathomable, Shalcross,” the viscount said, as if he were Emily’s defender. “We shall never uncover their secrets, and that is how it should be. A woman is like a book, revealing herself one page at a time.”

Damien said nothing for several moments. He felt like the biggest spoilsport in all England. “Do either of you know what it feels like to wear iron padding? Or to grow a beard and dye it red every day?”

Emily opened her mouth to answer and then apparently reconsidered and subsided into silence.

“I’d no idea the subject touched a nerve, Shalcross,” the viscount said. “I’ve worn uncomfortable costumes to a masquerade.”

“Not for five weeks straight,” Damien said, his irritation eroding at the guilty look on his wife’s face. “Oh, bugger it all. Wearing disguises is essential in my work. Laugh if you like. I felt damn ridiculous in that costume, if you must know.”

“I thought you looked rather handsome,” Emily said in an overt effort to placate him.

“It was a convincing disguise,” the viscount added. “I’d no idea that Sir Angus was a fictitious character when we first met.”

Damien looked away from Emily to the window. “This isn’t the time to let personal issues distract us from our goal. I regret that it took an attempt on your life to make you realize that we are up against men dedicated to committing monstrous deeds. But I have to wonder why you didn’t believe those who warned you. Nor do I understand why you withheld evidence against the ring when your own existence was at stake.”

A shroud of heavy silence fell. The viscount seemed to age a decade as Damien awaited his answer. Emily looked down at her lap.

“My only son is one of the conspirators,” the viscount said at last. “To give evidence is to sign his death warrant. But I can no longer protect him or hope he will see the error of his ways. I can’t allow him to harm others for whatever warped reasons he believes are justification for his grudge against all authority.”