Too Dangerous For a Lady (30 page)

His tone caught her up. She was definitely not made to be a warrior's wife, but she'd do her best to be strong. “I'll attempt a sketch now,” she said. “Where can I find pencil and paper?”

He held her back. “A few hours won't make any difference. I'm sorry, love. I was too blunt.”

“But right. Now that I know you're hunted, I want that madwoman found as much as you or more. I don't care about the Regent or the whole government, but
you
will be safe. I intend to be a respectable married woman into a happy old age.”

“And I very much want to be a respectable married man.” His kiss was tender, but no less passionate for that, and she was willingly sliding into more delights when he put her apart. “Desist, you wanton woman. We have to decide how to face the world.”

“What world? Who cares?” She tickled and teased up his side.

He captured her hand. “The world cannot be denied, love.”

She became aware again of music. It was faint as fairy harps, but it told her the dance party continued. The world was there and everyone there must wonder at her frantic appearance and subsequent disappearance. And Thayne's.

Scandal!
All very well to brush aside thoughts of scandalous intimacy, but this was real and close.

“What do you think people assume?” she whispered.

He grinned and whispered back, “The worst.” Then he spoke normally. “We can hope not. Arden was supposed to devise a story. I assume no one but he and Lady Arden know I brought you to your bedroom and stayed. People might wonder, but if I never reappear at the party, I can plausibly have left the house at that point. Time for me to dress.”

She held on to him. “Doesn't that depend on the story Lord Arden devised? If we were long-parted lovers, reunited in dramatic circumstances . . .”

“. . . which seems the only likely explanation . . .”

“. . . would you leave?”

“I am noble and restrained, but was so overcome by joy that I chose not to face others.”

“Then how are you going to summon a carriage now without the servants knowing?”

“I love a sharp-witted woman. I'll walk.”

“When there are people intent on
killing
you?”

He grinned. “Cosseting.”

She remembered their conversation in Tranmere. “I'd tie you to the hearth if I could.”

“I might like it, but not now.” He pulled free and she had to let him go. As he began to dress, he said, “There could be cozy hearths in our future, love. Will you mind a country life? I've an estate to learn about and look after.”

“Not at all, and I know something of the business.”

“It's been somewhat neglected, by my father and then by me.”

“We'll care for it together.”

“There are ghosts. Not real ones—if that makes sense, but . . . My mother killed herself there.”

She left the bed, snatching her shift to pull on before taking his hands. “We'll deal with that together. We'll make it a happy home. Trust me to do that for you.”

He raised their hands to his lips. “You're astonishing.”

The look in his eyes made her blush with pride. “Note, sir, that this requires that I be your wife. You must stay safe.”
It will take at least a week to marry in Selby. In a week the Frenchwoman could be captured and the danger over.

But he said, “A special license. That permits marriage in any church at any time. Anywhere, in fact, but I think you'd like a church.”

“I suppose we could obtain one quickly.” She must be a better actress than she'd ever imagined. He didn't seem to hear her hollow dismay.

“I think so. Someone will know.” He kissed her hand again. “You could be my wife tomorrow.”

“I don't think so.” She'd found a sliver of hope. “Tomorrow's Sunday. I'm sure no one can obtain a marriage license on a Sunday.”

She wished he didn't look disappointed, but when he said, “I must wait, my dearest dear?” and seemed to mean it, she melted.

“Perhaps only until Monday.”

“Or Tuesday at the most.” He drew her in for another deep kiss.

It was hard to part, but they managed it and he set to finish buttoning his waistcoat. She found the strength to keep up the carefree act and perched on the edge of the bed. “It's almost as delightful to watch you dress as undress.”

“And it's entrancing to see you in your shift. Do you want to dress again?”

“Only in my nightgown.”

He smiled at it, spread over the frame near the fire. “Nightgown and nightshirt next time.”

“Husband and wife.”

“Wife and husband.”

They chuckled at their own nonsense.

He completed his dressing and then went to the mirror
to put on the neckcloth, grimacing. “Braydon's man tied it for me. I'm no hand at fancy knots. You?”

“I'm sorry, no.”

He achieved something and stuck a gold pin in it, but it wasn't very elegant. She found that endearing. Despite his present appearance, she suspected he'd been more comfortable in Ned Granger's clothes. She didn't mind that. “Who's Braydon?” she asked.

“An old acquaintance who's been helping me. He was with me on the road from Warrington, driving the curricle.”

“I hardly remember anything except that man, fear, and you.”

He came to her to touch her cheek. “I deeply regret putting you in danger.”

She covered his hand with hers. “Without that, would we be here? But who exactly is Sir George Hawkinville?”

He sat with her on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. “I served under him for a time on the Peninsula. He's left the army, but holds a special commission from the Regent to seek out the revolutionaries. When I took on that crusade, we came together again. He's here in Belcraven House tonight as a guest.”

“So he's a friend.”

“A colleague, say. In large part a superior officer. You're thinking me friendless.”

“How did you know?”

“The concern in your eyes. I had any number of friends in my youth and in the army, but my recent work has cut me off from them. Those friendships can be revived, and Braydon has become one. Since resuming my true identity, I've met a few other good fellows. You don't need to mother me.”

“Mothering wasn't quite what I had in mind,” she teased. “But I do hope we have children. Is it bold of me to say so?”

“Very practical, I'd say, given the way we explode.” He
kissed her slowly, and again. “Odd that it's so hard to part. We've had practice.”

“But we must. Promise you'll return tomorrow.”

“On my honor. I'll help you work on the sketch.”

He rose, and she had to loose his hand. He put more coal on the fire, which had almost gone out. When it was burning well, he turned back to her. “Tomorrow, my wife.”

He went toward the door, but she said, “Oh, wait!” She went to her trinket box. “It's in a sorry state, but perhaps it will still work.”

She offered him the scrap of stained silk. He looked at it, then kissed it. “With this, I'm invincible.” He unlocked the door and left.

Hermione hugged herself, amazed that she could be infused with delight but riven through with dread. She must do everything possible to put an end to his enemies. She'd execute the drawing and help him find the brute's brother. That would lead to the Frenchwoman. All the danger could be over before they said their vows.

*   *   *

Solange had received a report from Chester. Sarah Lawrey must have played the grieving sister well, for after she'd identified the body she'd obtained not only the name of one of the men who'd found it but his London address so she could write her thanks. Solange hadn't yet told Seth, for he was a man of rash action. But that wasn't her biggest concern. Rather, she had to wonder whether this Braydon had found the corpse or created it. Apparently he'd found the body by the roadside but then persuaded a carter to take it to Chester. Perhaps he was an innocent passerby, but she'd like to know more about the man described by the coroner as a member of one of the finest families in the north.

She sent Betty to Parsifal Street to learn what she could. Betty was clever at gossiping with servants and shopkeepers.

“Fancy house with rooms for six idle, worthless types,”
Betty reported hours later, “each set of rooms enough for a household. Braydon goes by the name Beau Braydon, so he's the sort to waste a fortune on fine clothes and drink. He'll be first to embrace Lady Guillotine.” Betty was one of the fiercest for the revolution, but she secretly bought lottery tickets, so she was fueled by envy, not principle. Still, she was useful for now.

“You found out nothing about Braydon himself?”

“Course I did. Went to the mews where they keep their horses and found a groom there willing to chat. He has horses for drawing his curricle and another for riding around the parks. If he goes traveling, he's too fancy-dancy to take a common coach. He drives himself in his curricle!”

“Shocking,” Solange said, holding on to her patience. “What of Granger?”

“No sign of him. Braydon's just another damned aristo.” Betty emphasized that by spitting on the floor.

“Yet he discovered Nathan Boothroyd's body.”

“Likely he just came across it, Solange, like he said. If he had anything to do with the death, he'd not get involved, would he?”

That made sense, but Solange had a feeling about Braydon. Granger had disappeared. He'd visited Waite, then disappeared. Through Betty she was in touch with the Brotherhood groups in London, so she knew no one had reported seeing a man resembling Tregoven's portrait.

Could Granger be Braydon?

“Did you find out how long Braydon has lived there?”

“A few years,” Betty said, “but he's often away. Traveling in his sodding curricle.”

Could Granger have juggled the two identities? She wouldn't have thought so, but he hadn't always been in her presence. “His appearance?”

“Dandy, like I said.”

“Dark or blond?”

“How the hell would I find out that?”

By asking,
Solange thought. Why were all her tools so inadequate? She dismissed Betty and rolled everything in her mind. It was very unlikely that this Beau Braydon was Granger's alter ego, but the great moment was too close to be careless.

She went to the kitchen, where Seth sat moodily staring at the fire. “I have sad news. Nathan is dead.”

She was braced for instant rage and surprised when his lips wobbled and his eyes glistened with tears. He rubbed them like a child. “No. No, he can't be.”

She sat and took his hand. “It's a shock to us both. He was killed, Seth. Struck from behind and killed.”

The lie about the cowardly attack summoned the anger she wanted. “Who? Bloody Granger?” He rose to his feet, fists clenched. “Where is he? Where is he?”

“I'm sure Granger was involved, but the only name I have is Braydon. A piece of nothing called Beau Braydon. He lives at number 23, Parsifal Street.”

“Where's that?”

“A hackney will take you there, but we must think about this. About how to pay him for what he's done. You won't be able to gain access to his lodging.”

“I'll wait outside. Kill him when he comes out.”

“It's dark. You won't know him. We must think.”

Boothroyds didn't think. He glowered, his hands working in frustration, which was a bad sign. He'd once put his fist through a door when in this mood.

“Go and watch,” she said quickly. “Watch who goes in and out, but don't do anything unless you're sure it's Braydon. Come back and report to me, especially if you see whether his hair is blond or dark. You might even see Granger there. If you do, kill him.”

“I'll bring him back,” he said. “Need to do him slow.”

She wanted Granger dead and all others who might stand in her way, but there was no reasoning with Seth at the moment. “If you can. But don't let him slip away.”

When he'd left, she sighed with relief. Boothroyds were useful, but unpredictably dangerous, especially Seth without Nathan to keep him in hand.
Like an explosive, in fact.
She smiled as she watched Isaac across the room, so thoroughly enjoying his work.

M
ark considered the layout of the mansion. It was divided by the central hall and grand staircase. The public rooms on this floor—the ballroom and anterooms—were on the other side, so he'd stay over here. Where? He hesitated to enter a bedchamber.

He hadn't mentioned it to Hermione, but his danger might not come only from the Three-Banded Brotherhood. He suspected one or more gentlemen were keen to have words with him. True, Lady Arden had left him alone with Hermione, but that wouldn't have carried approval of what had happened. Arden could consider himself an outraged host, and these Rogues seemed to see themselves as honorary brothers. He couldn't run from them.

A manservant emerged from a concealed door and turned into the corridor bearing a short pile of white linen. He paused, eyeing Mark uncertainly.

Mark reminded himself that he wasn't an interloper, but a guest and a peer of the realm. “I'm seeking the library,” he said. “Is it on this floor?”

“Yes, sir. Toward the back. May I take you there?”

“Thank you.”

Mark followed him and found himself in a small, elegant, and apparently well-stocked room of glass-fronted shelves. The only light came from a lamp, but the servant used that to light two others hanging from pedestals.

“Would you wish me to light the fire, sir?”

“Thank you, no. When you have time, please tell Lord Arden that I'm here. I'm Viscount Faringay.”

“Yes, milord.”

The servant's expression had shifted to more respect, but revealed nothing more. Either the earlier drama hadn't spread, which seemed unlikely, or the servant was well trained. Mark couldn't imagine any way that servants or guests could know everything. He hoped not, for Hermione's sake. He'd not have her embroiled in a scandal.

Should have thought of that earlier, shouldn't you?

He wandered the room, glancing at shelves and seeing the occasional book he'd like to dip into, but his mind preferred to dwell on delights, when not braced for trouble. At the time, in that room with Hermione, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, and their fantasy wedding a true blessing. Any man responsible for her would see it otherwise and he judged Arden to be a man of action. He hoped a degree of respect for books and fine furniture would restrain him.

The door opened and he turned.

It wasn't Arden, but the man he'd met earlier as Delaney. He seemed calm enough.

“I'm pleased to find Hermione's beloved alive and hearty,” he said.

Mark inclined his head, unable to read him. “I gather you're the leader of a group called the Company of Rogues, and something else called the Curious Creatures?”

Delaney smiled. “You must think me very odd. I was the leader of the Rogues at school. As for the Curious Creatures, I helped found it to explore the more obscure crannies of knowledge, but I rarely attend the meetings these days, as I prefer country life.”

Both smile and tone were unthreatening, but Mark remained tense, waiting for the first blow. “I gather you've
taken Hermione under your wing,” he said, “because of her brother.”

“After a fashion. I helped her find Dr. Grammaticus. That's where the Curious Creatures come in.”

“Damn the Curious Creatures! We're to marry.”

The smile seemed genuine. “I'm pleased. I'm sure everyone will be.”

“Everyone?”

The smiling lips twitched. “Your summons to meet here reached Arden when I was nearby and I persuaded him to let me come instead. He has a hasty temper. I don't.”

“But you're angry?”

“Not at all. He might be, depending.”

Mark tired of dancing around the subject. “He would have cause.”

“Ah, you conventional thinkers. It's clear Hermione loves you, and likely that you love her. Assuming you are to marry, no one will make difficulties. Of course, if you are ever less than kind and loving toward her, your life will become very difficult indeed.”

“That's blunt.”

“That is simple truth,” Delaney said, in the same equable voice. “Are you likely to be less than kind and loving?”

“Yes. Isn't everyone? Are you perfect? Is Arden?”

After a moment, Delaney winced. “That's a far sharper blow than you can imagine. I apologize for indulging in drama and even hyperbole. You understand the message, however. I've only known Hermione for a few days, and until she believed you dead, she gave the impression of enjoying a good enough life, but it can't have been that way. Both parents dead, and from things Roger said, neither was ideal. Both brothers dead, which led to the loss of her home.”

Mark hadn't thought of all that. “Her only remaining family is a sister with whom she's not entirely at harmony.
If your message is that she deserves loving kindness, I intend to do my best.”

“I can't know what she deserves, but it's what I'd wish for her, for her brother Roger's sake.”

Mark chose to cut through this. “Do you know how to get a special license?”

“Archbishop of Canterbury, money, and oaths that all's aboveboard.”

“Omniscient, are you?”

Delaney smiled. “Annoying, I know, but it's more of a magpie mind.”

“I don't have time to go to Canterbury.”

“There's an office in London. Knightrider Street.”

“Thank you. Does the magpie know about my secret work?”

The smile turned wry. “Hawkinville is a Rogue by association and I've been somewhat involved in his current work myself. That's why I'm in London. I gather you met Beaumont.”

“Yes.”

“Rogue.”

“Arden, of course,” Mark said. “How many of you are there?”

“Rogues? Like maggots in meat. No, in strict fact we are ten, and, as long as you're on the side of the angels, all well-disposed to a brother-in-law.”

Mark wasn't used to feeling out of his depth and didn't like it. “All I want is to marry Hermione as soon as possible, find Solange Waite and put an end to her and her plans, and then . . .”

“Settle on your estate?” Delaney said.

“More magpie finds?”

“My family home is Grattingly in Berkshire. Faringay is close enough for talk to reach there.”

Mark deeply disliked talking about his intimate affairs,
but it came with the situation. “It's been neglected, yes, but I'll take it in hand.”

“I'm sure you will. I was wondering whether you can settle at all. You've never had the opportunity to try.”

“For Hermione, I will.”

“And your work?” But then Delaney shook his head. “We'll talk of it tomorrow. I gather Hermione is to draw a likeness of one of the conspirators.”

“She claims not to have great skill.”

“We'll hope she's modest,” Delaney said.

Mark's mind was stuck on,
And your work?
He
knew Hermione worried about that, too, and he didn't know the answer. Could he abandon the fight when the danger remained? Solange and Waite were only one head of the hydra. But Hermione shouldn't live in fear.

In face of that predicament, Mark was in danger of threatening the fine furniture himself, as he'd feared Arden would.

“You wish to leave, I assume,” Delaney said. “I'll arrange for one of Arden's carriages to take you back to Braydon's, but Braydon should accompany you. Foolish to lose you at this point, when you know the enemy best.” He left without another word.

Mark ran a hand through his hair. His annoyingly short hair. He remembered Hermione's irritation at being taken over by the Rogues and understood exactly how she felt, but he drew on his usual steadiness. If the Company of Rogues could help win her happiness, he'd do his best to be gracious.

Delaney's unanswered question was now a worm in his mind, however. He'd spoken to Hermione of a rural life, but could he settle to it? As Delaney had said, he'd never tried, so he couldn't know. He'd said he'd do it for Hermione's sake and he'd meant it, but that didn't mean he'd be able to do it well. He had no good memories of his family home.

*   *   *

Hermione would have drifted in dreams, but practical concerns forced their way in. The world hadn't disappeared and neither had the consequences of her actions.

She changed her shift for her nightgown. She picked up her scattered clothing and arranged it all neatly on two chairs, as if she'd undressed in an orderly manner. That didn't deal with the blood spot on her sheet. It was small, but it was there, along with some dampness. Laundresses would speculate. Servants would gossip. . . .

She rang the bell, hoping Nolly hadn't gone to bed.

The maid was there in minutes. “Are you feeling better now, milady? I heard you fainted.”

And more, Hermione could see. “What are people saying?”

“That you recognized a gentleman, milady—a Lord Faringay—and fainted. He carried you away with her ladyship going along with you. That you'd been close to Lord Faringay and thought him dead. And that you were in your stockinged feet, milady.”

Hermione put a hand to her head. “I left my boots by a door.”

“Should I go and get them, milady?”

“No, no, they're not important.”

“What happened, milady? Did that man
do
something to you?”

“No, but . . . Yes.” There was nothing for it. “The sheet.”

Nolly went over. “I'd say he did something, all right.”

“Nothing terrible. We're going to be married.”

“Happen they all say that, milady.”

Hermione giggled. “Yes, but it's true. Lady Arden knows.”

Nolly's eyes went wide.

Hermione had meant marriage, not marriage bed, but she'd let the lie live. “Even so, I don't want the laundresses to see that sheet.”

“I see that, milady, but I don't know where to get a clean
sheet here. I reckon we'd best wash this one. I mean me, milady.”

“‘We' is fine, but then it will be wet.”

Nolly looked around. “I have it. You have some of that red wine left. We'll pour it over.”

“I was drinking port in bed?”

“You were doing something in bed, milady,” Nolly said, deep with disapproval no matter what Lady Arden was supposed to know. “It's the best I can think of.”

“And it's very clever. We'll use food as well. I was eating in bed and spilled everything.” She poured the bit of port over the stain, then upended the remains of pastry, cake, and fruit on top and smeared the mess around. “Thank heavens for raspberry jam.”

“Lawks, milady, that's a terrible mess.”

There was a knock at the door. Hermione wanted to ignore it, but everyone would know she was in here. She nodded to Nolly, who went to open it. Then opened it wide.

Beth Arden came in.

Hermione instinctively stepped in front of the messy bed, but then moved aside. “Beth, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I've made a horrible mess eating in the bed. I know I shouldn't have.”

Beth's lips twitched. “It is often tricky, isn't it?” she said. She addressed Nolly. “Ask Mrs. Tailstock for fresh sheets, and bring back another maid to help you remake the bed.” When Nolly had left, Beth dropped the lightness. “Are you all right?”

Hermione knew she should probably feel confused or even guilty, but she couldn't help a beaming smile. “Wonderfully. We're to marry as soon as we can. We did marry in our own way, but properly. I mean we'll do it properly! I'm sorry. I'm giddy. To find him alive!”

Beth came to hug her. “I'm so glad. I felt some qualms at leaving you alone together, but your grief had been so
powerful, and the way he reacted to your distress and collapse . . .”

“The way he reacted?”

“With all the distress and ardor you could want. He would have fought off armies for you at that moment.”

Hermione exhaled with delight, but then she remembered the real enemies. “He's in danger, Beth. I can't say how.”

“I know. Hawkinville explained some of it.”

“That's a relief. I wish there was something I could do. I want to protect him.”

“Regard him as a soldier, Hermione. We can't go with them into battle.”

“We can wish we could.”

“We'd be a hindrance to them.”

“Not if we were trained to fight.”

“Indeed, but this is not the time to debate such a change in the natural order.”

“Boadicea? Amazons? Oh, what am I saying? I don't have the nature for violence.”

“I understand you have a more normal skill that might be of use.”

“The likeness. I've never been a skilled artist. I can attempt a tolerable watercolor landscape, but faces?”

“We can only ever do our best. Did Faringay explain how it seemed he was dead? I've heard no explanation of that.”

Hermione told the story, but then the maids came in to remake the bed. Hermione wanted to babble excuses, but she attempted a haughty expression of indifference. She knew Beth had stayed to lend propriety. If the marchioness saw nothing suspicious in the stained sheet, then how could a servant suggest it?

When the bed was pristine and the servants had gone, Beth said, “I'll leave you to rest now. The party is coming to an end, but I still have guests.”

“Thank you. You're very kind.”

“I hope we can be friends.”

“I hope we already are. Will you be a witness?” Hermione asked. “At the wedding?”

Beth smiled. “It would be an honor.”

When she was alone, Hermione stood dreaming of her wedding. It could be the simplest affair in a plain room and she wouldn't care. She would be married to Thayne.

He'd always be Thayne to her, but once married, she'd be Lady Faringay.

Hermione, Lady Faringay.

She was tempted to write it down, over and over, as lovers so often did. Years ago she remembered attempting “Mrs. Thayne,” but without a first name it had lacked magic. She laughed when she remembered trying “Mrs. Lieutenant Thayne,” but that certainly hadn't worked. Laughter faded when she remembered attempting a portrait of him. She'd thrown it away because it could have been any man, and an ugly one at that.