You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (25 page)

“I know everything, Imogene.” At the duchess's look of disbelief, Charlotte said, “It is you who possesses only half of the tale.”

“Then tell me.”

“Another night, perhaps.”
Or never.
Charlotte stood, and was disconcerted that her hands were trembling. “I will concede that I may have misunderstood what I saw. Your son might very well be innocent.”

“He is.” The duchess stood. She looked as miserable as Charlotte felt.

“For the sake of our old friendship, I ask that you watch him. If you see anything that troubles you, I beg you to speak with Fairlamb and take steps to discourage him. Nothing good will result from your son and my daughter developing a tendre for one another.”

“I agree.” Imogene hesitated. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with me.”

“I do this to protect my daughter,” Charlotte said simply. “It might be prudent not to mention our little chat to your husband. Blackbern has proved to be quite unreasonable when it comes to those he loves. I will not have my family suffer for it again.”

Imogene looked as if she wanted to argue, but she nodded her head. “I will ask Ruth not to speak of our meeting.”

“More secrets?” Charlotte sighed. “Very well. What's a few more between old friends?”

 

Chapter Eighteen

The knock at Tempest's door was not unexpected.

“Come in, Arabella,” she called out.

“I was afraid that I might wake you.”

“I am not tired,” Tempest admitted. “I thought I might read, but I am grateful for the company.”

Her younger sister was already dressed for bed. Her hair had been braided by one of the maids. Her white shapeless nightgown and the white mop cap on her head made her look younger.

Tempest placed her brush on her dressing table and rose from the small bench. She held out her hand. “We could sit on the bed and talk.”

It had begun as a game to outwit their governess, who believed children should retire to their beds early. Often they were still too restless to sleep, so one of them would sneak into the other's bedchamber. Sometimes they were caught and both were thoroughly scolded for their disobedience. The poor woman eventually stopped trying to separate them, and Tempest had lost count of the nights she and Arabella had slept in the same bed.

Tempest pulled back the covers for her sister, allowing Arabella to climb into the bed first. She then walked over to her dressing table and picked up the unlit candle. Lifting the glass chimney off the oil lamp, she lit the candle and extinguished the lamp. She returned to the bed and placed the candle on the table.

“Move over,” she said, and Arabella obliged her since she usually fell asleep first.

Tempest climbed into bed. She plumped her pillows and settled down next to her sister.

“Lady Henwood was wise to invite Miss King,” she said when her sister remained silent. “I wonder if she shortened her performance for the intimate gathering or if she sang a different collection of songs at the theater.”

“I never considered there could be a difference,” Arabella replied, turning onto her side so she could look at Tempest. “I didn't come to discuss Miss King.”

Tempest was content to drop the subject. In truth, she was still reeling from the sight of Chance speaking with Miss King. He was likely paying his respects, but his discomfort when he saw her had made her stomach ache. She had not thought herself capable of jealousy, and it shamed her that she had a few uncharitable thoughts about the woman as she and her cousin had walked by the couple.

“What did you wish to discuss?” She rolled onto her side so her face was inches apart from Arabella's. “Is this about Oliver? I know he—”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the note you received from the footman,” she blurted out as if she had been biting her tongue all evening.

Wary, Tempest brushed a stray strand of hair from her sister's cheek. “What about the note?”

“Who sent it?”

Tempest glared at Arabella. “Are you inquiring out of curiosity or for Mama?”

“Mama did not say a word to me,” her sister replied, outraged by the question. “Neither did you, for that matter. I cannot believe you thought I was spying on our mother's behalf.”

Contrite, Tempest said, “I did not mean to—”

“Forget it.” Arabella sighed. “I was worried, and I was not the only one. Lord Warrilow was concerned, too. You walked out of the music room, and no one saw you again until the end of Miss King's performance.”

“I did return. Out of respect for Lady Henwood's guests, I chose to remain at the back of the room,” she explained, sticking as close to the truth as possible.

“Whom did you meet?”

“Harriet,” Tempest replied.

“So … she was the one who sent the note?” Arabella asked, sounding mildly curious.

“Of course. I told you and Lord Warrilow that I was expecting her.”

“Ha!” Her sister slapped the palms of her hands onto the bedding and sat up. “You are lying! Harriet most definitely did not send you a note.”

Somehow Arabella had deduced she was lying. Determined to brazen it out, she glared at her sister. “How do you know? Did you actually read the note?”

Her sister called her bluff. “If Harriet wrote the note, then you will not object to showing me the note.”

“I lost it.” This time she was speaking the truth. She must have dropped it when Chance had grabbed her and pulled her into the informal parlor.

“Why won't you tell me the truth?” her sister cried. “You are behaving oddly, even for you.”

“First you accuse me of lying, and then you hurl additional insults at me.” Tempest huffed. “I believe I have heard enough from you. Feel free to return to your bedchamber.”

“Sister.”

“I mean it,” Tempest said, prepared to shove Arabella off her bed.

“Ask me how I know you are lying about Harriet,” her sister demanded.

Kneeling on the mattress, Tempest sat down on her heels. “I returned to you with Harriet at my side. How dare you claim that I was lying.”

“I never said that you were lying about Harriet's appearance,” Arabella replied, clenching her teeth. “I am accusing you of lying about the note. Harriet did not summon you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I asked her when she first arrived.” At her sister's shocked expression, Arabella smirked. “Oh, you were unaware that Harriet arrived during Miss King's performance. Our cousin and her mother were less courteous when they entered the music room. When Harriet sat down in your empty seat, I asked her about the note. She denied seeing you or sending a footman to you.”

Tempest winced.

Her sister nodded. “Our cousin failed to mention that she spoke to me first. When I told her that you stepped out of the room, she offered to look for you.”

No, Harriet had forgotten to warn her of the conversation she had with Arabella. It also explained why the other woman was so confident Tempest had been meeting someone in secret.

“Did you say anything to Mama?”

“No. I allowed her and Lord Warrilow to believe Harriet was responsible for your absence.” Her stiff posture and the chill in her voice were proof that her sister was very cross with her.

“I apologize for doubting you,” Tempest said, resisting the urge to hug her. Arabella was unpredictable when she was hurt. “And I regret lying to you. You are correct. Harriet did not write the note.”

The coldness in her sister's expression vanished and she edged closer. “Who did?”

“First I require a promise,” Tempest hedged, needing some assurance that Arabella would take her confession to the grave.

“I swear I won't tell anyone,” she said, linking her fingers with Tempest's. “You can trust me.”

Arabella was not the sort to tattle. Tempest swallowed and inhaled. “Do you remember Chance?”

For a few seconds, her sister looked puzzled by the name. Recognition washed away her blank expression. “One of our gentleman bathers? How could I forget him or the others? Oh, what were their names?”

She offered her sister a faint smile. “Thorn and St. Lyon. If you recall, we briefly encountered Chance again at the theater.”

Arabella brought her hand to her mouth. “Good heavens!” She glanced at the closed door as if she expected someone to be listening at the keyhole. “Is Chance courting you?”

“In his own way, I suppose,” was her weak reply.

Arabella gasped. “Is this why you have been so frosty to poor Lord Warrilow?”

“I have not been frosty!” she protested.

Her sister was not listening. “Mama and Papa will be thrilled when they learn that you have another suitor.”

Tempest groaned and collapsed against the stack of pillows. “No, Arabella, they will not be pleased.”

“Why not?” Her eyes rounded as she came to her own conclusion. “Chance is a fortune hunter.”

“I fear it is worse than that, dear sister.”

“Worse than a fortune hunter.” She tapped her lower lip. “He is in trade? A gambler? A second son? The natural son of a nobleman? Oh, I surrender. Why do you not want our mother and father to know about Chance?”

“The gentleman who introduced himself as Chance is Mathias Rooke, Marquess of Fairlamb,” Tempest said, feeling sick to her stomach. If her sister betrayed her, she would never be allowed to see him again.

“Lord Fairlamb.”

Tempest watched with a dispassionate expression on her face as her sister finally connected Chance with his family. She leaned forward and covered her sister's mouth with her hand to muffle her high-pitched shriek.

“Are you trying to wake the entire household?” she hissed.

Arabella swiftly shook her head and mumbled an apology. When Tempest removed her hand, she said, “Chance is the Duke of Blackbern's son? When did he tell you?”

“He didn't. Oliver told me.”

“I do not understand. The three gentlemen were gone before our brother's return. How did he know?”

“Oliver has some history with Chance, and none of it pleasant.” When her sister covered her mouth again, Tempest braced for another stifled scream, but Arabella shook her head. “Our brother indulged in a bit of blackmail. He would not tell Papa and I promised to avoid Chance.”

“You lied to Oliver.”

From her sister's point of view, small mountains could be forged from her numerous sins.

“Of course I did not lie to Oliver. I fully intended to stay away from Chance, and then we encountered him at the theater. While you were seated in the private box with Mrs. Sheehan, I was accosted by a drunk. Chance rescued me.”

Tempest decided to skip the kissing part of her tale, since neither one of them had been impressed with her efforts.

“You were rescued by Lord Fairlamb.” Arabella sighed. “Can you imagine anything more heroic?”

Her sister possessed a romantic heart. If she heard the entire tale, she might not have thought him so gallant. However, Tempest's opinion of her tarnished knight had improved with each meeting.

“At first, I was disheartened because our brother has burdened me with an impossible task. I cannot keep my promise and never see Chance again. I do not even want to.”

Arabella clutched one of the feather pillows and hugged it to her breasts. “Are you in love with him?”

She evaded her sister's questioning look. “It is too soon for declarations.” It was obvious that Chance was struggling with his feelings for her. Even if he did love her, a man in his position had too much to lose. He would never defy his family.

“Papa will never grant his blessing for the match.”

Lord Norgrave would rather see her dead than in the hands of his enemy.

If she had any sense, she should cease struggling against fate. Her father had decided Lord Warrilow would be her husband, and he could be very persuasive. The young marquess had never encountered anyone like Lord Norgrave. “There is no reason to court Papa's approval. Chance has not proposed, and if his family is as difficult as ours, he never will.”

“So you have given up?”

“Not in the least,” she said haughtily. “We Brants have stubbornness bred into our bones.”

*   *   *

Rainbault braced his forearms on the long wooden table and leaned forward. “Is St. Lyon exaggerating? Did you seduce Norgrave's daughter while the chit's mother awaited her return several floors below?”

Mathias glowered at the viscount, who responded with a shrug. “Your loose tongue is going to get me maimed by a sword or dueling pistol.”

“Do not blame me. You are courting death, my friend,” St. Lyon countered. “Dallying with a Brant will end with you staring at the wrong end of a pistol.”

After he and the viscount had escorted his mother and sisters to their coach, the two men had joined Thorn and Rainbault at a tavern. The prince had been in the middle of a brawl when they arrived. The small cut near the corner of his mouth was still bleeding, but he had held his own against five men.

“I thought you were goading Marcroft into challenging you?” the prince asked, his tone revealing what he thought of such an action.

“If you are caught, who do you think will demand satisfaction?” Thorn asked, well on his way to becoming drunk. “The father or the son?”

“Both,” Mathias replied without needing to think about it. He picked up the bottle of brandy and poured more into his cousin's glass. “And then you can count on my father finishing what the Brants started.

“A man does not murder his heir,” Rainbault said, scoffing at the notion.

Mathias brought the glass of brandy to his lips and drank. “Blackbern would consider it a mercy killing if he suspected his heir suffered from lunacy.”

A throaty laugh rumbled in Thorn's throat. “Well, as your cousin, I have often questioned your judgment.”