Almost Perfect (24 page)

Lucien eyed his cousin. This wasn’t the way their pranks worked. Once the victim uncovered the trick, the prankster had to confess to arranging it.

“Then, if it wasn’t to see me humbled at the tables why did you direct me toward her at the ball?”

Devanney’s gray eyes filled with satisfaction. He shifted on the settee, stretching his long legs out before him and bracing one arm on its back. “Marriage, my dear cousin. Your marriage.”

Devanney let Lucien stew in curiosity for a moment before he offered the rest of his explanation. “Philana Forster called on me the moment she heard that you’d agreed to attend my party, begging that I include her nieces and Conningsby.” He rolled his eyes at that. “You can imagine my reaction. I had enough to handle in my sweet Aunt Eleanor without adding Sir Roland to the brew.”

“But you didn’t refuse her?” Lucien asked.

Devanney offered a rueful grin. “Of course I did, to no avail. That woman has more persistence than Sisyphus. At last I told her I’d only extend my invitation to her nieces if I liked her reason for insisting that they be included. You’ll never guess what she related to me.”

Lucien grinned. God bless that meddling old woman. “That her elder niece was the perfect wife for me. All she needed was the opportunity to bring us together.”

Watching astonishment blossom on Devanney’s face was worth the trouble Lucien had bought himself by making mincemeat of Lady Eleanor. “How did you know?” Devanney demanded.

“Because when Lady Forster came to claim her kidnapped niece”--Lucien shot a glance at Devanney’s pretty little cloisonne clock on the mantlepiece—“a half hour ago she demanded that I appear at Ettrick House in the near future to offer Cassie Marston’s repute the protection of marriage.”

His confession drove Devanney back against the settee with enough force to make the seat jerk even with the two of them sitting in it. “Kidnapped?” he gasped.

“Kidnapped,” Lucien replied with a shrug as if it was part of his daily routine: rise, bathe, don his attire, kidnap Cassie.

When Devanney continued to stare, Lucien smiled. “I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing at the time. When I found Cassie on the road, their coach had fallen and she was alone with a wrenched knee, having been abandoned by her family. Fearing my anger, she pretended amnesia. So, I claimed to be her husband.”

Both appalled and amused, Devanney relaxed back into the settee’s corner. “Madness. What were you thinking?”

Lucien’s smile widened as he understood now what he hadn’t let himself see at the time. Nothing had changed in the six years of his separation from Cassie. He’d wanted to be her husband then, and he still wanted to be her husband now.

“I was thinking that if I were her brother or her cousin I wouldn’t be able to demand my husbandly rights to force her into confessing that she was a sharp,” he said.

“Egad,” Devanney said weakly, his eyes wide. “Did you?”

“Force a confession?” Lucien asked, purposefully misunderstanding his cousin. “How, when there was nothing for her to confess?”

Devanney’s eyes narrowed in reproach.

Lucien laughed. “Anything else is none of your concern.”

The realization of what Lucien had done left Devanney shaking his head like a man befuddled. “All this because I let that old woman bring her nieces to my party, hoping to tweak you a bit. A thousand pardons, Hollier. I only thought this would be my best prank ever. I had no idea it would actually result in you being forced to the altar. You won’t let her do it to you, will you? Good God, you’ll have Sir Roland as your father-by-marriage.”

“What if I told you I was going to do it?” Lucien asked, studying the toes of his muddy boots.

“I’d say I didn’t believe you,” Devanney retorted with enough harshness that Lucien looked up at him.

Concern filled his cousin’s eyes. “Lucien, if you think the gossips were unrelenting after Dorothea,” he warned, shaking his head.

“A shame you didn’t catch me before I tore your sweet Aunt Eleanor limb from limb,” Lucien said with a laugh. “She’ll do her best to see me completely ruined with the ton.”

“You don’t sound particularly put out about it,” Devanney replied.

“Why should I be?” Lucien shrugged again. “Let them say what they please. I hope they enjoy this as much as I am. It’s worse melodrama than any London play I’ve ever seen, what with a card sharping beauty, a noble kidnapper, illicit lovemaking, a bankrupt knight, both financially and morally, a humiliated earl, and a forced and degraded marriage.”

The concern melted from Devanney’s expression. The corners of his mouth lifted. “You love her.”

“I do,” Lucien agreed, “and I won’t give her up, which brings me back to Bucksden. What’s your conclusion? Is there another way to stop him outside of a duel?”

“You could marry your Cassie,” Devanney suggested. “Once she and her sister have your protection Bucksden won’t dare to touch them.”

“You know better,” Lucien said with a sigh. He straightened on the settee and ran his fingers through his hair. In his haste to reach Devanney he’d forgotten his hat and gloves. His hair was wind-blown and tangled. If his face was as mud splattered as his shirt and boots, then Eleanor had been right to chide. He must look a disgrace.

He braced his forearms on his knees and looked at Devanney. “If I don’t find a way to permanently end his threat, doing it now, Bucksden will only be encouraged to repeat what he did to poor Dorothea three years ago when he feared I meant to expose him as a card cheat. I don’t want him slinking away to plot some sly vengeance. I won’t live my life always looking over my shoulder and worrying about what nastiness he has in store for me, or for Cassie. No, this must end, here and now.”

Devanney frowned. “A duel cannot serve you, then. It isn’t a mere scratch to satisfy outraged honor that you want to deal him, but a death wound. According to Percy, Mrs. Marston did him some injury. That leaves you with a conundrum, Hollier. You don’t have time to let his injuries heal, but if you kill him while he’s injured you risk forfeiture and exile.”

Exile. The word rang in Lucien, only it wasn’t his own banishment he contemplated. “You’re brilliant, Devanney,” he said with a laugh. “Exile is the perfect solution.”

Surprise shot through Devanney’s eyes then his mouth tightened. “Your exile won’t last long. If you dare to leave me alone in this country, I vow I’ll come after you with blood in my eyes,” he snapped back, half serious.

“Not me, you twit. Bucksden,” Lucien retorted. “What is it he can do that might result in his exile?”

Devanney laughed quietly. “He could kill you in a duel,” he said, his suggestion winning him a chiding look from Lucien. “You’re right, not a good option. Well then, what if you tried again to prove he cheated at cards? That would be the end of him. But that won’t work either. He’d never agree to play with you, and even if he did he wouldn’t do anything untoward. A shame you couldn’t prove what he’d done three years ago,” he added in afterthought.

With Devanney’s words the perfect solution came spinning up from inside Lucien. He stifled his laugh. A duel fought with a deck of cards. It really was too perfect, that was, if he could get Cassie to agree.

“I have an idea,” he said, “but I’ll wait to share it with you until I’ve spoken with Cassie, Mrs. Marston,” he amended, reluctantly returning the more formal address that convention demanded. He vowed to himself that nothing would change the intimacy they’d shared, even if he had to insert the demand that she sleep unclothed into their wedding vows.

He came to his feet, once again feeling in control of his emotions and his destiny, which was why he’d come to Devanney in the first place. “Well then, I’ll change and be off to Ettrick House.” As urgent as his need was to stand between Cassie and Bucksden he wouldn’t make her a proposal of marriage looking less than respectable. That would dishonor Cassie and the affection he felt for her.

“I’m coming,” Devanney said, his tone suggesting it would do Lucien no good to protest.

“What of your party?” Lucien asked.

Devanney grinned. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m staying here to listen to Eleanor complain about you. Go. Make yourself decent while I change into riding attire. Once we riding for Lady Forster’s house you can tell me all about this idea of yours.”

The occasional fallen leaf skittered over the grassy avenue, the pines lining the way to Ettrick House sighed. The wind tugged at Lucien’s hat and pushed at his back as if urging him to greater speed. More speed would have pleased Percy’s thoroughbred mare; Lucien had borrowed the horse, not wanting to wind his own bay. She lifted her heels and begged for a chance to run. It took effort to keep her at a sustainable pace.

“Hollier,” Devanney said in warning as he rode alongside Lucien. Devanney was no longer a study in brown and Lucien was no longer muddy. Instead, they wore similar blue riding jackets, fawn breeches and black boots.

At Lucien’s glance Devanney pointed to where the avenue gave way to gravel, almost a quarter mile ahead of them. It was an impossible tableau. Four men stood on Ettrick House’s raised porch, Sir Roland Conningsby at their forefront. All of them were armed, two with pistols, one with a sporting gun while Sir Roland held an ancient military musket. Conningsby held his weapon as if he were familiar with it. Lucien supposed he might be. Before he’d pickled his brains Sir Roland must have trained at arms in his youth. It was something all gentlemen did.

Their weapons were aimed at the three men standing with their horses at the base of the porch stairs. Of those three, two were servants, dressed in unremarkable garments. Bucksden, on the other hand, was unmistakable, even from the back.

It wasn’t just the earl’s form that identified him. Bucksden, although not as tall as either Lucien or Devanney, was a powerfully built man; it was his physical prowess that kept most men from confronting him. Nor was it Bucksden’s attire, although he tended to rival Percy in his regard for fashion. His overcoat, an unnecessary affectation on so warm a day, was fashionably caped. Beneath its hem his perfectly polished Hessians gleamed in day’s light. No, it was Bucksden’s strange headgear that distinguished him. Instead of a hat he wore a swathing, bulky white bandage wrapped around his head.

Lucien wanted to groan. He was too late. He’d needed to speak to Cassie before they confronted Bucksden. She had to understand, as Devanney already did, that there could be no show of affection from her toward him until they dispensed with the nobleman’s threat. One hint of a connection between Cassie and Graceton’s lord, and Bucksden would smell the trap Lucien wanted to set.

Had intended to set. Hadn’t yet set and now couldn’t. Lucien gnashed his teeth in frustration.

“Now what?” Devanney asked.

“What else can we do? Let’s see if Conningsby really intends to kill Bucksden,” Lucien replied, then gave the mare her head. She made good use of her freedom, leaping into a happy gallop. Devanney did his best to keep pace, kicking the ugly creature he rode into faster movement.

“Leave, Bucksden. What you want you’ll never have from me.” Sir Roland’s shout echoed in the distance. The knight didn’t sound like his usual silly self.

“You fool, you have no choice,” Bucksden shouted in return, the sound of his anger as identifiable as his form. “You’re a man of honor. You agreed. What’s done is done. Now, bring them to me.”

Heat stirred in the ashes of Lucien’s rage. Bucksden would die before he laid a finger on Cassie. Lucien put his heels to Percy’s mare, urging her on to even greater speed, certain Sir Roland would fold before the earl’s demand.

Rather than give way Sir Roland stepped to the edge of the porch and pointed his musket at Bucksden. “You want them? You’ll have to come through me first.”

Bucksden laughed at that and pulled something from his coat pocket. He extended his arm. Metal glinted. Lucien saw the puff of smoke before he heard the sharp report. The horses standing beneath the porch all whinnied and danced.

Sir Roland screamed and fell back, dropping his weapon. The musket shattered as it hit the porch floor, the stock falling over the edge. Two of Lady Forster’s guardians shuffled back a few steps. The other one, braver than the rest, knelt at Sir Roland’s side.

At the sound of approaching horses Bucksden and his servants turned. Lucien pulled the mare to a huffing snorting halt, not surprised to see that the earl’s servants weren’t the sort one took to Almacks or St. James Palace. The one holding the horses had been a frequent visitor to a boxing ring, or so said the flattened bridge of his fleshy nose. The taller man had short hair and a lean, hungry face, the look of London’s tougher neighborhoods clinging to every sharp line of his form.

Dismounting, keeping a tight hold on the mare’s reins, Lucien faced Bucksden, struggling not to laugh. The earl eyed him in return, his expression impassive. Or rather Lucien assumed it was dispassion he saw on the man’s face. It was hard to tell, what with the damage Cassie’s urn had wreaked.

Although Bucksden was impeccably dressed in riding attire, a dark blue coat, buff breeches, boots and a white waistcoat heavily embroidered with gold, he was no longer the handsome man over whom so many women swooned, at least not at the moment. Both his eyes were blackened, the bruising beginning to fade to a hideous shade of yellow. Not all the damage would fade. The skin at one corner of his right eye had torn. A doctor’s needle had drawn together the edges of what would become a small but ragged scar, not disfiguring unless you were a man who prized his appearance above all else. As for the earl’s once perfect nose, it now had the same bend that afflicted his servant’s more bulbous proboscis.

Lucien eyed that bandage on Bucksden’s head, wondering what further damage hid beneath it then noticed that black hair curled out from beneath the gauzy binding only on one side of the earl’s head. Again the urge to laugh wracked Lucien. Bucksden’s head was shaved on one side.

No wonder the earl was here and raging. He had nothing else to do. It would be a long while before he was again presentable to society.

As Devanney brought his horse to a halt and dismounted, Lucien bowed to the injured earl. “Good heavens my lord. What in the world happens here and what happened to you? Did you take a turn in the ring with Gentleman Jim?” he asked in the pretense of ignorance.

Bucksden’s lips tightened until his mouth was a narrow slash across his face. “Something like that,” he replied, evading an explanation he didn’t want to give and avoiding Lucien’s questions.

On the porch Sir Roland grunted and rose to sitting. He clutched a hand to his shoulder where blood soaked the fabric of his shirt beneath his fingers. The servant crouched at the knight’s side was a rustic who looked as much bear as human, but his calm expression and knowledgeable touch suggested he was familiar with wounds.

“Sir Roland, are you badly injured?” Lucien asked, amazed that the little man remained conscious although he wasn’t surprised Roland yet lived. While Lucien didn’t put murder beyond Bucksden, the earl was too good a shot and too smart to commit murder in the light of day and before witnesses.

“I’ll live,” the knight grunted, sounding disappointed at the prospect. What had happened to the feckless giggler?

Bucksden made an irritable sound. “Of course he will. It’s naught but a flesh wound. Take that as a warning, Sir Roland. I don’t care for men pointing weapons at me.” He tossed his spent pistol to the hungry Londoner, who caught it handily and put it in his coat pocket.

“I can’t say I know any man who does,” Lucien agreed, scrambling for some new way, any way short of his own death in a duel, to end Bucksden’s threat against Cassie and her sister. He gave a jerk of his head to Devanney, suggesting that his cousin make his way up to the porch. Devanney let his eyes widened as if in fear--hardly a credible response from a seasoned spy--then did as he was bid, his footsteps crunching in the gravel.

As Devanney went to the porch Lucien looked at Lord Bucksden, playing the part of the astonished visitor who simply happened upon this scene. “But, why was he pointing a musket at you in the first place?”

“It’s a private matter, Lord Graceton,” said Sir Roland, startling Lucien. He’d expected that protest to come from Bucksden.

The earl tried to lift his brows, only to flinch when the movement tugged at his stitches. “I must respect Sir Roland’s wishes in this regard,” he said.

As Devanney neared the porch top the two men near the door, one a balding butler judging from his attire, the other a satin-clad footman, turned in his direction. Although they didn’t point their weapons at him, Devanney held out his arms in a gesture of peace and smiled. “Easy, my good lads. Will you kindly inform Lady Forster that Lord Graceton and Lord Ryecroft have come to call?”

“I hope you get a better reception from the old woman than I have, my lords. Good day,” Bucksden said as he prepared to retreat.

Lucien’s fists clenched in frustration. Bucksden couldn’t leave, not yet. Their confrontation had to begin and end here and now. It was unbearable to think that Bucksden’s threat might hang over Cassie, and their marriage.

Stalling, Lucien said, “Dare I mention I was surprised to hear you were in the neighborhood, Lord Bucksden? Our paths so rarely cross.”

Bucksden turned, pebbles scraping beneath his boots. He looked back at Lucien, the wind shifting the hair beneath one side of his bandage. Again he tried to narrow his eyes only to flinch again.

Metal scraped metal, the sound of the bolt on Lady Forster’s door being drawn. Percy’s mare took offense to the noise, tossing her head and trying to back away from the porch. Moving to hold her by the bridle, Lucien watched the door open from over his saddle.

Cassie stepped out, shifting to one side as Lady Forster’s butler and footman retreated into the house. The door closed behind them, leaving her alone in front of the white woodwork that decorated Ettrick House’s entry.

Lucien’s heart filled with the sight of her. She still wore the very proper blue and white dress of this morning with a lacy fichu filling its bodice, but her hair was no longer unbound. Instead, it had been done in a series of intricate twists and was so tightly pinned in place the wind could gain no foothold. All in all, she looked even lovelier than she had at breakfast. Ah, but she didn’t look half as lovely as she had at dawn.

Blast it all. Why couldn’t he and Devanney have arrived ten minutes earlier? Then, he would have had the chance to explain all to Cassie, including why she must challenge the earl to a card game. But what she’d most needed to know was not to make a show of greeting him.

She went to her father. “Papa?” she asked.

Roland clumsily worked his way onto his knees then rose to his feet, keeping his hand clamped over the seeping wound on his other arm. “Go back inside, Cassie,” the little man commanded, sounding not at all like himself.

Rather than do his bidding, Cassie looked from Devanney to Bucksden, then her gaze slid across the earl’s servants to him. Rather than cry out in joy at his presence, something Lucien’s heart would have been glad to hear, a breath of a frown marred her pretty brow. She watched him, her gaze both wary and expectant.

Lucien ached as he understood. She’d watched him the same way in the courtyard of his lodge, needing proof from him that his affection for her hadn’t changed. He’d tried his best to give her what she’d needed then, but his anger had been too overwhelming to permit it. Now, when he was ready to tell her everything she wanted to hear, he didn’t dare extend so much as an encouraging look. Envy joined his anger. It wasn’t right that he had to remain down here while Devanney played the role of Cassie’s rescuer.

Pain flickered in her gaze. That only made Lucien angrier. Damn Bucksden and Conningsby to hell. Because of them he was hurting Cassie.

Cassie studied Lucien, praying for some indication from him that he’d come to offer her marriage. That’s what Philana had crowed when she recognized it was Lucien riding up the avenue on Mr. Percy’s horse accompanied by Lord Ryecroft. How Philana had exulted over the two men appearing at exactly the right moment. Something to do with fate. How Cassie’s foolish heart had swelled with misguided hope.

Lucien might look the well-dressed beau dressed in his riding attire, but he hadn’t come here as a suitor. It was disinterest, not love, she read in his expression. He watched her as if he didn’t know her, which explained Lord Ryecroft’s presence at Lucien’s side for this visit. It wasn’t marriage they came to propose, but some settlement that would free Lucien from Philana’s abhorrent threat of forced wedlock.

Reminding herself that she’d come out to do something other than break her heart anew over Lucien, Cassie turned her gaze onto Lord Bucksden. As she again confronted the damage that she and her urn had wrought on the earl’s face she didn’t wonder that he raged about her, even shouting to her father a few moments ago about taking her to London to face assault charges. She didn’t give his threat any credit. The earl was too proud a man to tolerate anyone knowing what she’d done to him. No, he had some fate other than a trial and imprisonment in mind for her. She didn’t care to imagine what it might be.

Lord Bucksden’s lips lifted into a tight, satisfied smile. “Well now here you are, Mrs. Marston. I see you’re more sensible than your sire. Go back inside and fetch your sister. It’s time we were on our way.” Threat lay heavy in his tone.