Love Lessons at Midnight (10 page)

When his kisses grew more heated again, she pushed the confusing thoughts to the back of her mind and returned
his passion with a hungry despair. Soon he would be gone forever, but tonight…tonight belonged to them.

Northumberland, Wolf’s Gate Castle

Eastham cursed and smashed his hand on the table as Edgar Hull stood rigidly in front of him. “You are an incompetent imbecile!” he railed. “You have hired a kidnapper who could do the job no better than your own pitiful attempt a decade ago.”

“The fellow’s a Bow Street Runner.”

“Who, you now say, requires more money. Do you believe I can shake it off trees for you to live the high life in London?”

“It’s not for me. I have to pay for information.” The main point of enduring the ugly confrontation was to extract more of the ready from the clutch-fisted marquess. He did enjoy the vices of the Great Wen and was, by damn, owed a little pleasure in exchange for the abuse Eastham heaped upon him, not to mention the long ride back to this wretchedly bleak place.

“If you have paid this runner so well, why has he failed so abysmally?”

“How was he to know that the harlot was armed and could shoot? Or that she would have a rendezvous with one of her patrons? Fancy-looking toff, he was. Bold as brass, too.”

The marquess turned his back on Hull, stroking his chin as he considered what to do next. Shooting a runner while on horseback sounded quite like that damnable hussy he had married. She had always been far too coming for a proper female. Then another thought occurred to him. “We may be able to use this ‘fancy-looking toff’ to bait a trap for her if she spends time with him outside her filthy bordello. Have you any idea who he is?”

“I didn’t recognize him,” Hull lied. He had not even seen the man, only heard Cresswel describe the incident while his wound was being dressed. At the thunderous look on the marquess’s face, he quickly added, “But I will find out his identity. Cressy owes me a favor. Him being a runner and all, he’ll be able to do it.”

“See that he does, posthaste!”

Hull only prayed that Alan Cresswel survived the ugly gash the bullet had torn across his side so that he could collect his favor.

Amber had never seen Grace behaving so nervously. She had been working on account ledgers that morning, trying not to think of Rob, when her mentor knocked and said she had brought coffee and freshly baked crumpets with Cook’s strawberry jam. While she closed her book and removed the inkwell, Amber watched Grace fuss, setting the tray on the small table by the window. She poured two cups of a rich black brew and handed one to Amber.

Knowing that Grace far preferred tea, Amber considered remarking on it, then decided it might be wiser to simply wait and see what her old friend wanted. She accepted the cup and took a sip. “Heavenly. Thank you.”

Grace took a sip and swallowed manfully, then tried not to grimace. Lud, how she detested coffee! But she knew if she waited for Cook to steep tea, she would lose her courage. “Now,” she began, “er, do have some jam on that crumpet before it gets cold.”

Amber sighed. “Grace, dear friend, why is it that I think you have a concern that is far more important than a cooling crumpet?”
Please do not let her ask me anything about Rob!

“I fear I do,” Grace confessed, setting aside her coffee cup. “You must not feel obligated…but you know what a detestation my dear Burleigh has always had for the diamond squad.”

Amber smiled. “He has, upon one occasion or another,
remarked on it, yes.” The crusty baronet much preferred living on his rambling country estate. He was well and truly a farmer and horse breeder. Being all the crack in a starched cravat and skintight breeches was the worst fate he could imagine. Burleigh Chipperfield was never happier than when he wore muddy boots and a belcher around his neck to wipe the sweat from his face as he walked his fields.

“Every man has his fantasy,” Grace blurted out, startling Amber.

Thoughtfully, Amber replied, “I suppose that is true. Does his have aught to do with the upper ten thousand?”

Grace nodded. “Yes. Oh, my, after confessing it to me, he made me swear that I would never tell you…but it would be so much fun for him…”

“And it involves me.” The response was not a question. Amber waited.

“You are the only one he would not feel uncomfortable with…er…fulfilling his fantasy.” She leaned forward, a gleam starting to twinkle in her eyes as she warmed to the explanation now that she was nerved to reveal it. “Burleigh was quite surprised to receive an invitation to the Chitchesters’ masquerade ball to open the season.”

“That would be a singular honor. Invitations are quite coveted in the ton.” Left unsaid was how a mere country baronet, albeit a man of substantial property, had come to be on the guest list when he had no interest in the ton.

“I know, why should he have been so favored? Well, Burleigh has a cousin who is quite the mushroom. He is heir to a sizable estate and will be the next Viscount Caruthers. But that is no matter,” she said dismissively. “The invitation came because he is willing to marry the Chitchesters’ eldest granddaughter.”

“The one they call Medusa?” Amber asked. “He is a mushroom, indeed. She is not only on the shelf, but pushed to the rear of the cupboard. Yet, if she found a husband…”

“Just so. He secured the invitation for Burleigh, simply to irritate him, knowing how the dear fellow detests any rarified social occasion, least of all a masquerade. It was to impress, without the slightest expectation that Burleigh would actually attend.”

“Where does Burleigh’s fantasy enter into this Banbury tale?”

Grace shifted in her chair a bit uneasily again. “In a moment of wry good humor, he told me that it would be a lark to attend—with you on his arm. His cousin would be flummoxed to see him with a lovely young woman—of course,” she hastily added, “only Burleigh would know his lady was from the House of Dreams. He never imagined that I would dare to ask you to do this. In fact, he will be quite put out that I have done so…but only consider, all the while the two of you dance, gossip will swirl about you. No one would ever imagine who his mysterious young lady is.”

“And both of us could laugh at the ton’s pretensions, a country baronet and a courtesan at a duke’s ball.”

Seeing that Amber was warming to the idea, Grace said, “You are the only one who could do this. Even if I were young enough, I could not serve. Far too many in the Chitchesters’ circle would recognize me, even masked, since I was quite the infamous madam in my younger years. But wearing a mask and a wig to cover that remarkable hair…” She paused a hopeful beat. “Do you not see the humorous possibilities?”

A
mber did see the wicked humor in snubbing her nose at the proprieties of the ton, the diamond squad who had banished her to cruel exile because of their horrendously hypocritical rules. Before she could reply, Grace continued her explanation.

“Of course, we would send along a host of our most trusted guards for your safety, but at such a public place I believe you would be in no danger or I would never ask, even for Burleigh. In fact, once he learns that I have shared his jesting wish with you, he will probably fall into an apoplexy.”

Amber grinned. “But if I were to refuse, you would never tell the dear man, would you, you dry boots?”

Grace actually blushed beneath her paints. “No, I would not. You do see why no one else but you could do this, not even Jenette?”

“No, Burleigh would not be comfortable with anyone but me.” Amber considered. “This will be great fun.”

Grace became thoughtful. “Now that I have asked you, I am reconsidering the matter. It is too dangerous. If by any chance some distant member of your family were in London for the season and recognized—”

“You said yourself, how could anyone? I shall have on a mask and will conceal my scar with paints as always. Remember, I never had a season. No one in London has the slightest idea who I am. Grace, Burleigh is not the only one who would enjoy a bit of revenge on the ton.”

Knowing the circumstances of Amber’s marriage, Grace nodded reluctantly.

“Do not be in such a brown study. I shall wear a wig to conceal my hair—and powder it beneath just to be certain no odd red strands peek out. Pale blonde, a silvery tan, hmm, what do you think?”

“Well, we have two weeks to decide,” Grace replied, pleased in spite of her misgivings. How Burleigh would relish this!

For her part, Amber welcomed the adventure. It would take her mind away from Rob. She expected any day that he would send a note, or appear in person to pay what he owed and terminate their business. What would she do then? Uncertain, she decided to use her voucher for the Gallery of Lords one more time. It thrilled her to watch him speak. To see him move in daylight, after he shared the darkness with Gaby.

Amber was not the only one preoccupied with their dilemma. Rob held thoughts of Gaby and Fantasia at bay during the days by burying himself in work, writing speeches, conferring with various members of Lords and Commons, and attending political rallies. On several occasions when delivering a speech on the floor of Lords, he caught himself glancing up at the galleries to see if a lady dressed in black was present.

His sleep and his concentration had suffered in recent weeks. Friends and political associates commented on his apparent distraction and asked what was wrong. There was no answer he could give. Nor could he explain his distraction to Lady Oberly when they met with increasing frequency at social gatherings.

He had no further reason to see Gaby. The kind of love they made now was far more passionate and bold than would be at all seemly in the marriage bed. She had taught him
everything he needed to know and much more. He should thank her and tell her good-bye. Perhaps tonight?

Rob instantly dismissed the idea and returned to work on a speech for today’s session in Lords. He would attempt to expose the corruption of Newgate prison guards and the deplorable conditions that many of the incarcerated endured. His hard-won resolve to focus on work was interrupted a quarter hour later by a messenger with a note from Verity Chivins.

Once her bright cheery invitation to ride on Rotten Row would have delighted him. But her talk of fashions, what went on at Almack’s, or the latest gossip about Lord Alvanley’s gambling debts and Brummel’s exile were becoming increasingly taxing. He dashed off a reply, explaining that he would be on the floor of Lords today. She had attended several of his earlier speeches. He invited her to do so again, but in his heart, he honestly hoped she would decline.

After arriving at Westminster, Rob reviewed his notes and waited his turn to take the floor. Just as he was recognized to speak on that warm afternoon, he saw the baroness and her insufferable father seated in the first row of the gallery. A widow dressed in black and wearing a heavy veil sat directly behind them. Fantasia and Verity were both watching him, sitting scant feet apart!

All thought suddenly fled as the horrifying possibilities flashed through his mind. What if some devilish urge led Fantasia to speak to the only other woman in the gallery? When he blinked and looked down at the notes in his hand as if he had never seen them before, Lord Realton cleared his throat and said, “We await your pleasure, m’lord. You do have some wisdom to impart to your peers, do you not?”

Rob shoved his notes into his pocket and forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. “Most certainly. Please forgive me, m’lord.” He bowed stiffly to his political foe whose bacon-faced countenance smirked openly. “My lords, I am
here to discuss a grave miscarriage of justice. Two worlds exist side by side inside the cold, gray walls of Newgate…”

Somehow he completed the speech and responded ably during a heated debate on the prison reforms introduced in Commons. By the time the session drew to a close, he was relieved to see the baroness and her father had departed. He knew the issue, and any others discussed, held no interest for Lady Oberly. She had come only to please him. The baroness was encouraging his suit…if he ever began it. Now he had grave doubts that he should.

Perhaps I could ask Gaby’s advice tonight.

No! He had to wean himself from depending on her sympathetic ear. Better the tart, acerbic wit of Fantasia. She was nothing if not blunt and practical, a woman who had seen a good deal of life. Dare he confide to her his change of heart regarding his chosen bride? He stuffed his notes into a leather satchel and quickly made his way through the noisy throng of peers, receiving congratulations from a few and caustic comments from many.

When Frog pulled his carriage up to the door in the Old Palace Yard, he retrieved a pistol from inside the coach, sliding it into the waistband under his coat. Then he instructed the driver to return home without him. He quickly found Fantasia awaiting her chaise and cut across the crowded melee of carriages and pedestrians. Without giving a fig for the potential danger, he approached the “widow.” “Good afternoon, m’lady,” he said softly.

Fantasia spun around abruptly and whispered, “Are you mad? What will the gossipmongers make of this?”

“No one knows your identity.”
Including me.
“I should simply tell anyone who inquires that you are a distant cousin from Kent, recently widowed.”

She could not resist smiling when a thought suddenly occurred to her. It was a good thing that he could not see
her expression through the heavy veil. “Are you concerned that I might have spoken to your baroness?”

He frowned. “How did you recognize the woman I intended to court? I never gave her name.”

Amber noted the choice of words. The woman I
intended
to court. Had he changed his mind about the vacuous little fortune hunter? She hoped so as she replied, “When I had you investigated as a potential patron, she was, er, noted in the report. It is quite apparent that she has set her cap for you.” She made a dismissive gesture. “But you evade
my
question and I asked first.”

She was teasing him. His frown softened into a smile. “After due consideration, I decided to trust your discretion. You would never betray a confidence.”

“Ah, but at first the thought did distress you, did it not? Else why did your legendary eloquence desert you when given the floor by that pompous ass Realton?”

“I have been a bit distracted here of late,” he confessed. “Would you be so kind as to give me a ride home once more?”

“You are taking a grave risk, Barrington,” she said softly, her heart racing.

“You are my third cousin Angela Whitfield from Kent. What could be improper in my accepting a ride in an open carriage with a widow?” he asked with sternly proper bow. Only the dancing green light in his eyes gave the lie to the stiff words. “No one need know that I was rather ungraciously forced to beg for the honor.”

“Well, today wishes do indeed become horses and beggars will ride.” She gave his direction to her driver, then turned to the earl. “Please assist me up.” The moment his hand touched her arm, Amber felt as if lightning had struck. She quickly averted her gaze and forced herself to remain calm while climbing into the carriage. Because the day was so lovely, she had taken the open carriage, which meant he
had to sit beside her. The smaller vehicle had only one seat. When he climbed up, the crisp, masculine scent of starch and shaving soap teased her nostrils.

She did not dare to look at him as the carriage pulled out into St. Margaret Street. The busy afternoon traffic impeded their progress as her driver was forced to rein the horses every few yards. Rob was very careful not to allow his body to touch hers. The confined space on the small seat made it difficult. He had to straighten his long legs and brace his feet against the footboard to keep from brushing against her. What cork-brained impulse had made him ask for this ride? Her rose perfume had an instantly arousing affect on him. What should he say? What
could
he say?

“Perhaps this was not a wise idea after all, Fantasia,” he finally managed.

She turned from staring at the motley press of humanity and faced him. “Do you intend to court the baroness or not?” There. It was out in the open. Did she sound jealous? What did it matter? He had begun this gambit.

His chuckle was rusty. “You are awake upon every suit, to take notice of my slip. You are also honest.” He paused, gathering his scattered thoughts. At length he replied, “I’m no longer certain about Baroness Oberly’s…suitability. Her appeal from a distance was far greater than it is now that she is out of mourning and we have spent several social occasions together.”

“She is vacuous and her father is a mean-spirited ogre who was insufferably rude to my friend Jenette when last we were here.”

“You do not sugar the medicine,” he said with a sigh. Feeling it would be unchivalrous to reply to her accurate assessment of the baroness, he said, “The viscount detests everything French, making no distinction between Bonapartists and Royalists. We do not get on all that well, although he tries to temper his dislike of my politics for his daughter’s sake. Was
your friend Jenette the charming Frenchwoman who played Will Scarlett?”

Amber could not believe she had dared to ask him about the baroness—and that he had replied without growing angry at her presumption. What did that mean? Rather than ponder such a disturbing question, she replied, “Yes, that was Jeni. She is a remarkable woman.”

“Was she the one who taught you to shoot?”

Amber nodded, once more aware of how he filled the carriage with his presence. To shift her dangerous train of thought, she turned and looked back. “Boxer was behind us, but in this traffic I cannot see him.”

Rob, too, turned back and spotted the sergeant major some distance behind them. “He’s making his way closer as rapidly as possible. I wondered at his absence when we left the building. Do you never travel without him to guard you?” What enemy could she have made who could be this dangerous?

“Sometimes others such as Jeni accompany me, but there is always someone,” she replied, hoping he would not press her further.

Her driver was suddenly forced to turn the light carriage sharply in order to avoid the cart of a street vendor. Amber tumbled against the earl’s chest. Instantly his arms reached out to steady her. He did not immediately release her, but stared at her face as if he could see through the veil.

“I detest the need for your disguise,” he said in a husky voice.

“Not nearly so much as I.”

“You are a strikingly beautiful woman. Why—”

She placed one gloved hand over his lips and felt her fingertips burn through the soft fabric. “Do not ask what I cannot answer. Tell me instead about your misgivings regarding the baroness.”

Rob fought the desire to remove the bonnet and kiss her.
This was insane. The woman he desired in that way was Gaby. He shook his head to clear it, then leaned back against the seat and said, “I find her conversation lacking…wit…but that is the least of it.” He outlined the events at Lady Oberly’s dinner party. “It is as if she brings the child out to show that she is capable of producing an heir. That sounds insufferably vain of me.”

“Not vain, true. Jeni said the same thing when we chanced upon the three of you at Berry’s grocery. A nursemaid will raise that boy and any other children she may have.”

“You were there when poor little Elgin pulled down those tins? I did not see you.”

“No one takes note of a widow veiled in black.”

“You must be very weary of hiding. Can you not confide in me? You can trust my discretion. I have trusted yours.”

For one insane instant she almost unburdened herself. What a relief to tell him all of the dark, ugly secrets that haunted her nightmares, but she quelled the impulse. “′Tis not a lack of trust, m’lord. It is—”

She was interrupted when a band of ruffians suddenly surrounded the carriage. Amber could hear Boxer’s shouted warning from a distance, but it was too late. One vile-looking fellow with shoulder-length strings of greasy hair and hands the size of bear paws seized the horse’s harness while his scrawny companion pulled her driver from his perch. Two more piled onto the open carriage from Rob’s side while a horseman reined in beside Amber.

Amber dug into her reticule as she screamed to draw attention, but in the noisy press of people at the busy King Street intersection, the gawkers who paid any mind did nothing to aid them. Rob raised his foot and kicked one of the invaders squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward to the pavement. From the corner of his eye he caught the gleam of a blade and ducked an instant before his second
attacker sliced open his throat. He used his arm to shove the knife away, then punched the man’s face.

As they struggled, the horseman leaned down and tried to scoop Amber from the carriage. She twisted away as her right hand found her pistol. Without removing it from the reticule she aimed and fired, but in the struggle the bullet missed its mark, leaving only a charred rip beneath her attacker’s arm. With a snarled oath he reached out once more, knowing she could not have a second weapon in such a small bag. Hearing the shot, the crowd panicked. Pedestrians, street vendors, and carriages scattered pell-mell in all directions.