My Favorite Bride (25 page)

Duncan's guts took William's breath away—and his candor sent a chill up William's spine. Duncan spoke the truth. Anyone could be standing close enough to hear them speaking, and they wouldn't know he was there. Not Lady Featherstonebaugh. She was still limping badly. But Featherstonebaugh. Or Pashenka. Or any of the other myriad of spies being drawn to the Lake District by the presence of their master.

William and Duncan faced off.

Duncan didn't back down.

Before William could decide what to do, Samantha freed herself from Teresa and stepped between the two men. “I feel as if I'm a bone over which three dogs are at war. But I'm not a bone nor, regardless of my past sins, am I a traitor.” She faced William. In a patient tone that tried his serenity, not that he had any left, she said, “You're arguing with Duncan when you have no choice in the matter. At this moment, at this party, there are no other cutpurses or pickpockets. This is a delicate operation. You need a professional. I'm your only recourse.” She stared at him, right into his eyes as she had done last night. But nothing of last night's affection remained. This female was cool, focused, and logical.

Everything a woman should never be.

Turning to Duncan and Teresa, she said, “Now. Let us find a place where we can plot, and we'll get
this thing done so I can leave at once—and never have to see Colonel Gregory's face again.”

“Brava!” With mocking, measured tone, Teresa clapped her hands.

“Very good, Miss Prendregast.” Duncan offered her his arm. “The gazebo, I think.”

Teresa should have gone with William, but she ignored him and grasped Duncan's other arm. The three of them walked away, a triumvirate of determination and strength.

“Since William will be of no use to us as we plan, we'll have him patrol to ensure we're not overheard.” Over his shoulder, Duncan asked, “Can you at least do that, William?”

William stalked after them, glad for the first time in his life to bring up the rear. In this situation, he couldn't take the lead. He couldn't bear to trust Samantha to do the right thing.

He couldn't bear to trust
himself
to do the right thing. He bubbled with emotion. He, the man who dismissed women as pleasant diversions, but not an integral part of a man's life. He, who imagined himself married to the military, to the quest for justice, but never truly passionate in the pursuit of love.

Samantha had unmanned him—and Duncan was right. William had lost his perspective. He'd been talking without caution, thinking with his cock. He couldn't weigh the risks of the mission judiciously. He dared not retain command.

The gazebo loomed before them, and without looking back, Duncan, Teresa, and Samantha entered.

Quietly, William walked around the octagonal building, checking beneath every rosebush. They were alone. Alone, and lost in the mist.

Closing his eyes, he rested one hand on the wall near the door. Yes. He was lost. He'd never in his life
not
known the proper thing to do, or the correct way to proceed. It was all
her
fault . . . and he detested men who blamed their problems on anyone but themselves.

What had he become?

He heard Samantha say, “It's in her reticule. The map's in her reticule.”

Thrusting his head inside, William didn't bother to subdue his scorn. “How would you know that?”

“Shut up, William,” Duncan said.

Samantha ignored them. Him. “That black spangled reticule. She wears it with everything, and more important, she fingers it all the time. I thought she was a laudanum addict, and that's where she kept her juice.” She shrugged. “The map is in her reticule.”

Duncan nodded. Teresa nodded. They both seemed to accept Samantha's assessment without reservation.

William ducked out and leaned against the gazebo, looking into the fog. Better that than staring at Duncan and Teresa. And Samantha.

Duncan asked, “Can you make that exchange?”

William strained to hear, but Samantha didn't answer.

Duncan spoke with more urgency. “Can you change the real map for a fake one?”

“Of course she can.” William smiled
disagreeably as he answered over his shoulder. “She's infamous.”

“Shut up, William,” Teresa said. “What's the problem, Sam?”

“Usually a pickpocket just cuts the strings or slips in and gets the cash.” Samantha spread her hands wide. “I've never opened a reticule, taken something out, and replaced it with something else.”

Teresa nodded. “I understand.”

“On the other hand, Terry, it could be worse.” Samantha grinned, one of those gamine grins that had formerly charmed William. “She could keep it in her bosom.”

Duncan and Teresa laughed.

William glared.
Sam and Terry.
When had that happened?

Before William could yell at them, scald them with his contempt, Duncan stepped into the doorway. “William, make another circuit of the building. I want to know there's no one out there.”

“There's not.” But William, surly, set off at once, and looked as carefully as before, watching for footprints in the dew, for any proof that someone—like Pashenka—had decided to see how well his spies were doing. But so far, Pashenka had stayed hidden on the Featherstonebaugh estate. Of course. He stayed where he was safe.

William returned to the doorway as Duncan was saying, “Then that's the plan. Pray God, Miss Prendregast, that your hands are swift.”

Chapter Twenty-five

It was almost finished, this horrible houseparty with its manor full of idiots. When the luncheon was over, Valda could leave the dining hall at Silvermere where Gregory and Lady Marchant, that slut hostess of his, had ordered luncheon served. Valda would go out into the swirling fog, step into her carriage, and go home to Maitland at last. She hadn't slept in two nights. She'd been kept awake by the pain from her bruised body.

And the worry about Pashenka. How to handle him. How to escape this situation alive and free.

Not long ago nothing could have kept her awake. Pashenka wouldn't have caught her unawares and kicked her. She would have considered eluding him a challenge, nothing more. Now a dreadful refrain played in her mind . . . trapped. Old, and trapped.

But she wasn't. She wouldn't allow herself to be.

And there were advantages to being awake all night. She'd heard Rupert get up and start rummaging around in her belongings, looking for the map, and she'd lain there and smiled into her pillow beneath which rested her black-beaded reticule—and the precious map.

She would give Pashenka the map. Yes, she would. Right after she told him she had more information hidden away in her brain. That would keep her alive until she could get away.

Now she fingered the reticule that hung on her arm, and watched the guests milling around the table, smiling, gossiping, filling their plates with strawberries, breads, thin-sliced beef, and cold asparagus. She ought to be eating, but she wasn't hungry. She simply wanted to leave. She didn't even care about her clothing, and she wore a fabulous outfit of . . . she had to glance down. Oh, yes. Of bronze satin with silver trim. She wore the finest clothing here.

Rupert looked good, too. Thin, tall, more aristocratic than any of these military men or ambassadors. He spoke now with one of the young, country debutantes, smiling his most charming smile and following her as she edged away. Damn Rupert. If only he were reliable. Or faithful. Or less of a flaming coward. Then Valda would keep him. But there was no chance of that now. He had betrayed her on every level. At the proper moment, he would have to be eliminated.

Leaning on her cane, she tried to listen to the conversations. Why, she didn't know. She already
had so much information to impart, she'd never recall it all. She'd been so groggy last night she'd even written some of it down. She, who had always remembered everything, had begun to lose the little details.

Furthermore, some people she saw had begun to look . . . odd. Every once in a while, from the corner of her eye, she would see a man who looked almost skeletal. A woman as pale as death. A child who spoke with a hollow voice. When she turned her head, they would be gone. It was as if the ghosts of those she had killed were haunting her.

Impossible. She needed to get some sleep.

“Lady Featherstonebaugh.” Lady Marchant spoke right in her ear.

Valda jumped so hard Lady Marchant had to rescue her as she toppled over.

“Lady Featherstonebaugh, you must indulge in Colonel Gregory's luncheon.” Lady Marchant forcibly steered Valda toward the table. “We want you to enjoy your last meal here.”

Automatically, Valda moved into her benevolent old lady routine. “Dear, I'm not able to fight my way through the crowd. Perhaps you could fill a plate for me.”

“My lady, your strength has always impressed me. Come this way.” Lady Marchant applied yet more pressure to Valda's arms, guiding her deeper into the crowd. “You don't want to miss such a wonderful opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” As Valda's sore ribs got jabbed with random elbows and the babble of the crowd filled her ears, her voice grew shrill. “It's no
opportunity to eat this swill and drink such gritty wine. You chose badly, my lady, badly.” Aware she had lost the good humor that had served as a camouflage for so many years, she tried to rein herself in, but couldn't. “You don't need to look at me that way.” She saw one of those skeletal faces peering over Lady Marchant's shoulder. “So reproachfully. That's the risk you take, being an English soldier—”

“An English soldier?” Lady Marchant glanced behind her.

Valda blinked. Only Lady Stephens stood there, chatting with Lady Blair.

“What are you talking about?” Lady Marchant asked.

“Nothing. Nothing.” A great shout rose from the guests.

Lady Marchant yanked her to a stop. “Look, they're brawling.”

Jerked from her moment of madness, Valda stared through the opening in the crowd.

Colonel Gregory had Mr. Monroe by the throat.

The crowd was forming the traditional fighting circle around the two men. The faces were intent, staring at the two furious men.

And the men were furious. Colonel Gregory looked as if he would gladly kill Mr. Monroe. Mr. Monroe was flushed, his eyes venal.

Looking into Mr. Monroe's face, he shouted, “You liar! You haven't been riding out at night chasing spies.”

With that one word, they captured Valda's attention. Spies? What did he mean, spies?

Mr. Monroe broke Colonel Gregory's hold.
“How dare you call me a liar? I have. I'm a hero. Better than you!”

“You're nothing. The spawn of a Scotsman.” Colonel Gregory grabbed at him again, his lips drawn back like mad dog's. “You're a fortune hunter!”

To hell with fortune hunting. Valda wanted to hear about the spies. She leaned forward, her gaze intent.

“
I'm
a fortune hunter?” Mr. Monroe shoved Colonel Gregory's chest. “What about you? At least I love the woman!”

Beside Valda, Lady Marchant inhaled sharply.

Valda looked at the female beside her and realized—the men were fighting over
Lady Marchant
. Fascinating. And the men had mentioned spies.
Truly fascinating
. The pain of her ribs, her fear, even her awareness of her surroundings left Valda as she concentrated on the scene before her.

“I know what you've been doing,” Colonel Gregory shouted. “You're after Lady Marchant—”

Now the entire crowd gasped. The circle tightened.

Eyes avid, Valda leaned forward.

Mr. Monroe swung at Colonel Gregory. Colonel Gregory went spinning away. Women screamed. Men shouted.

And Valda felt a tug on her precious reticule.

She grabbed at it. It still hung on her arm. She spun toward the person beside her—the person who tried who steal the map.

It was that thief. That tall governess with the white-blonde hair. That Miss Penny Gast. Swift as a
snake, Valda grabbed that fiendish girl's wrist and twisted. “Give it back!”

“What?” Miss Gast pretended to be bewildered.

With her other hand, Valda reached into the pocket hidden in her skirt. Wrapping her fingers around the cool butt of her new pistol, she clumsily drew it. Pointing it at Miss Gast, she said, “Give it back!”

“Ruddy ‘ell!” Miss Gast tried to step back as she stared at the pistol. The crowd hemmed her in, holding her in place.

Lady Marchant shoved at Valda. “Lady Featherstonebaugh, what are you doing?”

People around them were noticing the pistol. The women screamed louder. The fight between Colonel Gregory and Mr. Monroe died.

“Give it back!” Valda demanded again.

Miss Gast held up her hands, showed her empty palms. “I don't have anything. See?”

“What's going on?” Colonel Gregory shouldered his way toward them.

Valda stuck the pistol in Miss Gast's stomach.

Colonel Gregory froze. “Don't move. Samantha, don't move.”

“She stole my . . . my paper,” Valda said. “Everyone knows she's a pickpocket.”

That bitch Lady Marchant interfered. “No, she's not. I told you she wasn't. You've got her name wrong.”

“For God's sake, Valda, are you mad?” Rupert stared over the top of the crowd.

“I don't have anything. See?” Miss Gast spoke in
this soothing tone which irritated Valda almost to madness.

Valda wanted to shoot them all, but she had only one bullet. One bullet to use on this bitch who had stolen the map. “No one steals from me.”

Moving slowly, Miss Gast showed her empty hands. “Why don't you check on your paper? You'll see I don't have it.”

Valda hesitated.

Miss Gast seemed sincere.

Lady Marchant sounded irritated.

Colonel Gregory looked . . . pale.

With her free hand, Valda squeezed the soft sides of her reticule. Inside she heard the crackle of paper. She began to feel ill. Cautiously, she withdrew the pistol from Miss Gast's stomach. No one in the crowd moved as she pulled open the strings that held the reticule closed and peered inside.

There it was. The map, folded into a stiff square, the distinctive red ink clearly marking its importance.

The pistol drooped in her hand. “I . . . I'm sorry, Miss Gast. I thought you had . . . I thought you were someone else.”

“My name is Miss Prendregast.” The young woman's voice was firm, but her hands trembled so hard she hid them in the folds of her skirts. “Miss Samantha Prendregast.”

Slipping forward out of the throng, Mr. Monroe appeared beside Valda and removed the pistol from her grip.

The crowd gave a collective sigh of relief.

Lady Marchant put her hand to her forehead
and performed a most unladylike swoon, one that involved toppling over onto the marble floor so hard she bumped her cheek.

Mr. Monroe went onto his knees beside her, calling, “Smelling salts. We need smelling salts!”

Colonel Gregory grabbed Miss Gast and wrapped her in his arms.

For one moment, she looked as if she, too, might collapse. Then she lifted her head and fiercely said, “You don't like me, I don't like you, and I won't be punished for your wife's death. I won't be the scapegoat for your shame. So release me—now!”

The expression on Colonel Gregory's face was beyond price. Valda would gladly have stayed to hear the rest of the scene, but Rupert grabbed her and tried to hustle her toward the door. She resisted. But people were still looking at her. The ambassador and the head of the Home Office were eyeing her with peculiar intensity. Leaning down, she plucked her pistol off of the floor beside Mr. Monroe, tucked it into her pocket, and, head held high, sailed out the door with Rupert.

The last words she heard, spoken by a furious Colonel Gregory, were, “Miss Prendregast, pack your bags. You'll be returned to London first thing in the morning.”