Chapter 14
Michael helped Damien brush down and resaddle his horse. “I would like to be part of your operation, my lord. I’d be honored if I could expose those traitors to the Crown. I’ll go mad if I stay in Hatherwood for the rest of my life.”
Damien nodded. “No one else must know what you learned tonight. You’d have to alter your appearance if you become involved.”
“How?” Michael asked, laughing.
“Shear off the pretty curls that the girls ask to touch. Different clothes. You were brought up as a gentleman.”
“My blood doesn’t agree.”
“Then do what you are meant to— What was that noise?”
Michael glanced across the barn into the moonlight arena. “A carriage. His Drunkenness is home, and that means a quarrel is imminent. Don’t let him see you. If you need me, I’ll be here. Thank you for taking care of my sister.”
“I wanted to ask where she—” Damien broke off. “Never mind. Keep a close eye on her for the next few months. Take her away for a seaside holiday, if you can.” He patted down his saddlebags. “God, she’s left her boots with me.”
“I’ll take them. There’s a small track that leads around the hills to the old Roman road. You can follow it until you reach the village. Watch yourself.”
“I will.” Damien cleared his throat. “Guard your sister. She seems to have a penchant for trouble.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Their luck held for about twenty seconds before both men heard the rattle of a small carriage coming up the inner driveway.
“I thought you locked the gates,” Damien said, leading his horse into the backyard, where the arena and outbuildings sat in misty moonlight and one could mistake a fence post for a man.
“I thought I did, too,” Michael said as he reached into his pockets. “He must have used his own keys. Most nights he’s too foxed to find them. I never dreamt he would go to the party. He does little but stay home to drink and roar nowadays.”
A man’s bellow broke through the night. Michael groaned. “That’s him.”
“Emily!” the man roared from the front steps. “Michael! I will see you both downstairs in the hall, or there shall be hell to pay! I am too old to allow your antics.”
“Hush a moment,” Damien said. “I thought I heard another voice between his bellows. He isn’t alone.”
“That’s only the footman, talking to himself.” Michael closed the stall door, his face grim. “I’ll take care of this. Use the distraction to escape. Everyone in the house who was sleeping will be awake and in the entry hall in a minute.”
Damien frowned as Michael strode through the stables to the manor house. The baron’s temper was a distraction, all right. It would alert the curiosity of any men in the area who happened to be hunting a gypsy girl who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Had she admitted that sometimes her father was violent? Damien cringed to think of anyone marring her soft skin. But, then, he shouldn’t be thinking of her at all.
She was deceitful.
She was undeniably sweet.
She had brought most of this situation on herself with her scandalous behavior.
Hadn’t she insisted he leave?
Didn’t he have a few uprisings to prevent, a viscount’s life to save?
He should never have asked for that last kiss.
And she should never have kissed him back.
? ? ?
The front doors flew open with a force that sent Iris scurrying for cover in the dressing closet. “Lock the door, miss. He must have been drinking again at the party. Or on the drive home.”
“Or Lucy and Diana were forced to reveal all. I can’t hide from him forever.”
“You could try until he’s sober. What if he’s brought one of those men with him?”
Emily backed out of the room. “What if my father is one of those men?”
“He couldn’t be.”
“He’s been talking all month about taking a chair on the council.”
“The parish council.”
Or had he been referring to a position that had nothing to do with alleviating the suffering of the poor? “Of course he isn’t involved in treason. What am I thinking? He couldn’t control himself long enough to be of help to any conspiracy unless it was staged at a tavern.”
“Excessive spirits rot a man’s brains,” Iris said with conviction. “Stay in here until he’s sober.”
“Don’t be absurd, Iris. He might know nothing except that I sneaked out of the house tonight, which is enough to infuriate him. If I hide it will only make it appear I’ve done more than disobey him.”
She pulled the door open, whispering, “At least he didn’t see me in that costume. He would have flown right into the boughs if he knew I was telling fortunes just an hour ago.”
“Miss, the wig—it’s only half unpinned.”
Emily glanced at herself in the pier glass. At least she had washed the tint from her skin and changed into an unadorned ivory gown.
She would have to remove her hairpiece before he noticed it. If he noticed it. The horrid thing refused to be freed from the pins Iris had jammed into her scalp.
She hastened down the hall and made it to the last three steps before her father saw her. He strode toward the staircase, brandishing a bundle of wrinkled red satin in his hand. He stank of drink. His silver hair stood from his head.
“Good evening, Father.”
“Was it?” he asked in a caustic voice. “Did you enjoy making a mockery of every decent principle in existence?”
Emily gripped the balustrade. She had never seen him this drunk or out of control. Had he found out what she had done tonight from a perceptive guest who had seen through Emily’s disguise in the tent?
How much does he know? What is he clutching in his hand like a shroud— Oh. Oh. He advanced to the bottom of the stairs.
“I can’t blame this defiance, this shameful behavior, on Michael, because he has only recently returned home. I can’t fault Lucy, though I wonder why Lord Fletcher tolerates your friendship with the girl when it is obvious you have an indecent influence on her.”
She dropped, barefooted, one step at a time to answer him. She saw a shadow slip through the door into the darkened hall. Her throat closed. Michael and her father in this mood created a deadly combustion.
“What is it?” Michael asked in accordance with the plan that Iris and Emily had agreed on in the case that they were caught. “I was in the stables, looking at the foal, sir. She—”
The baron did not turn around. “Be quiet, you young bastard. You have helped her to disgrace my name.”
“Disgrace?” Emily could only echo his words, afraid that her father and Michael would come to blows.
She had to intervene. She deserved her father’s wrath. “I can explain,” she said, inching down another step and motioning Michael back into the hall. She knew she was breaking her promise to her brother that she would not confess, but she couldn’t allow him to take any blame for her reckless judgment. “It was an innocent folly, Papa. I went to the ball without your permission.”
“Innocent?” he said slowly, opening his fist to unravel the red satin ball gown she had hoped to wear when Camden asked her to dance. How na?ve her masquerade seemed now. Yet even if she hadn’t believed in her heart it would lead to a marriage proposal, she could not have imagined the dark turn it had taken.
“You were with a man tonight,” he said in disgust. “I forbade you to attend that dance, and not only did you defy me, but you apparently met a man alone in the tower and spent the evening with him and without your clothes.”
Emily shook her head, realizing he would never believe the truth. To all appearances the red gown condemned her. She would need hours to explain the sequence of events, and even then she couldn’t deny that she had deceived him.
“Who found the dress?” she whispered.
“I caught young Lucy trying to sneak it past her father.”
“She was not with a lover,” Michael said, his voice low and furious. “I took her there and made sure she came safely home.”
The baron held up the evening dress by its rumpled sleeve. “Then explain this.”
She stared past him to Michael. “I took it to Lucy’s house and intended to change there before the dance. I made Iris come with us. She didn’t want to be part of it. I’d no idea you wanted to go, too, or we could all have traveled together.” Which would have crimped her plans for romance, but in retrospect that might have been better for everyone involved.
“You are a liar. Like your mother,” he said, his voice hoarse with drink and disillusionment. “I’ve confronted you with the evidence, Emily, and you are still lying to me. You never went to the party at all. No one saw you there. Not one person witnessed your appearance.”
“That’s because I—” She lifted her hand to the atrocious wig and tugged.
Her father stared at her. He was too upset to even comment on—or notice—that her hair was not its usual style or color. “I’ve always known you were a hoyden,” he said. “But I would never have thought you would become loose.”
“That’s enough,” Michael said, coming forward to place his hand on the baron’s shoulder. “We can discuss this with cool heads in the morning.”
The baron shrugged off Michael’s hand. “What do you say for yourself?” he asked Emily, blocking Michael from her path.
“We did go to Lucy’s. But—”
She read the warning in Michael’s eyes, the reminder that if she mentioned the word gypsy in her father’s presence, he would only blame her brother for encouraging her unladylike attempt to impress a man. She couldn’t admit the truth.
The baron threw her dress back across the hall. It slid into the path of the man who stood in the doorway, unnoticed until Emily looked past her father to the spot where her dress lay.
Him again. Back to bring her more bad luck.
Was he out of his mind? Did he hope to see her banished from her home? He must have heard her father shouting. He had to understand his appearance would only make her dilemma worse. He lifted his gaze from the floor and stared until she realized that he was studying her as if he had no idea who she was.
Was this to be another act on his part? If she were in his place, she’d refuse to become implicated in her fall. What was he doing in her house? Why didn’t he leave awful enough alone? She would never have accused him or dragged him into her affairs.
She begged him silently to go. Nothing good could come of him confronting her father. What could he be thinking? She couldn’t guess, even though he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
He closed the door and walked quietly into the hall. Michael either sensed his presence or was alerted by the dread on Emily’s face. Her father appeared too deeply in his cups to detect the sudden menace in the air. His voice shook when he resumed his tirade.
“This is the last time,” he said. “Lucy and her young stepmother might think I’m stupid enough to believe their lies. Not a single person at the party except those two troublemakers could remember seeing you and even then they would not give me a straight answer.”
“I spent most of my time in the garden,” she said, her gaze flickering to her Scottish protector. Dear God, what was he going to do? Didn’t he realize that anything he said would only make it worse for her? Maybe he wasn’t concerned about her at all. Maybe he needed to make sure she never divulged his secrets.
“I did spend most of my time in the garden,” she said again to her father. “I came back home when I heard you were looking for me. I—”
“I demand to know the man’s name and whereabouts.” He raised his fist to her face. “So help me God, I will beat the truth out of you if you make me. Everyone at the party must be laughing at what a fool I looked, searching for—”
“My name is Damien Boscastle, the Earl of Shalcross, and I am standing in your shadow. Your daughter was with me this evening. I take full responsibility for our actions. I led her astray.”
“What?” Emily whispered, shaking her head in disbelief, moving forward without thought to what she was doing. Damien Boscastle? Who in heaven’s name was this man? An earl? She hadn’t believed her maid’s prattle.
The unfamiliar voice either failed to penetrate her father’s rage or further stoked it. In a blur she watched her father’s hand descend, and Damien intercept the blow with his forearm. Her father stumbled back into Michael, who steadied him before stepping forward to act as a shield between the earl and the baron. Emily wouldn’t want to stand between them at this moment.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asked Damien in bewilderment.
Damien straightened, scrutinizing Emily again before he answered. “The ranting from this house is more than enough to draw the attention of any neighbor passing by. I’d have thought that this would be a night for discretion. It is not necessary to broadcast one’s private difficulties, is it?”
Emily swallowed hard, avoiding his hard gaze. There lived only one neighbor who, perhaps if he were taking an evening walk, might have overheard the baron’s outburst. That was unlikely. The servants had learned long ago to stay in their quarters when the master had been drinking. And it might be undesirable to attract notice to an unpleasantness at home, but no one had asked for his intervention as far as Emily knew.
Her father seemed to have calmed considerably. Perhaps at last he had made sense of what the earl had said.
“My lord,” he said, his manner deferential. “You will understand my distress. I was under the impression that my daughter had stayed home, and naturally I would not have allowed her to go without a reliable escort. Perhaps she even told me and I forgot.”
“I understand,” Damien said, when it was clear he didn’t have the clue what the baron meant.
“I have known that my daughter would be the death of me since the day she started to walk.”
Damien’s eyes darkened. “I think I understand,” he said again.
“She changed the color of my hair overnight,” the baron said.
“I can see that happening, too,” Damien murmured.
“I do not believe I properly caught your name. Forgive me. And did you or did you not offer her a marriage proposal?”
Emily shivered in the moment of silence that followed her father’s bluntly asked question. An earl. A request for Emily’s hand. A single indiscretion could be overlooked when accompanied by a proposal from a nobleman. But this was his opportunity to back out of his impulsive offer. Her father would rage, yes, and then he would pass out on the sofa. In the morning everyone in the house would hide in their respective places. The baron would not be certain what had happened during the night.
But he was alert enough now. He coughed lightly, prompting the earl to respond.
Damien shrugged with a detached air that Emily might have admired had she not been the object of his impassivity. “I am Damien Boscastle, Earl of Shalcross. Yes, I wish to marry—”
The baron turned to Michael. “Do you have knowledge of his lordship?”
Michael glanced in Damien’s direction. “Yes. I do. He’s of an honorable family. You heard what he said. Twice.”
The baron expelled a sigh.
“I served under him in Spain,” Michael added.
“Then all’s well that ends well.” Baron Rowland looked shaken but relieved. “Shall we call for a drink to congratulate one another? I had no idea, Emily, that you had fallen in love with his lordship.”
Neither had she. Still, the earl, if that was indeed his title, had placated her father for tonight. She expected there would be hell to pay all over again when dawn came and Damien had disappeared. She wouldn’t let herself believe he meant what he’d said.
“Come, come,” the baron said, motioning to Damien as if he were already the favorite member of the family. “We shall break out a French brandy.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Damien said with a taut smile. “We can celebrate over tea on Sunday while we discuss the details of the marriage.”
“Sunday?” the baron said, blinking.
Emily wrenched another pin from her wig. Her father looked as though he might tear off his cravat and tie the earl to the banister before letting him escape this engagement. Not that any length of linen could hold a man of Damien’s agility. She had become familiar with the brawn that his evening clothes disguised.
She felt a shudder of relief begin to unbind her muscles. Sir Angus/the earl—whoever he was—would not return tomorrow or on Sunday. This was simply the last act he must play before the curtains dropped. He would be gone before Emily rose in the morning. It did not seem probable now that anyone would wish to hurt her or Iris because they had unintentionally overheard a part of some alleged conspiracy.
It also seemed improbable that a man with those unearthly blue eyes had asked her drunken father for her hand with any sincerity.
“Good night, everyone,” she said, and turned before the gentlemen below could reply. “Sleep well.”
It was too much to expect—to be allowed the last word and a graceful by-your-leave. Never mind what miracles she prayed that the morning would bring.
“What is wrong with you?” her father asked with an uneasy laugh. “You might as well give your betrothed a proper send-off. I see no point in playing coy if you’re engaged to his lordship.”
A challenging smile crossed Damien’s face. Something was different about him. His voice interrupted her before she could work out why he seemed entirely changed. Almost as if he’d become another man. Of course, she had known him for only a few hours. But they had stared at each other in the tent. He had kissed her and brought her home on his horse. He was not a mere Sir Angus. He was a peer. But that wasn’t why he seemed different.
He stood as tall and wide-shouldered as before. He wore the same red beard and detailed evening clothes. He looked a little tired, but the fire in his eyes hinted that it would be dangerous to underestimate him.
He was still unlike any other man she knew.
But something had definitely changed.
His voice startled her. “May I be allowed a moment alone with my fiancée?”
No one else said a word.
She shook her head and the wig dropped on the last step.
Damien stared at the mass of black ringlets that had landed at his feet. “This is a surprise.”
Michael rubbed his cheek. “At least she revealed her identity before the wedding night. It’s your turn now.”
Emily wound one arm around the stair railing. “Yes, what about you? I don’t know anything except what you wanted me to know.”
The baron cleared his throat, unable to follow the conversation. “It takes years for a man and wife to know each other, Emily, and even then they can end up as strangers. How and when did your affection for each other begin?”
Michael forced a laugh. “It was me. I played Cupid, sir. I introduced them through a series of correspondences. Before I knew it, their letters to each other had evolved into an enduring love.”
“I never noticed that Emily received any letters,” the baron said in puzzlement.
“Well, you wouldn’t,” Michael said. “She was shy and not certain what would come of their written devotion. But that is why they are still awkward around each other, sir. They’re still learning to express what was easier said on paper.”
Devotion. Love letters. Emily wanted to weep.
Damien looked up from the step to her face. “You appear to have lost your wig,” he said, nudging it aside with the toe of his boot.
She stared back at him with a gasp of realization. “And you have lost your Scottish brogue. That’s what is different.”
He advanced on her, speaking in a low voice that only she could hear. “I have lost more than that. I do not take surrendering my name and protection lightly. Despite what you and your maid might think of your charade tonight, you have put yourself in a dangerous position.”
Emily had only to examine the hard angles of his face to realize that she might be better off taking her chances on staying in Hatherwood than surrendering to Damien’s dark sensuality. She wondered if Michael knew of an antidote for a love scheme gone wrong, and whether it would be too late to use it.