The Bachelor's Bargain Page 19

  “Is that true?”

  “It is. And what is worse, the longer you stare into my eyes, the more I begin to forget how very much I dislike you.” She stood. “The more I forget how truly abominable you are, the more I want you to kiss me again as you did in the garden. And the more I want you to kiss me again, the more hopeless my future becomes.”

  “Anne!” He rose and caught her around the waist.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Blackthorne,” she whispered, pulling away and running toward the door.

  To Anne’s utter surprise, one Tuesday morning Miss Pick-worth reported the most monstrous lie ever printed in The Tattler. A terrible falsehood about the Marchioness of Blackthorne and her new husband—yet it was the exact plan Ruel had whispered to Anne only three nights before as she made her way along the corridor to her bedroom. How news of this stratagem had come into Miss Pickworth’s hands, she could only guess, for she had told no one but Prudence Watson and her two sisters.

  Anne knew that The Tattler was avidly read by everyone in London who could afford to purchase it. The newspaper was then taken in hand by the household staff, who secretly perused each word before carrying it to the dustbin. And finally the vegetable and fishmongers plucked the printed pages from the refuse and used them to pack their wares—but not before eagerly gathering around someone who could read to them all the secrets the aristocracy would least want anyone to know.

  Miss Pickworth, the anonymous columnist who reported the affairs of Society and answered heartfelt petitions from her faithful readers, penned the most enthusiastically devoured words in the entire newspaper. No woman worth her salt would set out in her carriage for Hyde Park unless she knew what Miss Pickworth had reported about her neighbors that morning. No man would step foot into his gentlemen’s club without the knowledge of who had done what and with whom in London that week. This doyenne of civilization’s real name was anyone’s guess and everyone’s speculation. Miss Pickworth was feared and reviled and fervently embraced by one and all.

  Prudence Watson, living once again with Sarah and her husband at Trenton House, raced across the green park of Cranleigh Crescent that Tuesday morning and slapped a copy of The Tattler on the tea table in front of Anne.

  “Look at this!” she cried. “See what Miss Pickworth has written about you! How did she know? Who could have told her, for I promise you that neither my sisters nor I breathed a word to anyone!”

  Anne picked up the newspaper, but before she could begin reading, Prudence snatched it away again. “‘By all accounts merry as well as married,’” Prudence read aloud Miss Pick-worth’s alliterative prose, “‘the Marquess and Marchioness of Blackthorne mean to depart our Society at the summit of the Season. In an enchanted European excursion they will enjoy dining along the Danube, ascending the Alps, and sunning on the seacoasts of southern Spain.’”

  Anne set her spoon on her saucer. “He must have put out the information. The marquess.”

  “‘Beginning in Brussels,’” Prudence continued reading, “‘the contented couple will favor fashionable Flanders with their esteem and elegance. But will they flee in favor of farther shores, or will they choose to commingle with their comrades in an effort to encounter England’s most enigmatic and elusive enemy?’”

  “What does Miss Pickworth mean by that?” Anne asked. “What enemy of England could be considered an enigma?”

  “She is talking of Napoleon!” Prudence cried, dropping onto a chair and taking her fan from her reticule. “Anne, have you not taken note? This year’s Season is quickly disintegrating as more and more members of the ton book passage for Europe. And now you will join them.”

  Anne took a sip of tea before responding. She knew Ruel had not shared the full scope of his scheme with her, and this new information concerned her deeply. “Why is everyone rushing off to the Continent?”

  “Because that is where all the excitement is happening! Napoleon was declared an outlaw two months ago, and as you know, all the sovereigns of the Continent have agreed to join forces against him. No one in our Society wants to miss out on the possibility of a thrilling campaign.”

  “Aristocratic London wishes to participate in a French war?”

  “Not participate, silly goose. Observe! Everyone is talking of how gripping it will be if Napoleon throws his army against us!”

  Gripping? Anne could hardly believe Prudence’s words to be true, and yet she had heard such whispered rumors herself more than once. It was a fact that she and Ruel were not the only couple making plans to depart England for France. Even his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Marston, were expected to journey there eventually. In early September, Sir Alexander was scheduled to wed Gabrielle Duchesne, daughter of the Comte de la Roche. The duke and duchess would travel to Paris for the happy nuptials, and then all the family would return to England together for the start of winter and the foxhunt season.

  “Do you not want to see our men in action?” Prudence asked. “All the officers in their handsome red coats! Oh, it will be simply too magnificent!”

  “But, Prudence, you are talking of battles and bloodshed.” Anne shook her head. “I cannot think why anyone would hope to witness such violent conflict.”

  “I should wager you dread encountering our Society more than the French soldiers.” Prudence fanned herself. “But you must take comfort on that account, Anne. Sarah commented to me how brilliantly you have deflected the wicked barbs aimed in your direction and reduced them to brief snide remarks. And Mary says you have befriended several of the young wives who have not yet skipped away to the Continent.”

  “It is impossible for anyone to say I have friends in London,” Anne said. “You and your sisters are my only true confidantes. Oh, Prudence, I dread the thought of separating from you.”

  “Then you may set your mind at ease.” Folding her fan, the young woman smiled coyly. “I am to accompany you to France!”

  “Truly? But you have said nothing to me of this.”

  “Sarah and I discussed the situation at length, and of course Mary gave her opinion. We all agree it would be unwise for you to be abandoned to the company of your husband and his companions with no one to defend you. You are too naïve to maneuver through the traps and obstacles the ton may lay in your path while in France. And you are still very much in danger from the marquess. Sarah wrote to him yesterday, and he sent a message by return post. He has welcomed me to join your party.”

  “You will come? Oh, Prudence!” Anne threw her arms around her friend. “Then God has indeed answered my most heartfelt prayers. If you and I are together, nothing can overtake us.”

  Shortly before the marquess and his companions were to depart for Brussels, Anne returned from a round of paying calls to discover a note on her dressing table. Picking up the letter, she recognized the dark, bold script at once. It was dated that morning and had been left unsealed.

  “My darling Anne,” Ruel had written. “I shall be visiting several of my properties in the country during the next two days, as I told you last night. How dreadfully I shall miss you!”

  Anne frowned. Properties in the country? The marquess had not mentioned anything of the sort the night before. In fact, they had dined at opposite ends of an enormous table in a long, mirrored hall at the home of Lord and Lady Something-or- other. Later, she had been compelled to dance with so many different men she had hardly laid eyes on her husband. This letter was clearly not intended to be private. The marquess expected its contents to have been read and spread about by the household staff. She studied the note again.

  “In preparation for our journey to the Continent,” he continued, “I have had your trunks sent out to various clothiers. I hope you do not mind, dearest. I took the liberty of ordering a substantial number of new items for your wardrobe. I am sure you must be pleased.”

  Pleased? Anne hardly needed new clothes. She already had more gowns than she could wear in a year. What on earth could this mean?

  “Your trunks will
be returned to you locked, but please do not fret. I do so wish to see the surprise on your lovely face when you discover what I have selected for you. The thought of the light in your eyes will keep my heart in eager anticipation of the moment when I shall hold you in my arms once again. Until then, do think of me often and remember how very much I adore you. Your loving husband—B.”

  Anne stared out the window. Properties in the country. Clothiers. Locked trunks. It must have something to do with his scheme. But what?

  Determined to discover at once the meaning of the letter, she debated whom to approach. Sir Alexander, of course, would know everything his brother had planned. But the thought of meeting privately with the young man held no satisfaction whatsoever. Anne knew she could expect insult from him at the very least, for his demeanor toward her had not changed since their encounter in the garden at Marston House. Sir Alexander considered his brother’s wife nothing better than a conniving little bedbug, and she knew she could never trust him.

  Mr. Walker would know Ruel’s plans, as well. Anne decided she must find him at once and ask the meaning of the message. If anyone could be depended upon to speak the truth, it was the Indian. Anne drew a blue muslin pelisse over her white morning dress and hurried out into the corridor and down two flights of stairs to the library.

  From that room she knew it was possible to see all the back garden, the kitchen garden, and part of the drive. If Mr. Walker were anywhere about the property, she probably could spot him through the library windows.

  Anne pushed open the door and stepped into the room. Instantly she realized the window draperies had been drawn apart no more than half a foot, and a slender, silhouetted figure stood peering between them.

  “Excuse me?” she said softly.

  “Oh!” Prudence whirled around and dropped the curtains. She flushed bright red, as though she were a child caught with a finger in the pudding. “Anne, is it you?”

  “Prudence? What are you doing at Marston House? Why was I not told of your arrival?”

  The young woman exhaled. “I . . . I was simply . . . you see, I spoke with Sarah at breakfast this morning just before she went away in her carriage to make the rounds at Hyde Park. I told her . . . I said I thought I might stroll across the green to see . . . to speak to you.”

  “Ah.” Anne studied the blushing girl and the hastily drawn curtains. “But somehow you were distracted from your mission?”

  “I was indeed. The prospect from this window is very fine.”

  “Yes, it is.” Anne walked toward the window. “I was just coming down to speak with someone myself. Have you seen Mr. Walker today?”

  “The blacksmith? Perhaps he went away with the marquess to tour the country properties.”

  Did everyone know everything about her personal business? Anne wondered. She had barely had time to read the note herself, yet Prudence already knew of its contents.

  “I doubt Mr. Walker journeyed with my husband. A companion was not mentioned in a note to me.” Anne stepped to Prudence’s side. “Lord Blackthorne has written a most puzzling message. I should like you to read it, Prudence, but it is too dim in here to make out the words.”

  As she took hold of the curtain, Anne suddenly realized she might find someone hiding behind it. Someone her friend very much did not want her to see. Someone tall and dark. Someone who had spoken of love in a corridor and had held a weeping woman in his arms.

  It was too late for hesitation.

  She grasped the curtain and pushed it aside. No one stood behind it.

  Anne let out a breath of relief. What if Mr. Walker had been there? How dreadful to discover such a thing and then to be forced to confront the two of them. She must learn to be more circumspect.

  Prudence scanned the note. “It appears quite sensible to me.”

  “Aye, but what of the locked trunks and the mysterious clothing orders? And why does he write to me so lovingly when I have hardly had a kind word from him of late? I should very much like to speak to Mr. Walker, for I am sure he would know the meaning of it all. Perhaps he went for a stroll. My husband tells me he is partial to daily meanderings along the Serpentine.”

  “Indeed, for Mr. Walker says the summer green of Hyde Park and the beauty of the river put him in mind of America,” Prudence said. “He grew up along the . . . oh!”

  Catching herself, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Anne gazed into the olive green eyes and shook her head.

  “Prudence, what have you been doing?”

  “Mr. Walker speaks often of his homeland. I think he wishes to return there.”

  “You are seeing him in secret,” Anne said. “You are going to France with our party because you wish to be near Mr. Walker, and you have . . .”

  A sniffle stopped Anne’s words. Prudence had begun dabbing her eyes. A wisp of golden hair had escaped her bun and lay on her shoulder in disarray. Her shawl, a lovely scrap of lace with long fringes, dropped to the floor at her feet.

  “Oh, Prudence.” Anne stepped forward and took her friend’s hands. “I should not have spoken to you so boldly. The affections between you and Mr. Walker are no business of mine. Please believe I never meant to cause you unhappiness.”

  “You must not mind me.” Attempting a smile, Prudence tucked her handkerchief inside the hem of her sleeve. “I find things . . . difficult these days. So very difficult.”

  “Have you and Mr. Walker formed an attachment?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He . . . he . . .” Her face crumpled again. “He will not have me. I feel I have finally found the only man I can ever love, and he is determined not to see me.”

  “He is right to dissuade you, dearest. He is too old, too different, too many things that are very wrong for you.”

  “Aye, and now . . . now he will go off with you and the marquess and . . .” She pulled out her handkerchief and blotted her cheeks. “. . . and Sir Alexander and pay me no heed. It is a great deal for me to bear.”

  “You should stay in London, Prudence. Play with Mary’s baby girl and take tea with your sisters.” Anne squeezed the poor woman’s hands, all the while knowing exactly what Prudence intended to do. Her friend could no more turn away from the man she loved than Anne could prevent herself from thinking about Ruel day and night. But it would be a mistake for Prudence to join the party. Mr. Walker could never marry her, and they were smuggling lace machinery—

  Lace machinery! That is what was in her trunks. Of course. How could she not have known at once? But how appalling to carry the disassembled loom in her own luggage! What if the parts were discovered by the authorities? Anne herself would be accused, of course. She would take all the blame.

  But that must be the very reason she was to carry the equipment. The marquess would never risk allowing himself or his brother to be discovered smuggling. Were his common, ill-bred wife to be caught, Anne could fall to her doom with little discomfort to anyone. After all, her father was already in prison. Such intelligence could be put about Society as a perfect excuse for Anne’s illicit activity. “Her father is a common criminal, you know,” she could hear them whispering. The marquess could cast her off as easily as a snake sheds its skin.

  “You have gone quite pale, Anne,” Prudence said, touching her arm. “Do sit down and let me ring for tea. I am afraid I have upset you with my tears.”

  “No, it is something I have just realized. Something . . . dreadful.”

  “Has it to do with my accompanying you on your tour?” Prudence seated Anne in the leather sofa near the window and sat beside her. “I must go with you, you know. I have no reason to stay at home. Sarah and Mr. Locke are so much in love, and they have their tea enterprise and charitable ventures to oversee. Mary and Mr. Heathhill are besotted over their daughter and hardly talk of anything else. And I . . . well, I have nothing here. I must go with you. I know I can never truly have him, and I shall . . . I shall let him go.” She bit her lower lip and dabbed at her eyes. “I shall let him go, as I mu
st. But not yet, Anne. Please, not yet.”

  Anne watched in a daze as the sobbing woman did her best to dam the river of tears pouring down her cheeks. Prudence truly believed herself in love with Mr. Walker, though Anne was a bit skeptical. Prudence had always enjoyed scores of admirers, and Anne felt certain she would recover her senses in time. Anne had known her far too long to doubt it. Yes, Prudence was miserable, but Anne knew no one could possibly feel as terrible as she did at this moment. No passing affection for the latest in Prudence’s long line of beaux could compare to the reality that Ruel Chouteau, Marquess of Blackthorne, was perfectly willing to betray his own wife.

  “I must go back to Trenton House,” Prudence whispered. “I should not have come here today.”

  Anne put out her hand. “Are you well?”

  “I am all right. And I shall behave myself on our journey. That is a promise.” She tucked her handkerchief away once again. “Thank you, Anne.”

  As Prudence walked across the carpeted floor, slipped out of the library, and shut the tall door behind her, Anne lifted her eyes to the window. Rising, she leaned against the glass and studied the long rows of clipped hedges in the garden outside. Ruel really was the scoundrel Prudence insisted he was, and Anne must never forget it. Never mind his hypnotic kisses and teasing words. Never mind his warm hands and tender looks. He was a rogue with no more scruples than a common criminal—a man who would use his own wife to smuggle goods and then let her take the consequences if discovered.

  Prudence, Sarah, and Mary would nod knowingly if they were ever to understand how correct they had been all along. Anne shook her head, then she stiffened in surprise when she saw her friend step out from behind a hedge onto a patch of green lawn in the garden beyond. The next instant she was joined by none other than Mr. Walker.