The Carhart Series Read online

  Not trust Madame Esmerelda?

  If he couldn’t trust her, he couldn’t trust that she had been right that day so long ago, when she’d told him to live. He couldn’t believe she’d seen a future for him, free of that stultifying despair. If she hadn’t seen the future then all Ned’s hopes for his future were lies.

  She couldn’t be wrong. He wouldn’t let her be.

  This, Ned concluded, was a test.

  He couldn’t rely on anyone else. He couldn’t rely on Madame Esmerelda’s tasks. He couldn’t even assume Lady Kathleen’s icy elegance would bring Blakely to his knees. No. Ned would make sure Blakely married her, even if he had to trap them into it.

  But Blakely had not yet arrived.

  In the half hour since Ned had arrived at the Arbuthnots’ soiree, he’d been watching Lady Kathleen from the corner of his eye. He would have been aware of her even without his plan. His chest constricted every time she drew breath. It was a perfectly natural response, he told himself, after what he’d planned.

  Even now, across the wide expanse of the great room, he sensed her. She was dressed in a white gown that would have been simple, were it not for the hundreds of brilliants sewn into it, in patterns that dazzled his eye every time she moved. They made her blond hair look almost white, as if it were made of platinum.

  She, on the other hand, had spent her evening looking everywhere else—at the other men who danced attendance on her, strutting ravens all, at the orchestra performing in the corner, even up at the ceiling, patterned in red paint and gold leaf. She’d looked at him once—a long, searching glance—and then colored and looked away.

  Directly opposite his quarry stood his second group of players. To wit: There was Laura, Blakely’s sister. She stood by Ned’s mother, a stick-thin matron, graying hair twisted and curled and adorned with flowers that reminded him of spring. And close by these two ladies was Lady Bettony, an inveterate gossip, whose talent for spreading rumors was surpassed only by the keenness of her observation.

  Ned met Laura’s gaze across the ballroom. She gave him a terse nod. She was ready; she understood the task Ned had appointed for her. Laura had been curious, and therefore easily bribed. He’d given her Madame Esmerelda’s address, in exchange for her services tonight.

  It was five minutes before eight now, and Blakely still had not appeared.

  Lady Kathleen had betrayed tiny signs of nervousness all evening, which Ned detected even from this distance. Her manners were more formal; her light laugh perhaps a touch heavier than usual.

  Hardly surprising, given the circumstances.

  After all, Ned had sent her a note.

  Correspondence with an unmarried lady was a breach of etiquette. Correspondence suggesting that she meet him to explore the unmarked servants’ quarters at the Arbuthnots’ was downright barbaric. But he hadn’t suggested anything truly indelicate. Instead, he’d thought of that look on her face. For all her haughty airs, she’d almost seemed to enjoy talking to Ned. Strange; inexplicable, even. But then, of course fate would serve Madame Esmerelda’s purposes.

  He’d turned Madame Esmerelda’s advice over and over in his head. Briefly, he’d considered the horrifying possibility that Madame Esmerelda was admitting she was wrong. That her predictions would not come true. But he couldn’t accept it—wouldn’t accept it, no matter how the possibility ate away at his heart. He had to believe she’d been right that night long ago when she’d told him to live. He had to believe she’d seen his future, free of darkness.

  You must stand on your own two feet, without anyone to help you. No; there was only one conclusion. Given Blakely’s stubbornness, Madame Esmerelda’s tasks could only do so much to bring the fated couple together. The rest was up to Ned and the next four minutes.

  Assuming Blakely made an appearance. Ned suppressed the touch of fear that accompanied that thought. Blakely would appear punctually. He was always cutting when Ned missed an appointed meeting by even a paltry minute.

  But speaking of time, the first player swished into action. Lady Kathleen didn’t look at Ned. She didn’t even glance in his direction. But she waved her hands prettily, as if making her apologies, and slipped from the room.

  Ned shut his eyes and envisioned her walking quietly down the gold-papered hall toward the ladies’ retiring room. The blue dining room was only steps beyond the parlor set aside for that purpose, and from the reports of the servants, it was the perfect venue for this little tableau.

  There was only one exit, and nowhere to hide. A couple alone in the room would be seen the instant the door opened.

  A hint of desperate nausea turned Ned’s stomach. He was openly sweating now, and his nerves fluttered. One word to Laura, and he could still avert the coming storm. A few phrases of his own to Lady Kathleen—if he hurried, he could catch her still—and the scene would not play out as he’d envisioned. He’d asked her to meet him there, and despite the impropriety of it all, she was going. It had to be fate.

  Everything Ned hated about his own life—his powerlessness, the respect he never seemed to command—he was doing to her. He had wanted to control his own life; now he was wresting control from her, trapping her into matrimony. Even in the heated press of bodies in the open room, covered as he was by layers of linen, wool, and waistcoat, Ned shivered.

  A last, desperate chivalrous corner of his mind shouted it was not too late. But Ned thought of Madame Esmerelda’s face, so obviously distraught. He thought of the depths to which he could yet fall. And he steeled himself to let events go forward as planned.

  As they would, if only Blakely were present. Lady Kathleen undoubtedly thought—as the note Ned sent her implied—she would be meeting Ned to discuss the reasons why she slipped from the crowds and wandered in servants’ quarters. He didn’t want to think what it meant, that she’d left to meet him under such improper circumstances.

  Because Ned wouldn’t meet her. Instead, Blakely would arrive prepared to gloat over Ned’s claimed surrender. A conversation between the two of them would ensue. Fate and the spirits might bring bodies together where recalcitrant minds had previously resisted. And then shortly after Blakely and Lady Kathleen closeted themselves alone, Laura would lead that tight knot of women to their discovery. Scandal, the blow to Lady Kathleen’s reputation and Blakely’s own sense of responsibility would take care of the remainder.

  And Ned had no doubt—no real doubt, that is, as he didn’t count that roiling pit of denial in his stomach—that what started as responsibility would grow into real affection. With Madame Esmerelda’s imprimatur, it could do little else. The only reason Ned saw not to order the wedding punch directly was that Blakely had not yet appeared that evening.

  Unless his cousin hadn’t been announced, and had instead proceeded directly to the dining room.

  Horrifying thought. Lady Kathleen could be meeting his cousin now. Asking, perhaps what he was doing there. Blakely was no fool; if he figured out what Ned had done, he would leave before their fates were sealed. If Blakely was there, Laura needed to make her appearance now.

  Ned glanced across the room. Laura hadn’t moved.

  Suppose on the other hand Blakely had been delayed. Then Lady Kathleen would be cooling her heels in the blue dining room. Lady Bettony could hardly burst in on a solitary girl—or at least, if she did, there would be no gossip in it.

  A lady’s reputation was supposed to be a fragile thing. Why, then, did it take so much effort for Ned to crack this one? Cold sweat trickled from his armpits.

  Madame Esmerelda had never said Ned’s task would be easy. She’d told him to rely on himself. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he needed to do right now. Taking a deep breath, Ned set off toward the dining room.

  He’d intended to listen at the door and ascertain if both parties were inside. But Lady Kathleen stood just outside the room, angrily tapping her foot. One hand rested on her hip. The other beat an impatient tattoo against her skirts. The rhythm made that net of brilliants send cor
uscating flashes of light all about her, as if she were Zeus, sending out little sparks of lightning. When she saw him, she pressed her lips together.

  “And you’ve just chosen to appear, then?” A hint of anger slipped in her voice and transformed the tinkling melody into something harsher. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have ignored your letter. I should have insisted on obtaining the proper introduction, because this is most improper. I didn’t imagine you would make me wait. If you’re trying to talk to me alone, you’re doing an awful job of it.”

  She cast a look at him, as if waiting for an apology.

  “You haven’t seen anyone else?”

  Instead of answering, she glanced down the hall and turned on her heel, disappearing into the room behind her.

  Ned perforce followed.

  The blue dining room was cold, unheated either by fire or the press of closely packed bodies. Two things were missing. First, and most oddly, the walls were cream and gold without a speck of the expected blue in evidence. Second, Blakely was nowhere to be found. A clock on the wall showed two minutes past eight. His cousin was late.

  Once inside, Lady Kathleen whirled around and pulled the note he’d sent her from the sash of her gown. Her hands shook and the crisp white ribbon tore away. With it came the seam of her dress. It gaped, white cloth at her waist falling to reveal inches of tantalizing ivory petticoats. She looked down and her fists bit into the paper.

  “This,” she said, waving his note in his face, “is the most horrific breach of etiquette I have encountered. You should know better than to ask to speak with me alone. I should know better than to do so.” She turned her head away, slightly. “So why am I here?”

  “Lady Kathleen.” Ned raised his hand against the rising tide of her ire. “My cousin—”

  “Your cousin.” Her words were flat. “Stop hiding behind your cousin.” Her eyes glinted, gray ice against the furious flush of her cheeks. “You can’t really expect me to believe this is about him.”

  Ned waved his hands in placation. “Look. I can explain. I needed to talk with you privately, because I just wanted to—to—”

  To separate you from everyone else so I could trap you into marrying Blakely. Ned winced. There was no way to honestly complete his sentence. Talk about tossing fuel on the fire.

  “You wanted to what?” Her hand rose slowly to touch her lips.

  “You won’t believe this,” Ned said slowly, “but I wasn’t attempting any impropriety between us.”

  Her brow clouded at that.

  “I just—I just wanted to—to—” Ned gave up trying to come up with a favorable explanation for his behavior. It wasn’t possible. “I’m sorry.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I know I haven’t acted well. It’s just—you see, I’m in a bit of a bind. And—and—things are not going well for me right now.”

  That was a bit of an understatement. As he spoke the words, Ned suddenly realized how Not Well things were going for him. He’d muddled everything up again. Black horror filled his mind at the thought. He really wasn’t good for anything.

  Ned stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “Just forget it all. Understand?”

  She looked at him in bafflement. “You know,” she said, “I was not serious earlier when I suggested you were mad. But—are you?”

  Matters went from Not Well to Very Unwell.

  “In fact, you look exceedingly ill.” She pulled off her glove and put one cool hand on Ned’s forehead.

  At the touch of her bare fingers, Ned’s body responded. He was twenty-one, and only too human. And she was close enough that he could see down her neckline. He could trace the valley between her breasts with his eyes. He was humiliatingly, uncontrollably erect. He prayed she didn’t look down.

  She didn’t. Instead, she frowned and moved her hand along his forehead. “You feel a little warm.”

  Very Unwell slid into Please Let Me Die in the Next Minute. Ned was alone with a woman. He was aroused and embarrassed, and she was stripping off her clothing—well, her glove—and touching him. He was trying to compromise her into marrying another man. She feared he might be sick. Or mad. Probably both.

  Ned knew all too well that her fears had some basis. On his darkest days, he worried he carried some species of madness. And to have this confident woman look at him in that pitying way…Matters couldn’t possibly sink any lower than they were now.

  And then, of course, they did.

  Ned heard the well-tuned snick of a door easing open. He didn’t even have time to give voice to the terrible, wordless scream that roared through his mind. In that bare instant, he only had time to grab her wrist; no time at all to push her away.

  As he’d so carefully planned, there was no place for a trysting couple to hide.

  Time froze. The door opened at what seemed a leisurely pace, swinging inward inch by deliberate inch. Ned couldn’t react; his nerves were made of wood, and his limbs of jelly. He could only watch, and wince at the cozy tableau they presented.

  There was Lady Kathleen, her face warm and solicitous. Her glove had fallen to the floor. Her gown gaped, disordered, at the waist, where her untied sash dangled. Her bare hand rested against Ned’s face.

  Ned had his hand atop hers, almost as if he were pulling her into an embrace.

  And it was five minutes after eight. Please, he begged. Please let that be Blakely opening the door. Because if it were not, Ned would have succeeded in compromising Lady Kathleen.

  The only problem was, she would have been compromised with the wrong man.

  Chapter Ten

  THE CHURCH BELLS HAD JUST SOUNDED half past seven when someone knocked. Jenny paused before the door, wondering whether she should open it. Her next appointment was tomorrow morning, and she had not yet decided how to handle her clients. With her room stripped of its lies and returned to boring functionality, what could she say?

  She would have to find out sometime.

  Jenny inched the door open. But no client of hers waited on the stoop.

  “Look here,” Lord Blakely said, “I know you are about to slam this door on my nose. But please don’t.”

  Jenny inhaled crisp evening air. Lord Blakely was disheveled in the most casually devastating way. He carried his cravat in his hand and had left his waistcoat unbuttoned. His hair was wind-tousled. The last light of the sun imparted a wild gleam to his eyes. Seductiveness wafted off him, and Jenny was reminded of the rough feel of his mouth against hers.

  That memory burned through her. Even the air around him was charged with electric anticipation. From two feet away, she could smell his subtle, masculine musk, feel a hint of the heat from his body. An illusion, most likely, composed of lust and wistful thinking on her part.

  But she also remembered the cold disrespect he’d shown her the last time she faced him.

  “You have one sentence to explain why I should hear you out.”

  He accepted this with far better grace than Jenny expected. “Fair enough.” Lord Blakely glanced up into the air, his lips compressing. His eyes narrowed as he no doubt searched for the argument that would change her mind.

  A kiss—a real one, a gentle one, unlike that travesty he’d forced on her two nights ago—might have done the trick. But eventually he shook his head.

  “I can only think of lies,” he admitted with a sigh. “Really, you should slam the door. I would, if I were you.”

  Jenny fiddled with the handle. “I’m feeling magnanimous tonight, my lord.”

  He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  “You can have three sentences.”

  At first, she thought that frozen look in his eyes was a warning not to make inappropriate jokes. But then miraculously, he smiled. It was a small smile, a bit rusty, as if his face was still unused to such expressions. But it was genuine. And this time, he didn’t stuff the expression behind stony arrogance. He didn’t turn away. He looked a bit less like an unkempt, untouchable Greek god, and a bit mor
e like an extremely handsome and very touchable mortal.

  Jenny’s breath caught.

  It was just like him. Lord Blakely hadn’t needed any sentences after all.

  He used them anyway.

  He looked down and fingered the edge of his coat uncomfortably. “I am,” he said in a rush of words, “desperately sorry for my behavior the other night. What I did was unacceptable. You didn’t slap me nearly hard enough.”

  Whatever Jenny had expected, it wasn’t that. Her mouth dropped open. “Why would you bother to apologize to me? I should have thought my feelings beneath your notice.”

  “I’m not apologizing to you to assuage your feelings.” That icy outrage was more like the Lord Blakely Jenny remembered. “I’m apologizing to you because I damn well owe you an apology.” He nodded, as if that explained everything.

  “Lord Blakely,” Jenny asked, “do you have any idea what an apology is?”

  He raised one haughty eyebrow at her. “I have some small acquaintance with the concept,” he said in his most freezing tone. And then, he rather ruined the proud expression by adding, “I asked White.”

  Jenny’s head spun. “Who?”

  “My man of business.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, guarding against her laugh. “I’m not expecting anything in response.”

  But his gaze arrested on her lips and gave the lie to his statement. “Besides, I’m supposed to meet Ned at eight sharp, and so I can’t stay. I just wanted to tell you.” He looked away. “And now I have.”

  That look, Jenny thought, would be her undoing. “Do you have five minutes?” she heard herself ask. “I’ve just put on the teakettle.” Jenny nearly bit her tongue. Tea was normal. Mundane. Mortal. One didn’t ask the Marquess of Blakely in for a cup of tea.

  He looked at her with guarded wariness. And then, wonder of wonders, he nodded.

  A minute later, Lord Blakely was seated at the table in her back room with a clay mug in front of him. He’d looked speculatively around her stripped-down front room, her rickety wood tables freed from their heavy black shrouds. But he hadn’t asked any questions. And when she’d led him down the short hall into her living space in the back room, he hadn’t so much as wrinkled his nose at the close quarters. He’d sat in a squeaking chair at the table where Jenny ate her meals. He’d waited quietly while she readied the leaves. After she poured, he picked up the cup and turned it around in his hands. Jenny imagined him cataloging every imperfection in its surface, every chip at its edge.