“It always amazes me that no one seems to notice that, while your father worked under the aegis of the Foreign Office, you report to the Home Secretary.”
“In truth, there aren’t that many people in the wider population who know of the details of the position I hold, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Which is yet another reason I won’t be driving down to Pressingstoke Hall next Saturday.” Drake held up a hand to stay Sebastian’s protest that him taking Drake’s place wouldn’t work. “Bear with me—there are reasons I chose you to go in my place.”
“Such as?” Sebastian invested all his considerable supercilious arrogance into the words. Futilely; his arrogance bounced off Drake and made no impact at all.
“Quite aside from raising too many eyebrows, along with questions we’d all prefer to avoid, I can’t go into Kent to meet Ennis because I’ll be leaving tomorrow or the day after for Ireland. My contacts there have turned up information that, if true, is worrisome, to say the least. But at present, the intelligence is fractured. I need to go myself—to show my face—in order to get confirmation from deeper within the insurgents’ hierarchy.”
Sebastian studied Drake’s expression. As usual, it gave little away. “I presume by insurgents you mean the Young Irelanders.”
Drake shrugged. “I imagine so, but until I get confirmation, I can’t be certain. After their failure in ’48, they retreated to lick their wounds, but they haven’t gone away. There have been various minor protests, but this is the first whiff I’ve had of anything potentially serious.” He arched a brow. “I have to follow it up.”
“Ennis is an Anglo-Irish peer.”
“Just so. And there’ll be other Anglo-Irish gentlemen at this house party.”
Sebastian caught Drake’s gaze. “So are the two issues connected—what you’re hearing from your Irish contacts and Ennis’s sudden wish to speak with you face-to-face?”
“It’s tempting to imagine so, but there’s no way to tell at this point. I have to go to Ireland and see what I can winkle out, while you, my friend, need to stand in for me at Pressingstoke Hall.”
His eyes locked with Drake’s, Sebastian considered, then faintly grimaced. “You said there were reasons—plural—why you selected me specifically to take your place. What are the others?”
“Just one, really. Out of all those of our ilk I might call on to attend the Ennises’ house party, you are the only one who can do so without appearing entirely out of place.” In response to Sebastian’s look of disbelief—he was heir to a wealthy and powerful dukedom as much as Drake was—Drake continued, “As you rightly pointed out, either one of us turning up at Pressingstoke Hall without some acceptable reason to excuse our presence is going to attract an inordinate amount of attention, which will fuel gossip and speculation—precisely what Ennis wishes to avoid. But Ennis sent a guest list. As you’re no doubt aware, Lady Ennis is something of a social climber—she invited an old friend and encouraged said friend to invite her more exalted circle, which includes Antonia Rawlings, who will be attending.”
Drake sat back; raising his interlaced fingers to his chin, he smiled at Sebastian. “I suggest you use your persuasive talents and convince dear Antonia to allow you to accompany her into Kent. The association between your families is widely known. As Antonia’s mother will not be accompanying her, no one will be all that surprised to see you acting as Antonia’s escort.”
Sebastian frowned. He could appreciate the scenario Drake had described. And yes, he suspected he could make it a reality. It would mean gaining Antonia’s support and spending more time with her than he had in recent years—indeed, than he ever had—but she came from much the same stock as he and Drake; he didn’t doubt that she would help him for the same reason he would help Drake.
After a moment of imagining, he shot a look at Drake. “Ennis is not going to be pleased to see me.”
Drake’s swift grin surfaced. “Not initially, but he will be. I’ll write to him and explain that I won’t be coming, but that I’ll send someone in my stead. Given Ennis’s trepidatiousness, it seems entirely possible someone at the house party is involved in whatever scheme he intends to bring to my attention, so I’m not going to put your name in writing. Instead, I’ll tell Ennis that my surrogate will be the very last man he’ll want to see.”
Sebastian groaned.
“No—think about it. As you’re one of his wife’s ex-lovers, Ennis won’t want you there, and his animosity will show. No one is going to imagine him willingly telling you—trusting you with—anything sensitive. You are the perfect gentleman for the task.” Drake’s smile returned. “Being Antonia’s escort and the hostess’s ex-lover…no one will look for any other reason for your attendance at Pressingstoke Hall.”
* * *
The following morning at a little before eleven o’clock, Sebastian walked down the steps of St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square. He was correctly attired for a morning visit in coat, waistcoat, and trousers. Idly swinging his cane, he headed for Green Street.
After his meeting with Drake, he’d dined with friends. Rather than join the group in a night on the town—a diversion that was increasingly losing the attraction it once had held—he’d returned to the peaceful quiet of St. Ives House. With his parents still in the country and his sister visiting friends in the Dales, only he and Michael were currently residing in the mansion, and Michael, as usual, was out.
Sebastian had walked into the library, poured himself a brandy, then slumped into an armchair by the cheery fire, sipped, and turned his mind to this morning’s endeavor.
At least, that had been his intention, but the pervasive silence of the house—the lack of anyone with whom he might discuss the situation—had impinged and nudged his mind back to his personal project, the one he’d so readily set aside in favor of assisting Drake.
Finding the right wife was no easy task, not for a gentleman—a nobleman—like him or, for that matter, Drake. Sebastian knew Drake was steadfastly avoiding the issue and would for as long as he could—just as his father had. Sebastian, on the other hand, had realized that such a tack was not going to work for him; he had too many female relatives. Various members of that sorority had already started dropping hints. He had, he judged, at most another year—another Season—before they came after him in a concerted way, determined to assist him in doing his duty and ensuring the succession of one of the primary dukedoms in the country.
To date, his mother had held off—and in doing so had kept all the others at bay—but he’d recently turned thirty-one. His father had married at thirty-three. In Sebastian’s estimation, his mother’s forbearance would almost certainly not extend beyond his next birthday.
He’d decided he needed to attend to the matter himself—within the next year—before his female relatives attempted to take charge.
But finding the right lady to make his marchioness, ultimately his duchess, was proving far more difficult than he’d imagined. Possibly because, until the past few days, he hadn’t made any effort to define what qualities that role required. Three very brief excursions into the ballrooms had underscored the conclusion that any of the bright young things—the recent crops of debutantes who circulated in hopeful droves at ton events—would drive him to drink within a week.
He needed someone more mature, someone of his own class with whom he could actually converse. Someone with whom he could share a ducal life.
In that day and age, a ducal life brought with it significant responsibility—politically, socially, and as a landowner and investor. It was a life of assured luxury, but unless one worked at it, satisfaction would not be forthcoming.
He needed a wife who could stand by his side—who had the backbone, talents, and skills to do so.
That much, he now understood. But as to where he might find such a lady, he had absolutely no idea.
Brooding on the matter did no good. Taking a long swallow of brandy, he’d set the vexed issue aside and turned his mind to the more immedi
ate prospect of Drake’s mission.
He’d focused on Antonia, calling up all he could remember of her. It was something of a shock to realize that, although he’d known her since birth—hers, as he was two years older—and they’d spent long summers and numerous other holidays running wild as part of the large group of Cynster children of which he’d been the undisputed leader, while he could remember those carefree days—remember her quite clearly as an eager participant in almost any lark—he knew very little of the lady she’d grown to be.
He’d last seen her only months before, in May at his cousin Marcus’s wedding in Scotland. He’d recognized her instantly; it wasn’t that he hadn’t met her over the years, but rather that he hadn’t spent any time with her—private time in which he might have learned what she thought about things, how she felt, how she reacted…what sort of lady she’d grown into. All his meetings with her over the past decade had been the same as at Marcus’s wedding—in the middle of a large group of his relatives who were as much her friends as his.
Curious, now he thought of it, that on the surface, he knew her well, yet he knew so little about the woman she now was. Too little to feel confident of managing or manipulating her. In order to deal with her, he would either have to learn fast or rely on his persuasive skills.
With that in mind, he’d honed his approach, his arguments. He rehearsed them as he strolled down Green Street, then climbed the steps of Number 17 and plied the knocker.
The butler recognized him. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Withers. I need to speak with Lady Antonia.” Sebastian arched a languid brow. “I assume she’s at home.” At that hour in that season, Antonia was unlikely to be anywhere else.
“Indeed, my lord.” Withers stepped back and bowed. “If you will step inside, I will inquire.”
Sebastian walked into the elegant front hall.
Withers shut the door and reached for Sebastian’s cane. “The earl is out at the moment, my lord, but the countess and Lady Antonia have come downstairs.”
Sebastian cooled his heels in the front hall while Withers retreated to the rear of the house, then returned to escort him to the back parlor—the room the family used—indicating that the countess, at least, had correctly deduced that this was not a formal morning call.
Withers opened the door at the end of the corridor and bowed Sebastian through. He walked in. The parlor overlooked the garden, possessed an abundance of white-framed windows, and was furnished with white wickerwork armchairs and sofa upholstered in slub silk. The silk sported a feathery pattern in white, greens, and blues, creating a light, airy atmosphere that was the perfect setting for the two very different but equally vibrant ladies who looked up as he entered. One pair of emerald-green eyes and another of cool gray regarded him with interest and expectation.
Chillingworth’s countess, Francesca, was perched on the window seat, while Antonia was sitting in an armchair a little way from and angled to the window.
Antonia was tall for a female; she’d inherited her height from her father’s side and, like her late paternal grandmother, was slender, willowy, and effortlessly elegant. Her figure was svelte, lacking Francesca’s abundant curvaceousness, but Antonia’s coloring was a more obvious blending of her father’s and mother’s—from Francesca came the lush, gleaming blackness of her long hair, presently up in a fashionable loose bun, while she’d inherited the fine skin and pale complexion of the females of her father’s family. Her exquisitely shaped ruby lips, finely arched black brows, and the long black lashes that framed her large eyes were all Francesca, but those eyes were Chillingworth’s silvery gray. The combination was unexpected and, if come upon unawares, could be riveting.
In contrast, Francesca was quite short, a pocket Venus in every way. Despite her matronly status, the countess retained an abundance of energy along with her bounteous charms.
Sebastian was pleased that none of Antonia’s siblings were present, especially her nosy little sister, Helen.
“Sebastian.” Francesca had been reading a letter. She set it aside and held out her hand as, with an easy smile curving his lips, he strolled forward.
He took her hand and bowed over her fingers. “Lady Francesca.”
Francesca made a rude sound at the formality and flicked her hand, directing him to Antonia.
Her elegant daughter had been embroidering. She laid the frame in her lap and, her fine eyes quizzing him, gave him her hand. “Sebastian.”
He grasped her fingers and half bowed. “Antonia.”
As he straightened, she arched her brows. “No ‘Lady’?”
Those cool gray eyes were laughing at him. He missed only one heartbeat before replying, “You don’t need the title.”
She smiled, a laughing, radiant smile that lit her face.
Arrested, he stared.
Beside them, Francesca chortled. “An excellent riposte. Who says you young ones know nothing of repartee?”
Antonia glanced at her mother, releasing Sebastian and recalling him to his purpose. He freed her fingers.
Francesca waved him to the chair facing Antonia’s across the window seat. “Do sit down, Sebastian—like Gyles and your father, you are far too tall to stand and converse.” As soon as he’d subsided into the armchair, Francesca brightly asked, “So what can we do for you? I take it you wish us to assist you with something?”
The countess had spent her formative years in Italy; she had never seen the sense in British reserve, claiming it only wasted time.
Sebastian recalled that now. He glanced at Antonia and saw her lips quirking and her eyes dancing in understanding and empathy. He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to Francesca, who was plainly waiting with mounting impatience. “I’ve been asked by Winchelsea to assist in a mission that may prove critical to the safety of the realm. However, to successfully conduct the mission, I need your”—Sebastian swung his gaze to Antonia—“or more specifically Antonia’s, help.”
Antonia widened her eyes at him. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.” He had Ennis’s letter to Drake and a copy of Drake’s reply, both of which Drake had sent around that morning, in his pocket to prove that, if need be. He glanced at Francesca, realized she was frowning, and hurriedly added, “There’ll be no danger involved. I merely have to act in Drake’s stead and speak with someone. Drake is otherwise engaged, but he needs to learn what this person has to tell him.”
Francesca looked unconvinced. “Who is this person?”
“Lord Ennis.” Sebastian glanced at Antonia.
She blinked, then stared at him. “You want to go to the Ennises’ house party?”
He nodded. “But I need a believable reason for attending. Drake suggested that, given our families’ long association and”—he looked at Francesca—“that you’re not planning to attend, ma’am, then it wouldn’t raise eyebrows were we to pretend that I was accompanying Antonia”—he returned his gaze to her—“as her escort.”
Antonia’s eyes started to narrow, her lips to compress, and her chin to set—all ominous signs.
“Purely pretense.” Leaning forward, he clasped his hands between his thighs, fixed his eyes on her face, and spoke directly to her. “We would know it was all a sham, but there would be no need to tell anyone else that.” He knew how to get Francesca on his side; it was Antonia he needed to convince.
Antonia regarded Sebastian with exceedingly mixed feelings. He had always had the ability to appear entirely sincere—and for all she knew, he might be sincere. Might genuinely believe he could pretend to be her escort at a house party and not react in his habitually overprotective—dictatorial and absolute—fashion.
Just the thought of enduring five whole days of him looming at her shoulder was enough to make her nerves cinch tight.
And in the informal atmosphere of a country house party where he wouldn’t know anyone else, he might well keep so close that he would rub her nerves—not to mention her senses—raw.
<
br /> Luckily, he hadn’t yet realized that he’d already won over her mother with his comment about Francesca not attending. The Ennises’ house party was to be Antonia’s first as a spinster—a lady out from under her mother’s wing. Her parents had agreed to the arrangement only because three of her friends were also attending, two, like her, as spinsters, along with the fourth member of their small circle, now the highly respectable the Honorable Mrs. Hadley Featherstonehaugh.
Melissa Wainwright and Claire Savage, Antonia’s unwed friends, were, like her, expecting to enjoy their first foray free of maternal oversight. It wasn’t that any of them expected to engage in any romance but rather the lure of a sort of freedom none of them had ever enjoyed.
For Antonia to then turn up with Sebastian in tow…
She stared at him—nearly glared—and made no effort to hide her dislike of the entire idea. Trust Drake to have thought of it—the man was a menace. “Just how important is this message Lord Ennis has for Drake?”
“Important enough for Drake to not even contemplate putting Ennis off until Drake returns—he’s had to go to Ireland.”
“Ireland?” Francesca glanced at Antonia, then looked back at Sebastian. “Is there any possibility of some new threat from that direction?”
Sebastian debated for a second; Antonia saw that in his face. But then he evenly replied, “The threat from the Young Irelanders never went away. But these days, they concentrate on protests in Ireland, and whatever Ennis wants to convey, it’s all in words—a warning at most, or possibly merely background information. There is no immediate threat involved.” Sebastian met Antonia’s eyes. “Neither Drake nor I would have contemplated involving you if there was.”
While she found that remark comforting on one level, Antonia felt a spurt of irritation at the way gentlemen—noblemen in particular, and she’d always understood the license the rank conferred—invariably shielded women such as her from any possible danger. As if ladies such as she were inherently too weak to stand with them. As if they—the males—were all-powerful, while she and her sisters had nothing to contribute and, more, were something of a liability.