Neither of his listeners made any comment; their attentive expressions encouraged him to continue. “In pursuing her goal, Miss Makepeace will court a certain danger, and while I respect and support her objectives, I cannot in all conscience allow her to be exposed to that danger—not when I can shield her from it. Consequently, regardless of all other circumstances and considerations, I will not step back from aiding and protecting her. I will continue to assist her with her mission until it is concluded and all danger is at an end. For that reason alone, I would ask for your indulgence in allowing our unexpected betrothal to stand, and for your assistance in supporting the protective facade for however long it is required.”
Pausing, he met both Makepeaces’ eyes. “However, I also wish to declare my interest in preserving the fiction of our engagement—specifically my intention to pursue Miss Makepeace’s consent to making what has commenced as a mere facade into a reality. I’m therefore requesting your permission to pay my addresses to her, albeit in an unconventional way. In order to progress with her mission, it will be necessary for me to spend considerable time in her company, and I intend to use that time . . . I suspect the correct phrase is, to woo her.”
Both Makepeaces blinked. Before either could speak, he went on, “From comments she let fall, I understand that she views herself as unmarriageable, certainly incontrovertibly on the shelf. I don’t agree with that assessment, but I foresee that it might require a certain degree of persuasion to convert her to my view—to convince her that, while she may not be the conventional, perfect wife, she may yet be the perfect wife for me.”
He fell silent and, clasping his hands behind his back, waited.
Mrs. Makepeace looked even more fascinated. “You intend to use the opportunity presented by the situation to woo Tabitha?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“And,” Mr. Makepeace said, “in order to proceed with both courtship and mission unhindered, you’re asking us to support and lend credence to the charade of your betrothal.”
Sebastian nodded. “With a view to transforming the charade into reality—to convincing Tabitha that we should.”
“Excellent!” Mr. Makepeace beamed, then turned to his spouse. “I rather think we ought, don’t you, my dear? This scheme sounds like the sort of odd approach that might work.” He glanced smilingly up at Sebastian. “And clearly Trantor here will fit into the family.”
To Sebastian’s relief, after regarding him intently for several moments, Mrs. Makepeace nodded decisively. “Quite.” She smiled, looking remarkably content. “I commend you, sir—your approach would do even my husband proud.”
Husband and wife exchanged an affectionate glance.
Sebastian didn’t make the mistake of thinking either elder Makepeace anything other than exceptionally shrewd. He bowed with real gratitude. “Thank you, ma’am. Sir. I will strive to live up to your expectations.”
Mrs. Makepeace’s smile was unnervingly understanding. “I believe you will, sir, but that’s Tabitha’s footsteps hurrying this way, so let us end by wishing you the best of luck.”
Mr. Makepeace murmured, “Hear, hear.”
Sebastian had presented himself at the front door at precisely nine o’clock—the earliest minute any polite caller could seek entrance to a gentleman’s residence. He’d reasoned that the elder Makepeaces would be available, most likely having just finished breakfast, but that Tabitha, having been out until late, would probably still be abed.
His strategy had proved sound. He could only give thanks that his timing had allowed him and the elder Makepeaces to reach an understanding before the advent of his betrothed. His unconventional intended.
He braced himself to meet her again.
The door burst open. Tabitha entered in a rush of air and energy. Her hair a semi-tamed mass of burning curls framing her heart-shaped face, she stared at him, then at her parents, her expression one of outright shock. “Ah . . .” She brought her gaze back to him. “What are you doing here?”
Sebastian arched his brows. “Naturally, I came to discuss our situation with your parents.” She was wearing a plain, light green morning gown and looked as delectable as a fresh apple—crisp and tart with an underlying sweetness.
Stunned anew, Tabitha swallowed, then looked at her parents. “I . . . we—had to put it about that we’re engaged.”
Her mother beamed. “Yes, dear, we know. Mr. Trantor kindly explained all about your mission—well, no details, of course—he wouldn’t break your confidence—but that he’s assisting you, and to do that, and excuse your presence in Rothbury’s library last night, it was necessary to invoke the facade of an engagement.”
Before Tabitha could respond, her father remarked, “Quick and nimble thinking. Quite impressive.”
She wasn’t all that surprised that her father would appreciate such an aspect, but . . . “Unfortunately, as Lady Castor and Mrs. Atkinson were privy to Trantor’s declaration, it’ll be all over town by now, and as you well know, there’ll be repercussions. Talk. Speculation to an outrageous degree.”
“Indeed.” Her mother smiled with satisfaction. “It’ll be delightfully entertaining watching everyone exercising their imaginations—all to no purpose, of course.”
Tabitha frowned, trying to interpret her parents’ attitude. “You seem . . . remarkably complacent over this.”
“Of course, dear—how could we not be? You don’t seriously imagine we’d do anything to curtail your mission, whatever it may be. If Trantor believes it to be . . . I believe his description was ‘laudable and honorable’—then clearly it behooves us to support you in this, and if assisting in a sham betrothal is what’s required, then of course your father and I will stand behind you. Or behind you and Mr. Trantor, as happens to be the case. Hoodwinking the entire ton—not that they’ll ever know of it—is well within our scope.”
Her mother sent a smiling—approving and amused—glance at Trantor.
Tabitha’s wits were still reeling; her stomach remained clenched tight. She could barely credit that Trantor had, unaided, having never met her parents before, managed to not only smooth over the situation—without disclosing the details of her mission—but had succeeded in gaining her parents’ support. Their absolutely essential support. And all in fifteen minutes.
Her maid, tipped off by Biggs, the butler, had come rushing up to inform her a gentleman by the name of Trantor—the same gentleman who had driven home in the carriage with her last night—was closeted with her parents in the drawing room. She’d leapt from her bed, and had wasted only the minutes necessary to be decent before rushing down the stairs and into the drawing room.
She stared at Trantor, but he seemed unaware of having achieved any extraordinary feat. He certainly wasn’t preening; if anything, he appeared appropriately appreciative of her parents’ understanding. Her parents might appear gentle and woolly-headed; in reality they were as sharp as two pins.
Trantor eventually met her gaze, then stirred. He glanced at her parents. “If you will permit it, ma’am, perhaps I might speak with Miss Makepeace privately?”
Her mother graciously inclined her head. “As you are currently engaged, I see no reason why you shouldn’t.” She glanced at Tabitha, arched a brow.
Tabitha leapt on the chance. “Yes, of course. Sir.” She bobbed Trantor a belated curtsy. “If you’ll come with me?” To her parents she added, “We’ll be in the back parlor.”
She led the way to the door and Trantor followed.
The elder Makepeaces watched the pair exit the room. When the door clicked shut behind them, Mr. Makepeace grinned. “Well, that was unexpected.”
“Indeed, dear.” Mrs. Makepeace patted his hand, then rose. “But then the best things often are.”
Tabitha opened the door to the back parlor, held it as Trantor followed her in, then shut it and swung to face him. “What the devil did you tell them?”
He’d walked further into the room. Halting by the sofa, he glanced back at
her. “The truth, of course. Carefully edited.”
She studied him; last night she hadn’t had any real opportunity to. Standing as he was some yards away, the light from the wide windows fell over him and revealed . . . facets she hadn’t seen in lamplight. The set of his jaw, the calculation behind his gray eyes, the intent focus that seemed innate. The masculine grace that invested his large frame, that projected a sense of coiled strength waiting to be sprung.
There seemed a great deal more to him than she’d remembered.
Growing restive under her gaze, he shifted, looked forward. Continued in the same collected tone, “Their active participation in our ruse will be essential, so I took the necessary steps to gain it. Among the benefits of being engaged is that we can meet like this—alone.” He drew a sheet of paper from his coat pocket, held it up as he glanced back at her. “I’ve cracked the code. Do you want to see the results?”
She went forward, skirts rustling as she rounded the sofa and sat. She held out a hand. “Let me see.”
He hesitated, then placed the folded sheet in her palm. She took it, unfolded it, started to read. He sat alongside her, beside her but not so close she felt crowded.
“As I guessed last night, the locations of all Rothbury’s payments—the places he’s been instructed to leave his pounds—are churches. I asked my brother’s butler if he knew where the churches were. He didn’t know them all, but those he recognized were in the City, not in Mayfair.”
She read through the entries. “We’ll need to check, but the only church I recognize is the one for his upcoming payment—the Church of St. Clement Danes. That’s in Fleet Street.”
Sebastian nodded. “On the border of the City proper.”
Frowning, she turned to him. “But why churches?”
He shrugged. “There are a lot in London, so finding one—or dozens—within easy reach of any particular spot isn’t hard. On top of that, churches are not generally inhabited by thieves or others of ill repute. Leaving even cash there for a short time should be safe.” He met her eyes. “The choice suggests our blackmailer is intelligent enough to have thought things through. I’ve not encountered any blackmailers previously, but I wouldn’t have expected such careful planning.”
She wrinkled her nose and turned back to the sheet. “That seems to confirm that it’s someone from the ton.”
“Not necessarily, although the scheme itself suggests the blackmailer knows the ton and its ways very well.”
“So Rothbury’s to leave his payment in the church at sext—midday? That seems an odd time.”
“It’s a time most churches—especially those in the city—are likely to be open but not in use. I’m sure our blackmailer will have checked to ensure no service will be imminent.”
“Hmm . . . but Rothbury’s meeting is still seven days away.” She lowered the sheet. “Surely there’s something we can do before then, something we can investigate in some way.”
He heard her impatience, inwardly smiled. “We can check where all the churches Rothbury’s visited are—it might suggest something about the blackmailer. Closer to the date, I’ll scout out St. Clement Danes, but beyond that . . .” He waited until she glanced at him, captured her gaze. “As matters stand, we’ll need to keep up appearances and shore up the fiction of our engagement.” He could use seven days of her company to further his campaign. “We need to behave as a newly engaged couple would.”
He saw intransigence build in her expression, and smoothly continued, “I assume you want to be present at St. Clement Danes to identify the blackmailer?”
The look she turned on him answered the question without her, “Of course!”
“Well, then, a sound facade of an affianced couple will allow us to go for drives alone together. And if we happen to travel down Fleet Street, no one will turn a hair.”
She grimaced. “They might wonder at what interest takes us in that direction . . . but you’re right. Being engaged will allow us—me, particularly—a freedom I couldn’t otherwise claim—well, not in town during the Season.”
His gaze on her face, he noted the perturbation behind her words. “What is it?” When she glanced at him, he said, “Something’s troubling you. What?”
She hesitated. He waited, and again felt a small thrill when she pulled another, quite horrendous, face, then said, “It’s the deception.” Folding the sheet between her fingers, she rose, walked a few paces, then stopped, staring out of the window at the courtyard garden outside.
He rose, too, watching. Wondering. “You’re worried about deceiving the ton?”
“Not the ton. The Sisterhood.” Briefly she glanced at him. “More particularly the young ladies who’ve joined and look to the older ones among us for guidance in the best way to go on.” She gestured weakly and looked out once more. “I feel I’m setting a bad example for impressionable young ladies. For instance, I know next to nothing about you. Everyone will know we’ve barely met—it’ll appear that I’ve been swept off my feet by a handsome face and masculine charms, which is both not the case and specifically what we at the Sisterhood preach against. We advise that young ladies go into a marriage knowing as much as they can about the man they will wed, if only to protect themselves from nasty surprises later.”
“Hmm . . . yes, I see your difficulty.”
She looked at him. “You do?”
He nodded, closing the distance to stand alongside her; he looked out at the garden as if in thought. “You’re right—we’ll need to concoct a story about how we met, how we came to know each other well enough to contemplate matrimony.” He glanced sidelong at her. “That, at least, will allow you to hold your head high among the Sisterhood, and not damage your reputation in that regard.” He returned his gaze to the shrubs outside. “As for not knowing me . . . we can use the next seven days while we wait for Rothbury’s rendezvous to rectify that. Doing so will make you more comfortable, and we have to bear in mind that we don’t know how long we’ll need to continue this charade—how long it will be before we catch the blackmailer.”
Her brow furrowed. “I suppose—”
The chiming of numerous clocks throughout the house cut her off.
The instant the sounds faded, he murmured, “But apropos of concocting a believable tale of how we met—why, when, and so on—I fear we’ll need to put our minds to that immediately, because we cannot put off paying another duty visit beyond early this afternoon.”
She looked at him. “Who do we need to visit?”
“My aunts, Lady Fothergill and Mrs. Trantor. They live together in a house in Curzon Street. Even if they didn’t hear of it last night, they’ll hear the news as soon as they come downstairs, but with luck that won’t be before luncheon. However, if we don’t appear soon afterward to explain, there’ll be hell to pay.” He grimaced, quite genuinely. “And I do mean hell.”
He hesitated, then glanced at her, met her gaze, hesitated again, then let his lips quirk. “Apropos of that visit, of setting the scene, as it were, and I assure you I fully understand this is a charade, but if we’re to pull it off—”
Tabitha watched as he drew something from his pocket. He looked down at whatever now lay in his palm, then picked it up and held it out to her. “This was my grandmother’s ring. I hope you’ll consent to wear it. My aunts will expect to see it on your finger—I can guarantee they’ll look.”
She hesitated, then reached out and took the ring. It was a simple gold band supporting an oval ruby of a rich, red hue, surrounded by smaller diamonds. The ruby was blood red; the diamonds sparkled. A heart surrounded by light. It was a lovely ring . . . she looked up, met his gray gaze. “I’ll feel such a fraud.”
He didn’t make light of it. “Consider it stage setting—a prop. This is a charade, but if you don’t wear it . . .”
She frowned, looked down at the ring, sparkling between her fingers. “If you’re sure?”
“I am.”
She slipped the ring on her finger.
It fitted perfectly.
“Great heavens, Sebastian! You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard.” Euphemia, Lady Fothergill, a bluff, ruddy-faced woman of imposing size, smiled delightedly at Tabitha, seated on the chaise opposite. “He’s been so very cagey about you, my dear. We had no idea his interest was fixed.”
“But then,” Pamela Trantor said, her soft, die-away voice in sharp contrast to her ladyship’s loud and genial tones, “dear Sebastian is nothing if not protective.” From her position on the sofa beside her sister-in-law, Pamela smiled fondly at Sebastian, who was standing before the fireplace in the drawing room of the Curzon-Street house. “He’s always been very kind to Freddie. Not everyone is, you know.”
“Yes, well—no surprise there.” Lady Fothergill looked at Sebastian. “Does Thomas know? Surely he and Estelle plan to come down to town?”
“I’ve sent a message, but I don’t expect to see them at this point—apparently Eugenia, the new baby, is colicky.”
“Oh, the poor little thing.” Pamela’s expression grew doting. “I remember when Freddie was that small. He was such a beautiful baby.”
Lady Fothergill snorted. “He’s just as beautiful now, but sadly no more sensible, and rather less reliable.”
Pamela heaved a huge sigh. “He has been slow to mature, but I daresay one day . . .” Her words trailed away.
Lady Fothergill threw her a sharp glance, but refrained from further comment. Much to Sebastian’s relief. He didn’t need his aunts explaining his need to marry and beget an heir to Tabitha—not now, not ever. If there was any explaining to do, he would do it himself, at the appropriate time. Later.
“Yes, well.” He shifted, drawing the attention of all three ladies back to him. Tabitha, a teacup and saucer balanced in her hands, had been regarding his aunts with her customary observant curiosity. “I knew you’d hear the news of our engagement and be badgered for information as soon as you went out, so I came to inform you. The simple facts are that Miss Makepeace and I have a great deal in common, and have decided we will suit.”