In My Wildest Dreams

  Throckmorton had always thought he was the epitome of wiliness. Now in the space of an hour, two different people had proved him wrong. “Does everyone in England know?”

  “You mean did I tell?” Ellery took another long drink, then lifted the glass in toast. “Not even when I was foxed, dear brother.”

  “I mean—have I been so obvious?”

  “No. Most people see what they want to see, and a good part of the goings-on can be explained by the business. But I live here, Garrick, how did you expect to keep me in the dark?”

  Throckmorton didn’t have an answer.

  “All my life, I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me to join in. First Father and Mother played the game, and then you. No one ever invited me in, even when I hinted. All you could say was, ‘Come into the business, Ellery.’ Well, I’m not good at business, but I’d be good at spying.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Garrick, I speak four languages and could easily learn more. More important, I’m a worthless libertine. Do you know how much people say in front of me?”

  “I hadn’t thought—”

  “Just because they think I’m too stupid to comprehend. Why, in the past year, I’d wager I’ve heard Stanhope pass half-a-dozen messages to that slick valet of his.”

  Throckmorton’s jaw dropped. “You . . . heard Stanhope . . . pass messages—”

  “You’re stammering, Garrick. You did know about Stanhope, didn’t you?”

  “Found out this week!”

  Ellery poured another glass full and offered it to Throckmorton. “Drink?”

  Throckmorton took it.

  “I thought you must be using Stanhope as a double-agent, so I kept my mouth shut.”

  Throckmorton tried to remember Stanhope’s valet. A quiet, efficient man of medium height and build, with medium brown hair and medium blue eyes. He looked no different than half of England, and right beneath Throckmorton’s nose he had been passing messages to the Russians and paying Stanhope for the information.

  Ellery grabbed Throckmorton’s arm and shook it, sloshing whisky all over the oriental rug. “If I’d been in the know, this would have been nipped in the bud.”

  “You should have come to me.”

  “No. You should have come to me.” Ellery pointed to his chest. “Take me in, Garrick. I want to work for you.”

  Throckmorton looked at Ellery. Blond, handsome, debonair. Throckmorton couldn’t bear to think of him at risk, shot or blown to bits. And if the Russians took him and held him for ransom . . . Throckmorton didn’t want his patriotism put to that kind of a test. “I can’t,” he said. “As of today, I’m out.”

  “Then put me in touch with someone who’s in charge,” Ellery demanded.

  Throckmorton shook his head. “I want you safe. Mother wants you safe. Don’t ask this of me.”

  Ellery jerked back as if Throckmorton had hit him. He smiled, a bitter parody of his usually cheerful insouciance. Picking up the bottle, he hugged it to his chest. “Then I’ll go to hell in my own fashion.”

  The family was going to hell.

  Lady Philberta’s cane crunched in the gravel as she hobbled along the garden path. Ellery was drinking. Hyacinth was livid. Throckmorton had seduced the girl he was supposed to be ousting. And Celeste . . . well, Lady Philberta needed to talk to Celeste, to find out why Throckmorton was in his office, alternating shouting about Stanhope’s valet, who had managed to slip away, and staring into space.

  Lady Philberta had heard something about Celeste not accepting his offer of matrimony. Lady Philberta grinned. She’d also heard something about stodgy Garrick and radiant Celeste in the conservatory in full view of Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh. On hearing the report, Lady Philberta wanted to laugh and dance. Instead she wandered the garden, following the leads given by the under-gardeners. She found Celeste and Milford in the walled kitchen garden, both down on their hands and knees, weeding the herbs.

  Poor Celeste. She glanced at Lady Philberta, and when she realized who had limped into her domain, she put her head down and weeded faster.

  Lady Philberta didn’t blame her. “What a healthful activity!” Lady Philberta said. “Back when I could, before I suffered with this lumbago, I used to love to pull weeds in the kitchen garden. Do you remember, Milford?”

  Milford got to his feet. “Yes, ma’am, I remember.”

  “The scents of the herbs clear the mind and the exercise strengthens the body. Don’t you find it so, Celeste?”

  Milford nudged his daughter with his foot. Celeste slowly stood and wiped the dirt from her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Milford, may I borrow your daughter for a time?”

  Milford considered Lady Philberta. They had known each other a very long time, and she clearly read his warning. Don’t hurt my daughter more.

  She nodded at him, an unspoken promise that she would care for Celeste.

  “Go on, then, girl. I’ll finish up here.” He gave Celeste a gentle push in the back.

  Celeste stumbled forward resentfully, then recovered to walk at Lady Philberta’s side.

  It was a lovely late afternoon, the kind only Suffolk could produce in the summer after a rain. The gravel paths had dried in the sunshine, the trees wafted in the lightest of breezes, and the flowers bloomed in exuberant celebration.

  “That rain made my lumbago act up, so we’ll walk toward the house,” Lady Philberta announced.

  In sullen compliance, Celeste said, “As you wish, my lady.”

  Lady Philberta wanted to laugh. Young people were so dramatic, so sure each twinge of love would result in disaster. Wait until the girl had been married for a time. Then she’d find out the true depths and heights of being married to that most difficult of creatures—man.

  They turned onto the broad straight path, lined with oaks, that led to Blythe Hall. “I simply want to tell you how grateful I am, Celeste. You care for my granddaughters. You weed my garden . . .” She waited until Celeste had cautiously turned to look at her before she added, “You are so industrious. You even sleep with my son.”

  Celeste blushed furiously. “My lady . . .” she faltered.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I will be to have you join the family.” Lady Philberta folded Celeste into her arms. “We need some fresh ideas to liven us up.”

  Celeste didn’t jerk herself away—she’d been taught respect for the aristocratic and the elderly, and Lady Philberta wryly knew herself to be both—but she held herself perfectly rigid. “My lady, I am not going to marry your son.” She thought for a moment. “Either of them.”

  “Well, not Ellery. He’s taken. But Garrick, I think.”

  Shock or dismay confined Celeste’s answer to a brief, “No.”

  Lady Philberta gestured toward the house, visible through the overhanging branches. “It’s a beautiful home, and I’ll hate to leave it, but of course you’ll wish to run it as you see fit.”

  “I’m not going to marry your son.” Celeste was thinking again, Lady Philberta could see, uncertain of Lady Philberta’s plan, suspicious of her motives. “Although I appreciate the generosity of your welcome,” Celeste added at last.

  There were damn few times when Lady Philberta relished being aristocratic and being elderly, but this was one of them, for she was able to say with devastating bluntness, “Why won’t you marry my son? Garrick, I mean, not Ellery.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Celeste was gaining confidence in Lady Philberta’s intentions. “With all due respect, my lady, Garrick is a manipulative liar.”

  “A liar? Really?” That surprised Lady Philberta. “What did he lie about?”

  “It was a lie of action. He made me think he liked and respected me when all the while he was maneuvering to send me back to Paris.”

  Lady Philberta wisely kept quiet.

  Celeste tossed her head. “I’m going.”

  Surprised, Lady Philberta exclaimed, “Back to Paris? Now? After
last night?”

  Celeste looked away and swallowed. “What happened last night is of no concern to anyone.”

  “It seems to be of great concern to Garrick. He’s been sulking in his office all day. And it’s of great concern to me if it should result in a babe.”

  Celeste tripped and almost fell.

  Lady Philberta staggered beside her, regained her balance, asked, “Goodness, dear, are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Celeste took a deep breath. “I just hadn’t thought—”

  “Well, you must, and there’s no telling me it was only one time. Everyone gets their start with one time.”

  “It was more than . . .” Celeste blushed again. “I assure you, if there should be issue, I will . . .”

  “Will what?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll take care of the babe somehow.”

  “Marry Garrick,” Lady Philberta advised. “I already have one chance granddaughter to manage a future for, and while I love her dearly, illegitimacy is a disadvantage for any child.”

  They had reached the house. Celeste stood staring at the diamond-paned window of Garrick’s office, her fists clenching and unclenching. Lady Philberta leaned on her cane and watched, seeing the angry color rise and retreat in the girl’s face, observing the distress and the rage implicit in every line.

  With a grunt of fury, Celeste dropped to the ground. She grabbed a handful of gravel, and lobbed the largest rock at Garrick’s window. The glass shattered.

  Lady Philberta gasped.

  Celeste hurled another, and another, some thumping against the brick, some taking a pane of glass. She stopped to smear tears off her cheeks, and threw one more. Then, as if she realized what she was doing, she dropped the remaining rocks and looked curiously at her own hands.

  Impressed with all that raw emotion, Lady Philberta handed Celeste a handkerchief.

  Celeste accepted it with the dignity of the queen, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Lady Philberta said, “Garrick is probably now peering out of one of the windows, pistol at ready, expecting to see an ambush awaiting him. Shall we wave instead?”

  “The cab drivers use a gesture in Paris. A rather vulgar gesture.” Celeste turned her hot gaze on Lady Philberta. “It is more suited to this situation than a mere wave.”

  Lady Philberta laughed. Damn, she liked this girl! She took Celeste’s arm and urged her on. “If Garrick is autocratic in this instance, it is quite your fault. Give a man an inch, and he thinks he’s a ruler.”

  Celeste smiled, but without grace.

  “What would you do in Paris?” Lady Philberta asked.

  “I haven’t decided exactly how, but I will be independent. I will never rely on a man for my happiness again.”

  “I’ve found it’s never wise to rely on anyone else for your own happiness.”

  “You’re right, I’m sure. I can be a governess, of course, or I can set myself up as a teacher of languages. Or I can become a courtesan.”

  Lady Philberta thought of the conversation she would have with Garrick, and mentally rubbed her hands. “You certainly have the looks and the charm, but you said you would never rely on a man again.”

  “It would be nothing but a business exchange.” Celeste glanced sideways at Lady Philberta. “In Paris, I’ve seen the game played.”

  Lady Philberta steered them toward the front door and the conversation where she wanted it to go. “But I suspect you would not enjoy the actual experience.”

  Celeste lifted one lovely shoulder. “How bad could it be? One man who will set me up in an apartment, buy me lovely clothes, show me off and pad my bankroll, but who would have no control over me. Surely if I chose him, I wouldn’t mind so much the—” Celeste took a quick breath as she considered the actual act. “Or perhaps I would. How can I be so fussy about so basic a function?”

  “Some women are. Most, I think, unless driven by desperation.”

  “I suppose.” Celeste straightened her spine. “Very well. Instead, I will prepare young wives and new ambassadors to enter the world of diplomacy. You have to know who the players are, who you can trust, who will sell you for a brass coin . . . Diplomacy is not as easy as you might think, my lady.”

  Lady Philberta was ecstatic that Celeste had captured Garrick’s heart. She was pleased that, even though the girl was common, she was eminently presentable. But to know she comprehended the complex maneuvering of politics . . . ah, that made her a valuable asset to the family business, both legitimate and clandestine.

  But Garrick had thoroughly botched his love affair. He needed help, and Lady Philberta could provide it. “You may have noticed that Garrick is the master of manipulation.”

  “The worst kind of man.” They had reached the front door. The footman opened it.

  Lady Philberta waved him away and spoke to Celeste. “Garrick thinks things through, he always says the right things, he would never perform an action without knowing all possible consequences. But with you he acted impulsively, behaved in the worst manner, and said everything all wrong.”

  “He was insufferable.”

  “I know what I think that means. What do you think it means?”

  Celeste turned her large-eyed, tragic gaze on Lady Philberta.

  “Think about it.”

  “I’m going to Paris,” Celeste whispered.

  Lady Philberta nodded. “While you’re there, think about it.”

  26

  Milford stepped into his dark cottage, weary from the effort of helping Celeste pack and irate that she had to leave. As he trudged the stairs, he supposed he would leave, too. He wouldn’t work for a man he didn’t respect, and Garrick Throckmorton had lost Milford’s respect with a single act.

  In the loft, Milford shrugged out of his shirt, and tossed it on the laundry basket. Mr. Throckmorton had every right to take measure to assure Celeste did not marry Ellery. He had no right to seduce Milford’s daughter, and so Milford would inform him.

  He didn’t light a candle; he’d lived here for so many years he knew exactly how many paces to the water basin, how many paces to the bed. He splashed water from the pitcher and washed his face and hands, then discarded his trousers. He hung them neatly over the chair, as he did every night, then walked to the bed and lifted the covers.

  The bed was wide, meant for two people, and had sheltered only him since Aimee died. It was on nights like this that he missed her most, when he would have held his wife in his arms and listened to her rant about the harm done to their daughter and how someone would pay. Even he wanted to rant, and he had never ranted in his life.

  As he slid between the sheets, he became aware of two things. The mattress sagged where it shouldn’t. The familiar scent of woman was nearby.

  He didn’t know what to think.

  Then he did. “What are ye doing here?” He didn’t ask rough or mean, but he wanted an answer, so he asked firm.

  Esther’s voice came out of the darkness. “Ye don’t take a hint well, so I thought I’d come right here and make matters clear.” Her hand touched his shoulder. “I want to sleep with ye.”

  One thing at a time. “What hint?”

  The bed shook as she chuckled. “I don’t decorate everyone’s tray with fancy-cut cheese and bread baked to look like a flower.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I don’t flirt with other men, either.”

  “Have ye been flirting with me?”

  Her hand stroked down his arm, and his skin rose in gooseflesh. “Everyone knows it but ye.”

  He caught her wrist and held it in the air. “All right. I believe ye.”

  “Did I read ye wrong? Are ye not interested in me?” She sounded shocked and embarrassed.

  He was sorry for that, but matters needed to be settled. “I might be,” he acknowledged. “But I have to know yer intentions.”

  “I intend that we should enjoy each other.”

  He didn’t like that,
and he made his opinion clear with his silence.

  “I’m a widow. I miss the weight of a man in my bed. I’m old enough not to have to worry about havin’ a babe, and I want some comfort on the cold nights.”

  “ ‘Tisn’t right.” He placed her hand back on her side of the bed. “Not without marriage.”

  “Marriage!” She sat up.

  The covers fell away, and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he could see a lush, bare outline.

  He closed his eyes. He had a stand to make, and he doubted his ability to resist such blatant temptation. “ ‘Tis the vows taken between a man and woman when they wish to couple.”

  “I’ve been married!” From her tone, it had obviously not been a success.

  “If you wish to couple with me, you will be again.”

  She sat silent and still for so long, he opened his eyes. Her face was turned toward him. She was staring at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “So ye want me.”

  “Aye.”

  “But ye’ll not take me without the vows.”

  “Nay.”

  “Ye’re a damned odd man.”

  He ran his fingertips, just his fingertips, down the curve of her spine.

  She gasped and arched like a cat.

  He took his hand away. “So I’ve been told.”

  Her breath sighed heavily in the darkness. “If I agree . . . do we have to wait until the churching?”

  “To couple, ye mean.” He pretended to think about it, although under the covers a certain cockstand whispered the answer. “We could start the marriage sooner, as long as the wedding will be later.”

  He saw the flash of her smile bright in the night, and he loved her for it.

  “Well, then.” Slowly, she settled against him, and stretched her leg over his thighs. “We’d best get started.”

  “Aye.” One hand settled on her buttock, the other caught her around the neck. “As long as we both know it’s a promise.” Before she could retort, he brought her lips down to his. A kiss was the only way to handle a woman like this.