Euphemia regarded Tabitha with a shrewd eye, then looked up at Sebastian. “Just as well. If what I heard is correct—that you were caught in an embrace in Lord Rothbury’s library—then the ton will be buzzing.” She looked back at Tabitha. “Makepeace, hey? I’m fairly sure I know your mother—Eleanor Crawley as was?”
Tabitha nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Good—I must send around my card. Bedford Square, did you say?”
While Tabitha gave Euphemia her parents’ direction, Sebastian reviewed his progress. He needed his aunts’ approval and social support to shore up the facade of their engagement. While Pamela, softhearted and mild, had been easily won over, Euphemia wasn’t so readily led. However, she seemed quite taken with Tabitha in an intrigued and rather bemused way, as if she couldn’t quite understand how their engagement had come about, and was determined to winkle out the truth.
He was satisfied with that—could work with that.
The letter he’d dispatched to his brother that morning had been brief, merely informing Thomas of his engagement to Tabitha Makepeace and promising to keep Thomas and Estelle apprised of developments. However, in naming Tabitha, he’d felt compelled to describe her so that Thomas and Estelle might have some hope of placing her. That was the one part of the hastily drafted missive that bothered him. That nagged and niggled. That description had turned quite poetic, and that was so unlike him. He hadn’t even known he could think in such terms.
He shook off the unsettling memory, and refocused on what Euphemia was saying.
“—I daresay a dinner. I’ll call on your parents later today—we’ll sort something out.”
Tabitha shot a glance at her coconspirator. She hadn’t thought of betrothal dinners and the like. The fiction of their engagement was taking on life, and threatening to get out of hand.
Or, more specifically, to get taken out of their hands.
“I . . .” She willed Sebastian to save them—and was immediately stunned by the thought. She’d done that last night, several times; it was becoming a habit. Since when did she rely on men to save her? “That is”—she looked at Lady Fothergill—“my sister Lydia and her husband Ro are still in the country, and with Sebastian’s brother and sister-in-law also out of town, such celebrations will necessarily have to be delayed.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian nod in agreement.
But Lady Fothergill only smiled. “Very likely, but Pamela and I will call on your parents this afternoon, and see what we can sort out. Don’t trouble your head over it—I’m sure your family will be as eager as we are to demonstrate our delight at this development, and that we stand wholeheartedly behind you.”
Tabitha saw the look Lady Fothergill sent Sebastian, but was at a loss to adequately account for it. Triumph? Why triumph? And why wasn’t her ladyship quibbling about Tabitha’s suitability? If she knew her mother, she had to know of Tabitha’s reputation. If anything, she should be disapproving . . . although Sebastian was a second son and otherwise, in ton terms, the match was an acceptable one.
Before she could think how to probe for answers to the questions piling up in her head, Sebastian glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We really must get on.”
Why, she had no idea, but she readily set down her teacup and reached for her reticule. Sebastian stepped forward to offer his hand. She took it and rose, conscious of the warmth of his strong clasp and of his large body as he stood beside her.
Refocusing on Lady Fothergill, she found her smiling benignly.
“Go forth and enjoy yourselves.” Her ladyship waved them away. “You may leave all the rest to us.”
Tabitha plastered on a smile, curtsied, and they took their leave. Passing Sebastian as he held the drawing-room door for her, she murmured, “That’s what concerns me most—them taking charge of things.”
As if to echo her comment, Pamela came tripping after them. “No need to try to catch Freddie, Sebastian—I’ll send him a note right now.”
Their formal engagement dinner was held two nights later.
“I feel like I’m on a runaway horse—one with no reins.” A smile permanently affixed to her face, Tabitha paused by the side of her parents’ drawing room beside Sebastian, her coconspirator and now formally recognized fiancé.
The room was comfortably filled with family members, both hers and his. From the Makepeace side only Lydia and Ro were missing; Lydia was expecting their second child, and Ro had grown overprotective and didn’t like her traveling. Not that Lydia was complaining over missing the Season; she vastly preferred their country home over the bustle of town. Tabitha suspected Ro’s attack of overprotectiveness was more a response to Lydia’s need for an excuse to remain in the country than anything else. Ro doted on Lydia, and would move heaven and earth to give her whatever she desired. In Tabitha’s discussions of marriage with members of the Sisterhood, she often thought of Lydia’s happiness—to her mind it illustrated her maturing belief that for some women, marriage truly was the most desirable fate, at least with a man they could trust . . . and therein lay the rub. How many men were trustworthy? Trustworthy enough to marry.
But that wasn’t an issue at stake here and now. She and Sebastian weren’t truly engaged.
They’d both been circulating, playing their parts; this was the first chance she’d had to exchange a private word.
“Who could have guessed your parents as well as my aunts would take the bit between their teeth and run quite so hard?” His features apparently relaxed, he surveyed the room.
She wasn’t at all sure his ease was a pose. He didn’t seem anywhere near as perturbed by the rapidity of events as she. Her agreeing to their sham betrothal had triggered an avalanche; she was starting to feel swept away, overwhelmed.
He, on the other hand, seemed to be taking it in his stride.
Somewhat peevishly she remarked, “You don’t seem bothered that this is all a sham, and that at some point we’ll have to disillusion everyone.” That prospect was starting to weigh on her, increasing with every genuinely delighted congratulations tendered by their various relatives.
“I’m more concerned with what I’ve learned about your blackmailer.”
All bother over their sham engagement abruptly vanished. “What?”
“I visited the other five churches the blackmailer has used for Rothbury’s payments. All are small local churches in the western half of the City proper. None lies in the more fashionable districts—St. Clement Danes is the most westerly. That suggests the blackmailer is someone who has some connection with the area—the law courts, for instance, are close. Covent Garden and the major theaters are not that far away. To the south lie the docks, but I can’t imagine how anyone from there might have learned your friends’ secrets.”
“Law clerks, actors, and the like—I can’t readily see how anyone from those spheres could learn the requisite secrets, either.”
“I grant you it doesn’t get us much further now, but the information might prove useful later, once we learn more about our villain. It could help us prove they’re the guilty party.”
“Hmm . . . what about St. Clement Danes? Shouldn’t we go and reconnoiter there?”
“I’d thought to go later, closer to the day of the payment, so I can check the church calendar for that week.” He trapped her hand, smiled into her eyes as he raised it and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “But now I fear we must do our duty and mingle, before anyone starts to wonder what we’re so earnestly discussing. You can continue to interrogate me later.”
With effort shaking free of the hypnotic effect of his gray gaze, his mesmerizing voice, and the tingling caress of his lips on her skin, she inclined her head. They parted, both moving into the crowd of guests. Having been reminded of what lay behind their charade, she went readily enough, applying herself diligently to preserving their facade.
She’d just parted from speaking with her uncle William and her aunt Maude when Sebastian’s cousi
n Frederick Trantor—Freddie as his mother called him—appeared at her elbow. Halting, she turned to him, a social smile on her lips.
He fixed her with wide, steady blue eyes. “I just wanted to tell you how happy I am that you’re marrying Sebastian.” His unbelievably innocent expression fell away as he grinned. “How especially grateful.”
She’d already taken Freddie’s measure. He was as undeniably beautiful as Lady Fothergill had painted him, possessing a choirboylike beauty that glowed and shone, yet equally undeniably, he was immature, unreliable, and impossible to trust. With anything. She raised her brows and, as he clearly expected her to, asked, “Why especially?”
Barely twenty, he was a graceless scamp who seemed unable to concentrate for long enough to properly understand anything at all. Calling him scatterbrained would be a compliment.
A fact he proceeded to acknowledge with a sunny, entirely genuine smile. “Because none of the family, even my own mama, want me to inherit the Coningsby title and the estate—and I don’t want to, either.” For a fleeting instant, Tabitha glimpsed something that might have been self-loathing slither behind Freddie’s blue eyes, but then his smile brightened to a blinding degree. “Can you imagine me in charge of anything, let alone a large estate?” He shuddered. “I could never pull it off—and it would get in the way of me doing the things I like to do. Like racing. Curricles, or even just horses. I like to throw my heart over, and they’re always saying I’ll come to a sticky end, but I haven’t.” He grinned. “Not yet.”
Before she could respond, he grasped her hand and shook it. “So thank you, Tabitha Makepeace. I don’t want to be Sebastian’s heir.”
Abruptly releasing her, his gaze and his attention shifting away, Freddie moved on.
Tabitha regarded his retreating figure through narrowing eyes. There was something a trifle off about Freddie’s “madness.” She’d heard some of his more distant cousins refer to him as “Mad Freddie,” had gathered from his mother’s and his older relatives’ comments that he was . . . as he appeared to be. But was that how he truly was or . . . was it his way of coping with some specific difficulty? One thing Tabitha knew about was facades, the masks people constructed to display to the world. She was living behind one now, but even before that night she’d met Sebastian, she’d been living behind another, and had been for years.
The thought wasn’t new, yet its clarity shook her. It was always easier to see one’s own foibles when they were reflected in someone else.
For a moment she simply stood by the side of the drawing room absorbing the spark of self-revelation, but then Freddie’s words, their actual import, registered—increasingly strongly—in her brain.
“Sebastian’s heir?” She swung around, located her supposed fiancé, and pinned her gaze on him. With single-minded purpose, she made her way through the crowd, but the instant she reached his side, guests approached to take their leave, to congratulate the pair of them one last time before departing.
She had to grin and bear it, had to keep her expression glowing and happy and make the right noises.
Eventually they followed the last guests into the front hall and waved them off. When Sebastian would have turned to her and taken his leave, she sank her fingertips into his arm and looked at her parents. “Sebastian and I need to discuss some matters—we’ll use the back parlor.”
“Of course, dear.” Her mother waved, tired but clearly satisfied with her night’s work. “Good night, Sebastian.” Her mother prodded her father. “Come along—we’ve discussing of our own to do about the engagement ball.”
Her father sighed, but he was smiling as he shook Sebastian’s hand and followed her mother up the stairs.
Tabitha watched them go. Under her breath asked, “What engagement ball?”
“My aunts, your mother—they’ve decided we need a formal ball to announce our upcoming union to the world.”
“When?”
“Twelve days from now.”
“Twelve days! But—”
“Relax.” He took her hand and drew her on down the hall toward the back parlor. “Rothbury’s appointment in St. Clement Danes is five days away, so with any luck before the ball takes place we’ll have discovered we don’t suit after all, and that our engagement was all a mistake.”
“Speaking of our engagement.” Tabitha waited while he opened the parlor door; she went in and waited for him to shut it before turning to face him. She narrowed her eyes on his. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re your brother’s—Viscount Coningsby’s—heir, and that the reason all your family are so delighted to see you engaged to be married is because they’re desperate for you to have a son so that there’s no chance your cousin, popularly known for good reason as Mad Freddie, ever inherits the Coningsby estates?”
Her voice had risen, yet his expression displayed not a hint of perturbation, let alone discomfort. “Ah—I see. You heard about that.”
“Of course I heard about that!” She flung up her hands. “Freddie himself told me about it.”
His lips quirked. “I suppose I should have foreseen that.”
“What you should have foreseen is that I am not at all amused at being used by you to pull the wool over your family’s collective eyes!” Folding her arms, she glared at him. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are they, or are they not, all currently in alt thinking that shortly after the wedding bells toll and we walk down the aisle, they’ll have cause for relief from their worries about the Coningsby succession?”
He pulled a face. “Yes, but—”
“You’re supposed to be out in society”—dramatically she pointed outward—“attending balls and parties and finding a young lady to marry, and instead you’ve decided to embark on our charade knowing it relieves you of pursuing a duty I’ve already guessed you don’t like. Is that true?”
He’d taken a step closer, but then halted. His eyes appeared steely in the weak lamplight. He considered her for a long moment, then—perfectly mildly—replied, “That was my mission—the one I was on that placed me in Rothbury’s library when you broke in. I’d already grown bored with it and had decided to put it aside for the night, which was why I was hiding in there with the door locked. And then you walked in, and offered me a much more interesting mission—that of pursuing your blackmailer. I decided to put off my mission of finding a suitable wife until after this mission—the more interesting one I’m pursuing with you—is concluded.” He arched his brows, his eyes steady on hers. “I understand the connection you’ve drawn between the two, but at no point did I intend to use you to mislead my relatives. In terms of my motives in assisting you, that was never a part of the equation.”
Arms tightly folded, she glowered at him, yet no matter how much she lectured herself against trusting him, it was impossible to doubt the sincerity in his voice. His hypnotic and therefore untrustworthy, yet compelling and convincing, voice.
Eventually she let her expression ease, let her arms fall, and sighed. “Very well. But now we have to face a major ton engagement ball.”
His lips twisted in wry resignation. “And between then and now, I’ve been instructed that we have to attend at least one major ball every night.”
She exhaled through her teeth. “Damn it! When I agreed to go along with this sham engagement, I had no idea matters would escalate like this!”
He seemed to consider, then, his gaze still on her, softly said, “I really can’t see how we can avoid it.”
She humphed, but he was right. She wanted to catch the blackmailer, and this was the price.
Chapter Three
Their first excursion as a formally affianced couple occurred the following evening when they attended a ball at Carrington House. It was one of the major balls held that evening, and Lady Carrington waxed delighted—nay, ecstatic—on spying them approaching her ballroom door.
She gushed; she exclaimed.
Tabitha kept a socially appropriate smile plastered to her lips. That Sebastian, too, seemed
to inwardly wince, mollified her aggravation to some degree. He might have multiple reasons for keeping up their facade, but she, too, had incentive enough to play along.
Parting from their hostess, they joined the throng of guests filling the room.
“Another blasted crush.” Sebastian sounded distinctly unamused. “Enlighten me—why do ton hostesses consider assembling more guests than can comfortably fit in their rooms a good thing?”
“You’ll have to hold me excused.” Tabitha inclined her head to a pair of distant acquaintances. “That’s something I’ve never fathomed myself.”
The brief glance they shared heightened the sense that in this—in playing their roles and keeping up the charade of their engagement—it was the two of them in league against the fashionable world. Even if the fashionable world didn’t know it.
“I fear,” she murmured, drawing her eyes from his, “that we’ll need to actively mingle.”
He gave a soft, disgusted snort, but held his ground by her side as a veritable horde of garrulous and openly curious well-wishers all but lined up to speak with them.
After half an hour of thinly veiled interrogation, Sebastian’s temper had eroded to a dangerous degree. He’d never found it easy to abide fools. Musicians had been sawing at their strings on and off for some time, but at last an area of the ballroom was cleared and the opening bars of a waltz reached his ears.
Closing one hand about Tabitha’s elbow, he summoned the best smile he was currently capable of and fixed it on the tedious matron and her two giggling daughters currently standing before them. “I fear, ladies, that I must steal Miss Makepeace away. She promised me the first waltz, and I intend to claim the favor.”
The glance Tabitha threw him clearly stated she hadn’t given the first thought to dancing, but the lure of an escape, however temporary, was difficult to resist.