Unmasking the Thief, page 12
His face swooped nearer, causing her stomach to dive, and his mouth took hers. A gentle, tasting kiss that deprived her of what breath she had left and turned her bones to liquid.
Without meaning to, she slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back. Trust…trust.
“I was almost engaged to Anthony Thorne,” she blurted against his lips. “Until he found a richer lady.”
He drew back a little, a faint frown tugging at his brow as he gazed down at her. What he would have said, she never discovered, for Pup, with impeccable timing, lunged suddenly back toward the path, dragging the surprised Francis with him.
Matty drew in a shuddering breath and followed. By the time she reached the path, Francis had the dog under control once more and was waiting for her, smiling as though nothing had happened. As though she had said nothing.
I’ve ruined it, she thought miserably as they walked back toward the others. He’ll think I’m doing this for revenge. Not for him…
Chapter Twelve
By the time she returned to the house with her charges, Matty’s mind and emotions were still churning. She wondered what it was she was afraid of having ruined. And yet the anxiety was almost drowned in excitement because she was going to help Francis. She was, hopefully, going to prevent Thorne from ruining her sister’s life and her own. And over all, the memory of that kiss. Of all three kisses.
Preoccupied and dazed, she was unprepared for the commotion that struck as soon as she opened the front door. Pup began to bark and bounded free immediately, dragging the leash from Catherine’s hand to gallop up the stairs from where a young man’s laughing voice could be heard.
“Adrian!” squeaked Susan.
“Pup!” exclaimed the male voice above in accents of pure delight, while Matty’s pupils shot off in the dog’s wake without permission, yelling their brother’s name. Even Catherine shrugged, smiled, and hurried after them.
Matty followed with more composure. She could never find in her heart to scold them for their excesses of joy in such reunions, and she was not about to start now. On the other hand, she knew she should at least muffle the racket since she had no idea if Mrs. Dove was entertaining callers.
As it turned out, she was, for as Matty crossed the first-floor landing to head toward the bumping and laughing from the schoolroom area, the drawing room door opened, and Mrs. Dove stood there with her cap very slightly askew and a harassed look in her eyes.
“Thank God,” she uttered, closing the door behind her. “I mean, there you are Miss Mather, just in time.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Adrian is home! And your mother is here. Help!”
Matty frowned at her in consternation. “My mother is here? In London?” she whispered.
“Here, in my drawing room!” Mrs. Dove hissed. “Along with your sister.”
Matty forced herself to breathe. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Have… have you agreed to anything with them?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Dove said, clearly affronted. “Well, except what we already agreed with Sir Anthony.” She jerked her head toward the door in unmistakable command and walked back inside.
Matty followed her more slowly, though the smile she fixed on her lips suddenly felt genuine as her mother rose from the sofa, arms outstretched. “Matilda!”
“Mama,” Matty said, going to her and returning the embrace. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“We’ve come for the Season,” Marion said as Matty turned to her. Marion’s embrace was briefer and cooler. Dressed in a smart new Pomona morning gown, she looked healthy and…more hectic than happy, though she turned her best smile on her sister as she pulled back. “Or at least for what remains of the Season! Anthony will introduce us to everyone who matters.”
“He called here just the other day,” Matty said. “He never mentioned that you were coming. But then, you did not write to me either. Where are you staying?”
“Grillon’s Hotel, until Anthony can find us a suitable house.”
“Well, I can call on you there this evening if you like. I have duties to attend here.”
“I wouldn’t worry for today,” Mrs. Dove said. “Adrian is home, as you can probably hear, and you will get no lessons done for the rest of the day. Spend the time with your family.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you would like to change your dress,” her mother said pointedly, “and walk round to Grillon’s with us now?”
“My wardrobe is not extensive, Mama,” Matty said dryly. “Unless you wish me to wear an evening gown at midday, we must make do. But if I embarrass you, I could meet you in the park at dawn instead, and no one need realize we are related.”
Her mother scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous, Matilda. But then, this stubbornness of yours—”
“Perhaps we could discuss it on the way?” Matilda suggested. “Mrs. Dove, thank you for looking after my family and for the afternoon. I shall be back before dinner time.”
Her mother and sister both bridled at that, though they could hardly begin a quarrel under Mrs. Dove’s gracious smile.
Instead, the quarrel began on the walk to Grillon’s.
Mama sniffed. “I cannot believe you are all but a servant to that poor little dab of a woman who would probably be completely overlooked at our country assemblies.”
“No, I don’t think she would be,” Matty said calmly.
Her mother glared. “You are just being awkward.”
“Not in the slightest. Mrs. Dove may be a trifle vague, but she is every inch a lady and would always be recognized as such.”
“Actually, Matty has a point,” Marion pointed out before their mother could join the battle. “Is Mrs. Dove not related to a nobleman?”
“She is the Earl of Wenning’s cousin.”
“Do they visit?” Mama asked with a hint of sharpness.
“I believe the Wennings have been abroad for a couple of years, but her ladyship was kind to Viola, who is now Lady Dominic Gorse. The countess’s sister, Miss Darblay, is Catherine’s great friend.”
“Is she Viscount Darblay’s daughter?” Marion asked.
“She is.”
Mama sniffed. “At least she is well connected, but it makes no real difference.”
“It makes no difference to any of us,” Matty said calmly, “because, as I said in my letter, I have every intention of staying on with Mrs. Dove. But you need not worry that anyone of the ton will connect your name with mine.”
Mama scowled. “Apart from the Darblay girl and Lady Dominic and presumably their families!”
“I very much doubt they sit around discussing friends’ governesses with their families,” Matty said. “But I can easily persuade Viola and Hope to secrecy should they ever meet you. Along with Catherine, of course.”
“That would not cast us in a good light,” Mama snapped.
Matty let them ponder that until they reached the hotel, but she didn’t fool herself it would change anything. The real quarrel was about to begin.
*
Sir Anthony Thorne was conscious of such excitement in his veins that it was getting harder to conceal. He had set a date when all hell was to break loose all over the country, and he had a great deal to do in order to be assured it would happen, that all his people were in place.
Of course, at the quiet times, at night, he needed an outlet for his excessive energies, which was why he had allowed Emma Carntree to stay in his house. Normally, he came to her when her husband was absent.
In the name of discretion, his valet only ever knocked on the bedchamber door to signal the arrival of morning tea. When the knock came, Emma still slumbered in a tangle of sheets, a beam of unkind daylight playing over her profile. The lines around her eyes, the relaxed sag around her mouth and jaw, were very evident, and she looked every one of her two-and-thirty years. Or perhaps just the last decadent dozen.
But there was no denying her usefulness. He would probably find a way to keep her on when he had won, when he was married.
He rose, donned his robe, and walked into his private sitting room where his valet had left the tea, along with the newspapers and morning post. With a yawn, he poured himself a cup of tea, added a luxurious amount of sugar, and rifled the heap of letters.
He paused at one bearing the seal of the Earl of Wenning and eagerly opened it. A card fell out. Not, alas, a private note of support from his lordship, to whom he had sent out some feelers via mutual friends, but an invitation to her ladyship’s ball next week.
Well, he had never moved in the earl’s circles before, so this was certainly a step forward. And there would surely be opportunities for private discussion. A week was little enough notice for such an event, but Thorne did not doubt that the polite world would move heaven and earth to be there. The couple’s turbulent relationship had provided gossip for years, after all.
In addition to which, Lady Wenning was everything that was charming and fashionable, and her husband bore a great deal of weight with diplomatic and government circles. If Lord Wenning’s support was not quite necessary to Thorne, it would certainly be very welcome in the aftermath.
An overlooked hand-delivered epistle fell off the table into his lap. Intrigued, he picked it up and broke the seal. An unpleasant spike of mixed unease and irritation pierced his smugness. It was from his betrothed, which should have been pleasant, only she had written it from Grillon’s Hotel in London.
Damnation, I told her not to come…
But she had, to retrieve Matilda from her servitude, she said gaily, and so they might as well enjoy some of the pleasures of the Season while they were here.
Thorne groaned aloud just as Emma appeared, yawning, wearing one of his nightshirts. It was endearingly huge on her. Less endearing was her demand to know what had him groaning at this time of the morning.
“My betrothed,” he said bitterly, tossing the brief epistle on the desk. “I don’t have time to dance attendance on her, extract invitations for her, and squire her about town.”
“Well, my dear,” Emma drawled, a touch of amused spite in her eyes, “if you cannot control your own wife, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of your plans, does it?”
He regarded her with dislike. “Or yours. You and I won’t be seeing much of each other until I can get rid of her.”
“Cheer up. With luck, she can take the governess with her.”
He rose abruptly. “I need to go out.”
“Where?”
“Grillon’s,” he snapped.
In fact, it was hours later before he was shown into Mrs. Mather’s sitting room and greeted by the sight of his betrothed side-by-side on the sofa with her sister. Their heads were together as though in earnest discussion, which made him fleetingly uneasy. But then Marion saw him, and her whole face lit up. She sprang up to meet him, both hands extended, and he allowed himself to kiss them in an apparent excess of devotion.
“Marion, my dear, what a charming surprise! Mrs. Mather, your servant. I wish you had apprised me of your coming. I could have found you a house rather than this—” He waved one disparaging hand around the perfectly appointed sitting room. “As it is, I thought we had agreed you would stay in the country until the wedding.”
“Ladies are allowed to change their minds,” Mrs. Mather said, smiling broadly.
Although…was that a hint of warning behind the smile? A declaration of at least occasional disobedience? He supposed he had thrice-blasted Matilda to thank for that. Though, perhaps, if they could persuade her to leave her employer, he might make do with the complication of their presence. He might have to.
“Indeed they are.” He released his betrothed’s hands to allow her to resume her seat and pulled up another chair to join them. He smiled at Matilda, who had clearly been pried from her employment, although she still looked so frumpish that he wanted to shudder. To his surprise, she gave a small smile in return. “You must be delighted to be reunited with your family.”
“Of course,” she replied.
“I gather you and the excellent Mrs. Dove have parted ways after all?”
Matilda’s brows flew up. “On the contrary. She kindly allowed me the afternoon free.”
“Matty was ever stubborn,” Mrs. Mather said with a sigh. “Although, to be sure, the Dove woman is at least ladylike and well connected.”
“To Lord Wenning, to be precise,” Thorne said. “A man of some influence and a highly desirable ally.”
“You don’t wish to be embarrassed by your own connection to his cousin’s governess,” Matilda said with a sympathy he did not trust for a moment, although she looked serious enough. “But, as I have been telling Mama and Marion, it need not trouble you. Lord and Lady Wenning are unaware of my existence, and that is unlikely to change.”
“Perhaps,” Marion said impatiently, “but it would be much more comfortable if you could simply come with me to parties and balls and the theatre. Oh, Anthony, you will be able to see that we receive invitations to the best parties, won’t you?”
“I daresay,” he replied. He supposed he could make the best of it. Perhaps it was even a good thing that his betrothed should be here to witness his triumph. He just had so little time to dance attendance on her right now, and he certainly didn’t want them picking up rumors of his entanglement with Emma.
“And for Matilda?” Mrs. Mather asked.
“Sadly, not while she is the governess,” Thorne said gently.
“You are quite right,” Matilda agreed, much to his surprise. “It would not be appropriate, and I am expected to look after the younger Doves while their mother is out with Catherine.”
“Then leave them!” Marion exclaimed. “And enjoy yourself for once.”
“You mean attend you in my one evening gown?” Matty asked politely.
“We can buy new gowns.”
“Marion,” she said patiently, “then you would draw me to the attention of people who might conceivably recognize me for what I am. Catherine’s friends and even some of Viola’s would know me.”
“But you have just told us,” Thorne intervened, “of their vaunted discretion. Besides which, being a governess is a respected profession for an impecunious lady.”
“Which is one reason I prefer to keep it.”
“It would not be suitable once Marion and I are married.”
“On the contrary, it suits me very well,” Matilda snapped before taking a deep breath and trying for a more conciliatory tone, which was interesting in itself. “Though I will think about what you have said. I have no wish to quarrel with my family.”
To Thorne, it felt like an important obstacle had been cleared. As the inevitable tea was brought in and served, he wondered fleetingly why it had become so important to him to win this trivial fight with Matilda.
Because he did not like to be defied. Because she had once adored him. Because his marital home would be just a little brighter with her in it—wearing a new set of clothes, obviously. And because she possessed the intelligence and political awareness that Marion lacked. She would be the true hostess of his political dinners. In fact, he was conscious of the vague regret that it was not she who had inherited the family money. And then he would simply have rekindled their old romance and married her.
After all, she had once loved him. Secretly, she probably still did.
Chapter Thirteen
Francisco, once more attired as a non-descript working man, had spent most of the day following Thorne. He had emerged briskly from his own somewhat dilapidated townhouse some fifteen minutes after a hackney had whisked Emma Carntree away. Intriguingly, the man had spent some time at Horse Guards and then made several calls around Piccadilly and St. James. From one of those calls, he had emerged in the company of a senior army officer.
Why the interest in the military? Francisco wondered as he followed his quarry on to Grillon’s Hotel. Was he hoping to ensure no bloodshed at the coordinated marches? That only made sense if Thorne was indeed behind the protests. More likely, from what Francisco knew of the man’s politics, was that he wanted to ensure the complete suppression of unrest. If there truly was a connection between Thorne and the radicals, Francisco had yet to discover it. A visit to Maida Gardens by Thorne’s mistress, wearing a red posy, and Thorne’s vague interest in everyone’s politics were really not enough to condemn a man as an agitator. Or even an agent provocateur…which was an interesting line of reasoning.
At Grillon’s, by flirting with a maid, he learned that Thorne was calling on a Mrs. Mather, newly arrived in London.
Poor Matty, he thought, with genuine regret, because they must have come to drag her home. His stomach was rumbling by the time Thorne emerged from the hotel with a dowdy lady, whom he offered his arm.
Francisco found himself scowling when Matty took his arm. Even though he had no reason to be annoyed. He had asked her to converse with Thorne, and they did seem to be pretty deep in conversation. How could she possibly have been engaged to such a smug, slippery fellow? Old affections, even betrayed ones, could linger on. The thought hurt him somehow. He hoped it didn’t hurt her.
Fortunately for Francisco’s ridiculous possessiveness—which felt alarmingly like jealousy—after a few moments, the hotel porter summoned a hackney, into which Thorne politely handed her and closed the door.
Francisco’s relief was out of proportion. He actually took a step after the hackney before, reluctantly, turning the other way and following Thorne as far as Westminster, where he entered the hallowed halls of the Parliament. Francisco hung around, deep in thought for more than an hour, before he gave up and went back to Covent Garden to wash, shave, and change.
He intended to spend the evening around the clubs, hoping to run across Thorne and observe who he spoke to, overhear, if possible, what they said. Yet, somehow, he talked himself into first going to the mews behind the Doves’ house and bribing the lone stable lad he found there to take a message via the kitchen to Miss Mather. Then he ambled up and down the lane, feeling rather too much like an adolescent awaiting his first assignation. It was only this morning he had kissed her in the park, and yet his mind was already far too full of her, of the feel of her soft lips beneath his, erupting into passion.
