A Duke For All Seasons (5 page)

    
“I’m leaving for a sennight at my country estate tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Say you’ll come with me.”

    
“I have two more performances to give before the end of the season.”

    
“You have an understudy. Beg off.”

    
She turned to let him drape her cloak over her shoulders. “Would it be just the two of us at your estate?”

    
He wished. “For the first day, yes, but my family, Lord Granger and his fiancé and both their mothers will be arriving the next. We’d have one day in the country to ourselves.”

    
“Will you take me riding?”

    
He nodded. “I have a sweet-tempered mount that might suit you.”

    
She grinned wickedly. “What makes you think I need a sweet-tempered mount?”

    
Sebastian's driver rapped on the door to signal that he was ready to collect her.

    
“Oh, a thought just occurred to me,” she said, turning back to him. “Do you have that libretto I gave you?”

    
He glanced around the room. “I’m sure it’s somewhere around here.”

    
“Well, I want to sign it for you. Now that I know you better, I want it to be a
personal
gift
.”
She leaned into him and he kissed her once more.

    
Perhaps she was right. Delay might mean more delight once he planted his flag on Mt. Arabella. He was willing to explore the possibility. He told her when to expect him to come by on the morrow.

    
“Be sure you find the libretto and bring it with you when we leave for the country then,” she said and disappeared into the soft night.

    
Sebastian poured himself another brandy and settled before the dying fire. This was merely a temporary setback. Arabella was an intelligent woman, perhaps too intelligent. Once he had more time to present his case, she'd see the wisdom of a contract for both their sakes.

    
A rap on the door brought him to his feet in an instant. He rushed toward it with the school boyish hope that she’d changed her mind and come back. Instead, he opened the door to find Neville pacing before it.

    
“Has she signed your damned contract?” he demanded.

    
“No, but don’t count on that case of port just yet, old son,” Sebastian said as his friend barged into the room without an invitation. “The vixen is merely giving the hound a merry chase.”

    
“She’s gone?”

    
“Yes, but—”

    
“Good.”

    
“Look, if you want the port that badly, I'll—”

    
“No, it’s not that. I came to warn you to steer clear of Miss St. George.”

    
Sebastian snorted. “In case it's escaped your notice, you all but introduced me to her.”

    
“That was before I read this.” Neville handed him the
Don Giovanni
libretto. Sebastian noticed this time that there was an envelope sticking out from its pages. “I thought you'd sent me a note and opened the seal before I realized it wasn't yours.”

    
“What's in it?” Sebastian pulled the envelope from the libretto.

    
“Treason.”

“A perfect mistress has no interests beyond her protector. If she does, a gentleman would do well to consider carefully whether she is worth protecting.”

~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

    
“Treason? The devil you say.” Sebastian snatched the envelope and read the curlicue script. The directive was in French on fine grained foolscap. “Good Lord. Names, likely places where the individual may be found, an offer of payment . . . this is an assassin’s list of targets. Members of Parliament, a Major-General, the Prince Regent’s cousin . . . what was Bella doing with it?”

    
“What indeed?” Neville said with a quirk of his brow.

    
“No, she couldn’t possibly—” He caught himself. When she handed the libretto to him, what was it she’d said? He’d find what he sought between its pages. Sebastian’s gut roiled. She knew the envelope was there and had mistaken him for the person to whom she was supposed to give it. “The seal was unbroken, you say?” 

    
“Yes.”

    
His senses were still awash in the woman’s scent. She was sensual and slick and had manipulated him as neatly as if he were a green lad. Anger crept up his neck like a rash. But even now he couldn’t conceive of her being involved in a series of political murders. “She may have been unaware what the envelope contained.” 

    
“But she was in possession of it,” Neville stubbornly reminded him.

    
And she was trying to get it back,
Sebastian realized with a jolt. Perhaps her kisses, her looks of promise, nothing of this beguiling, bedamned evening was real. Arabella St. George was merely trying to recover an incriminating document that had gone badly astray. 

    
“Shall we wake the magistrate?” Neville asked.

    
Sebastian crumpled the foolscap in his fist. “No need. I’ll deal with this myself.”

    
If she was guilty, he’d be far less merciful than the magistrate.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

    
The next day, Sebastian was an hour late to collect her in his fine coach. Arabella was mildly offended, but decided to ignore the slight since he didn’t even trouble to apologize. There was no point in antagonizing him since she needed to recover that envelope and quarreling with Sebastian over a minor faux pas seemed an inefficient way of doing it.

    
She expected him to attempt to seduce her during the carriage ride. There were plenty of adventurous possibilities in a small, but well-padded space. 

    
But he was distant as they bounced along in his equipage. When she tried to engage him in conversation, he rapped on the coach’s ceiling and signaled a halt. 

    
“I’m inclined to ride,” he said simply, as if no more explanation were required and climbed out of the carriage to mount the bay gelding one of his outriders had been leading. 

    
“Beastly manners. No wonder he secures his mistresses by contract,” she murmured. “Why else would they tolerate him for three months?”

    
She regretted sending notice to the opera company that she’d be unavailable for the final two performances of the season. If not for the need to recover Fernand’s blasted envelope, she’d order the driver to return her to London.

    
He’s discovered the envelope. That’s why he’s so changed toward me.

    
She shoved that thought aside. If that were the case, she’d be under arrest instead of rattling along toward a sennight at the duke’s country seat.

    
Whatever was bothering Sebastian seemed to have been resolved by his ride. When they pulled to a stop before the gracious manor house at the end of a tree-lined drive, he handed her down from the coach with every courtesy. All the servants queued up to greet their returning master and he introduced Arabella to the butler and housekeeper as a celebrated operatic diva and his special guest.

    
“Once you refresh yourself, Miss St. George, I'll show you over the rest of place if you'd care to go riding.”

    
“That would be lovely.” After the stifling trip in the enclosed coach, Arabella’s muscles ached for a chance at some exercise.  

    
Sebastian fished out a stack of books from the boot. With a sudden prickle of awareness, Bella noticed the
Don Giovanni
libretto on top. “I only have to deliver these to the library and then I’ll see to your mount. Mrs. Wiggins will show you to your room.”

    
The housekeeper dropped a shallow curtsey.

    
“Cobb.” Sebastian nodded sharply to his butler. “When the lady is ready, bring her to the stables.”

    
Arabella smiled at Sebastian, hoping to rekindle some of the spark they’d shared at The Peacock’s Tail. “You know how I look forward to seeing you ride, Your Grace.”

    
He inclined his head in a stiff gesture that thanked her for remembering the servants were watching, but his sensual smile showed he'd caught the double entendre in ‘ride.’

    
Ever correct. Ever lordly. Even in his
amours
, the duke was mindful of his station. Once in bed, would he still maintain such tight control or would he lose himself in heat and friction and animal passion? Just once, she wished she could see him driven beyond his ability to be in full command of himself.

    
He disappeared into the great house, leaving her in the care of Mrs. Wiggins and Cobb. She trailed them through the big double doors.

    
Sebastian’s country home was as elegant and formal as the man himself. The foyer was tiled with Italian marble, clearly designed to impress. Arabella followed Mrs. Wiggins up a curved staircase to the guest quarters, asking about the general layout of the great house and the great people who’d lived in it as they went. The chamber she was assigned would have suited a princess.

    
“Ring for an abigail when ye’ve the need of one, miss.” Mrs. Wiggins indicated the bellpull on one side of the sumptuous four-poster.

    
Bella thanked her as the woman left, but she was perfectly capable of dressing herself. She stripped out of her traveling ensemble and pulled on the forest green riding habit, whose shoulders were graced with epaulets
a la militaire
. Her fingers flew to hook the gold frogs marching down the bodice. She had to hurry if she was going to find Sebastian’s library and filch the envelope.

    
She stole out of the guest suite and padded down the staircase, wary of servants. She had to locate the library before she was discovered by Mr. Cobb and ushered out to the stable. Fortunately Mrs. Wiggins had given her a detailed description of the ground floor and Bella was able to slip unnoticed through the long hall bedecked with fading tapestries. She padded into the sun-splashed library at the far southern corner of the house.

    
The room smelled of must and books and vaguely of Sebastian’s unique scent. She spied the stack of books on the edge of the massive burled oak desk. Without hesitation, she skittered over to it and opened the
Don Giovanni
libretto. To her dismay, the seal was broken and the envelope empty.

    
“Looking for this?” Sebastian stepped from behind the door, dangling a sheet of foolscap before her. His eyes were dark and hard.

    
And sad. And in his sadness lay her only hope.

“If a prospective mistress presents troubling aspects, end the association at once. If a gentleman wishes a life filled with complications, he should seek a wife.”