A Scandalous Proposal (5 page)

The baron got to his feet, beginning to pace. “When you're done debating yourself, Miss Foster, perhaps we can return to this matter of the unknown secret admirer?”

Dany put down the remainder of the lemon square, her very favorite, her appetite having disappeared, perhaps forever. “The dress shop owner believes the countess is...is increasing.” She looked up at Cooper, who was now standing stock-still. “A seamstress can't know more than the person in question, could she?”

“You're asking me?”

“No, probably not. You're not as calm and collected as I would have imagined a hero would be, you know.”

“I'm not a hero, damn it!” He held up his hands. “I beg your pardon, Miss Foster. But I'm not a hero. Anything you read in that god-awful chapbook was made up out of whole cloth.”

Well, wasn't that disappointing. “None of it? You didn't rescue any children?”

He tipped his head to one side for a moment. “Well, that's true. But I didn't plan it. It...it just happened. One minute I was standing there with everyone else, and the next I was tossing down my rifle and running. It seemed like the thing to do. And what does any of that matter?”

“I imagine it matters to the children you saved from being trampled or shot, the Englishmen who were then free to defend themselves from a French slaughter. Oh, and to the veiled lady. Was there a veiled lady?”

“A holy nun. A veiled nun, yes.”

“Now you're lying,” she said, not knowing why she felt so certain, but certain nonetheless. “You're protecting her, whoever she is. That's why she
disappeared
. You took her somewhere safe, and only then returned to the camp, hours after the battle. Even now, you protect her. She must be very important to someone.”

His green eyes flashed, his eyelids narrowed—just the way his unknown biographer had written. “I don't like you, Miss Foster.”

“That's understandable. I've rather bullied my way into your life, haven't I? I have no shame in that, however, as my sister desperately needs a hero, unwilling hero or not,” she told him brightly. “Inconveniently for you, you're a man of your word, because you're still here, when a lesser man would have broken down the earl's front door in his haste to be gone. He knows who she is, naturally.”

“What?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. We're back to my sister and her secret admirer. He knows her because the notes he wrote were delivered here. That's only sensible. But he also knows her because she foolishly signed her name to her notes. Probably with a flourish, and including her title. Mari can be a bit of a twit.”

“All right, I think I finally understand. Your sister wants me to discover the identity of her anonymous admirer in order to have her notes returned to her. And how am I supposed to go about that, Miss Foster? Does your sister by chance keep a list of her admirers, as a sort of starting point for me, you understand?”

“No, and it's not that simple. I can show you the letters he wrote to her, I suppose. There may be a hint or two there I've overlooked. But it's his final missive—or should I say
almost
final missive—that is causing all of this trouble.”

So saying, she reached into her pocket and drew out a folded note, handing it over to him.

He looked at it, almost as if he didn't want to touch it, and then suddenly all but grabbed it from her. Opening it, he read aloud.

“Five hundred pounds or the next person to read your love notes will be your husband, just before the collection is published in a pamphlet entitled
Confessions of a Society Matron Forced to Seek Solace in the Arms of Another, Rejected by Her Husband, Who Apparently Is Immune to Feminine Charms, Preferring the Company of Others of His Own Persuasion.

“Yes, this is blackmail, and I'm quite good at it. Your husband returns soon, my lady, and you have no time to dawdle. I will be in touch.”

“You can see he is fairly specific while remaining disturbingly vague. Mari has no idea how to produce five pounds without applying to her husband, let alone five hundred, but she's fairly certain whatever this man is threatening will greatly upset Oliver.”

“Upset him? Miss Foster, you have no idea, thankfully. Son of a— When did this arrive?”

“A few days ago. Why? Oh, no, he has not contacted my sister again. Should we be looking for a discreet jeweler to buy some of Mari's necklaces, or are you thinking this is an empty threat?”

“I don't think the countess can assume it's an empty threat, no. May I keep this? And do you have his other notes?”

Did he seem more interested now? Yes, he did. Perhaps it was the hero in him stepping to the fore. Or concerns for Oliver. It certainly couldn't be anything else, could it?

Dany retrieved those from behind the cushions, cloyingly tied up with a pink ribbon, because Mari didn't learn quickly, if she learned at all. She still probably harbored at least a slight hope that the blackmailer was only trying to attempt to get her to write to him again. Which she would only do over Dany's dead body, and so she had informed the countess. Folding up notes and placing them in...

“Oh, you might want to know how they corresponded,” she said as the baron pocketed the notes. “The first was delivered by a maid who was handed the note and a copper piece on the street, with instructions for its delivery. I've questioned her, naturally. The man didn't hand off the note himself, but used a young lad who then disappeared. The rest were exchanged by tucking the notes in a knothole in the third tree from the right behind the mansion. My bedchamber windows overlook the mews, and I've done my best for the past several nights to remain awake and watching, but am ashamed to admit I make a poor sentry. I've never lasted much beyond midnight before falling asleep at my post.”

He was looking at her oddly now, very nearly
measuring
her. What on earth was he thinking?

“No, I can't do that. Even Darby isn't that foolhardy.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing, Miss Foster. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“Only my thoughts on how to catch out the rotter so you can teach him a firm lesson. You will do that, correct, or what is the use of finally knowing who he is? So here's the thing, my lord. He has to communicate with my sister again, correct? Threaten her with
dire consequences
and upset her again, then tell her where to place the money and all of that nonsense so that he can swoop down, masked and caped, and disappear with his ill-gotten lucre.”

“Read your share of penny dreadfuls, have you?”

“The blame isn't on my head if Mama often forgets to lock them up in her desk. But I'm right, aren't I? He wrote that he would be in touch. I doubt he'll wait too long, don't you? Why, he might even return tonight, to place another message in the tree. Which means you have to be in my bedchamber before midnight. It's the best vantage point. I know that, because I've tried them all. There aren't enough shrubs to constitute a concealed hidey-hole, the windows in the kitchens are barely aboveground and I could only look from my sister's windows if I involved her, which I won't. She would send me straight home if she knew I was making myself personally involved in her misadventure. I'd raise too much attention if I availed myself of the view from the servants' quarters in the attics. Oh, and before you ask, the windows in Oliver's study are stained glass, and impossible to see through.”

“You've put a good measure of thought into this, haven't you?”

“I have. Which leaves your only good vantage point the windows in my bedchamber.” She smiled at him, knowing he was becoming more frustrated by the moment. “It's a narrow house, my lord, for all its grandeur.”

“I already ruled that out, thank you.”

“You did? Oh, so that's what you were muttering about. But you considered it, if only briefly. What turned you against the idea?”

“Why, Miss Foster, I have no idea. Unless I'm looking at her.”

Dany was young, but women are born old as the world in some areas. “Your notoriety seems to have gone to your head, my lord, as you grossly overestimate your appeal.”

“Wonderful. Now, mere aeons too late, you've decided to take umbrage. Did it not occur to you that you, Miss Foster, are grossly underestimating your charms?”

Now he'd done it, made her genuinely angry. And they'd been rather enjoying each other's banter, she was certain of it. Being friendly, even chummy, as Dexter would say. “That isn't funny. Nor is it flattering, if that's what you were aiming for with that ridiculous statement. I'd considered us partners in this adven—this arrangement. I can be of help. I want to help. Mari is my sister, remember. I release you of your obligation. You may leave.
Now.
”

“Do you feel better now that you've climbed up on your high horse?” he asked, shaking his head as if looking down at his favorite hound, just to see that it had piddled on his boots. “And I'm not going anywhere. No, that's not true. I am leaving now, but I'll return at half past four, to take you for that drive in the park. Or did you forget that?”

Rats.
She had forgotten. He was going to lend his consequence to her entry into the Little Season, especially since Mari had taken to her bed, vowing not to leave it again for the Remainder of Her Life.
Who's the looby now, Daniella Foster?

Sometimes it was wiser to bend, at least a little, in order to achieve one's ends.

“Very well, my lord, I accept your apology.”

“I rather thought you would, even though I haven't offered one. We may or may not have much more to speak about during our drive.”

“Really?”

He got to his feet. “Possibly. First, I'm going to consult the most unlikely physician anyone could imagine, and have him examine my brain. Until later, Miss Foster.”

Then he bowed over her hand—she'd think about her reaction to that slight intimacy later—and left her where she sat, probably wise not to attempt standing anytime soon.

CHAPTER FIVE

D
ARBY
T
RAVERS
FINISHED
his examination of the two notes, an exercise that hadn't taken more than a minute at the outside, and placed them back on his friend's desk. “You aren't really applying to me for my one-eyed opinion, are you? My sole contribution, I imagine, is only to look aghast and exclaim, ‘Good God, man, the handwriting is one and the same!'”

“As is the phrasing, yes, thank you,” Coop said, still leaning against that same desk, a glass of wine dangling from his fingertips. “The bastard seems to have begun a cottage industry of blackmailing. I wonder how many others there are out there at the moment, suffering the same dilemma.”

“If he's going after straying husbands and wives, my best guest would number in the hundreds. But then there's you, which makes a case for the man's diversity of ambition, and his, shall we say,
growth
in said ambition. Taking the time to both pen and publish two entire chapbooks for a mere ten thousand pounds? You may be his prize victim, the pinnacle of his nefarious career, if that flatters you at all, and I begin to think you're also a bird he will pluck more than once if you let him. I wonder how long he's been working at his trade.”

“You're thinking of gifting him with a few pointers?” Coop picked up the note to the countess. “Five hundred pounds. I believe the countess has already considered selling some of her jewelry to pay him. The man isn't stupid, demanding more than she could possibly manage to produce.”

“Not as much investment involved penning sappy, soppy letters to unhappy young matrons. I imagine he considers the amount a fair return on his efforts. No more than fifty pounds to blackmail our own Prinny, and even then he'd probably only receive our royal debtor's scribbled vowels in return.”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Not at all. I'm merely looking at the thing from our blackmailer's point of view, and must applaud his thinking. Five pounds from a shoemaker who passes off inferior leathers by means of clever dyes. Ten pounds six from the seamstress who delivers gowns and picks up various little rewards from milady's shelves and tucks them up in her sewing basket while inside the residence. That sort of thing could take considerable effort for small reward, but one has to begin somewhere, doesn't one? Gain polish, slowly grow your profits and then move on to larger targets?”

“You speak of this as if you're contemplating joining the man's ranks.”

Darby grinned. “I
join
nobody, although I wonder why I never considered such a venture.”

“I hesitate to guess, but perhaps because you're bloody rich as Croesus?”

“True enough. But the fact remains that there are few people who know more secrets than I do. Happily for the world, I am also a gentleman. Although I will say that if there's any truth to the fellow's veiled hint about your particular secret reaching all the way to the highest levels of the Crown, then either he's more daring than even I would be, or he has access to some prodigiously important people. We're looking to the ton for our blackmailer, Coop. You've figured that much on your own, I'm sure.”

Coop downed the remaining contents of his glass. “I have. I flirted momentarily with the idea that a well-placed secretary or servant could be privy to many secrets, but it would take an entire small army of coconspirators to engineer something on this grand a scale. If there is a grand scale, and the more I think, the more I believe this is not one ambitious man, acting alone.”

“There's an entire other world moving about in Mayfair, one many of us are sadly unaware of, I agree. So many consider them invisible, not to mention deaf and dumb. Ladies' maids, valets, tweenies quietly repairing the fire, footmen with large ears listening in foyers. But it would take someone to cultivate them, enlist them. The scope of such an enterprise, all the bits and pieces that make up the whole? I believe I'm feeling the headache coming on.”

“Granted, it makes sense to believe there is an organized
gang
wreaking havoc all across Mayfair. Or we're wrong, and our blackmailer is just one person and his carefully selected targets.”

“Oh, but what are the odds of that? Only one blackmailer and these few carefully selected targets of yours, and two of them they just happen to bump into each other on Bond Street—literally—and end up sharing their common predicaments?”

“I didn't share anything.”

“No, but you'll have to at some point. For one, Miss Foster is far too clever to believe you'll be hunting down this scoundrel with all speed and fervor strictly because you're a hero. She took my measure within a heartbeat, much as it pains me to admit it, and found me both foolish and unnecessary.”

“Don't go into a sulk. The countess doesn't want you involved. I doubt she wants me involved, for that matter. She's closeted herself in her chambers, refusing to come out again, even to shepherd her sister through the Little Season.”

“The minx won't take that one lying down.”

“I agree, but happily, that's not our problem.”

“What's not your problem, darlings?” The questioning voice was loud, almost booming, thanks to the fact that the woman who owned it was slightly deaf and hiked her own volume as if everyone else would have trouble hearing her. On top of that often embarrassing trait—most discomfiting when she believed she was whispering—was the fact that she rarely
stopped
talking. “And for pity's sake, Cooper, don't slouch there against the desk like some lazy oaf. I raised you better than that. Stand up, stand up. There, that's better. Straighten your shoulders. Good posture is the sign of a gentleman, and a boon to regulation of the bowels. Look at Darby. See how straight he stands?
He
listened to his mother.”

“Sadly, Mrs. Townsend, my mother flew off to her heavenly reward when I was not more than a mere infant in my cot. But I will say my nurse had a wicked hand with the birch rod if I ever slumped like a lazy oaf.”

Cooper turned to look at his mother, tall of stature, strong of bosom and with a fierce, hawk-nosed face that would suit well as the figurehead nailed to a man-of-war. Add her natural curiosity and rather singular way of looking at most anything to the mix, and it was more than time they moved from the Pulteney, with its generous parlor but very little privacy.

“Perhaps I spared the rod to your detriment, Cooper. Curse my soft heart, but you were always
so
cute,” she said as she grabbed Cooper's cheeks between her fingers and squeezed. “Look at that face, Darby. Just look, take it all in! How could anyone ever take umbrage with that face? So wonderfully kind. So infinitely understanding.”

“Minerva, please,” Cooper said, pulling away before she permanently dented his cheeks. He hadn't been allowed to call her Mother since his sixteenth birthday, which was the first time the woman realized she now had a son who apparently needed to shave. She didn't particularly want to be a mother, and felt they'd rub along much better as friends.

He looked past her now, to where her maid was standing just inside the entry hall, struggling to maintain her hold on a half dozen bandboxes. “And not infinitely, Minerva. May I be so ungentlemanly as to inquire as to how much your latest assault on Bond Street has set me back?”

Rose coughed. She and Cooper had established a series of signals to warn him that whatever his mother said next, he was certainly not going to be doing handsprings of joy once he heard it.

“I am aware of your miserly hold on the purse strings. But I have your reputation to uphold, even as you ignore the responsibilities incumbent on the proud matriarch of the new Townsend dynasty. You wouldn't dare send me out into Society in rags, now would you?
Rags
, Cooper.”

Coop looked toward Rose, the maid-cum-companion, and a distant relation who had known him from his cradle. This time she rolled her eyes as she adjusted the bandbox straps on her forearms. Worse than a cough? My, this was turning into his lucky day, wasn't it? “Forgive me my unnatural tendency to avoid bankruptcy. I'm convinced you will do me proud each time you set sail into Society.”

“My point entirely. Foresails flapping, flags waving, creating quite the wake as I pass by. It's only fitting, and Lord knows I'm built for it. I'm horribly shy, by nature, but I see this as a time when I must bite back on my natural reticence and hold up my end, as it were.”

Rose's choked cough was ignored by the lady, other than for her to raise one strong brow and dare Cooper to add any comment to what she'd just said.

“All I do, I do for you. One cannot put anything so crass as a price on a son's love and a mother's obligations, dear. Even in my short time here in London, I've heard so many good things about a particular seamstress. Why, even Vivien gives her some bit of custom. Don't look confused, Cooper. Vivien Sinclair, Gabriel's aunt, and the Duchess of Cranbrook. I hadn't seen her in dogs' years, as she and her Basil were always flitting all over the world, but we ran into each other in the park yesterday, and it was as if we'd never parted. Good friends are like that, you know. All I had to say to her was ‘Vauxhall Gardens,' and the pair of us went off into giggles like schoolgirls. There was this importune young scoundrel, you understand, and a proposed stroll along the Dark Gallery...”

“How pleased I am you and Gabe's aunt have rediscovered each other,” Cooper said, simply to stop his mother before she launched into a litany of assuredly embarrassing reminiscences. “And the seamstress?”

“Such a sad, sorry generation you boys are, sticklers for propriety. I know Vauxhall has fallen out of favor for the ton, but in my time it was glorious. You should be delighted your mother had herself some fun, kicking up her heels and such during her grasstime. Don't growl, Cooper, it isn't polite. The seamstress, yes. I've just come from there, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Yothers—lovely woman. She gifted me with one of the gowns, and an enchanting purple turban. Itches some, but it'll do.”

“Why would she do that? Not give you an itchy turban—give you anything?”

“Ah, Cooper, you still don't understand how the world revolves, do you, for all your fine education. The lady and I had a lovely coze—chatty woman, so I wouldn't dare pass on any secrets to her or they'd be all over Mayfair before the cat could lick its ear, but I was sure to keep
my
ears open!”

“You and I must have a lovely coze of our own someday, Mrs. Townsend,” Darby interposed, his grin very much at his friend's expense.

“I highly doubt that, scamp. You know enough about Society for any three people as it is, and I am of course sworn to secrecy in any event. Now, back to Mrs. Yothers, if you will cease interrupting. Terrible habit. In exchange for the gowns and such, I've only to mention to two or three ladies—casually, simply in passing, and you know I am the epitome of discretion—that Mrs. Yothers is the only seamstress worth her salt in this entire city.”

“A thousand pardons, Minerva,” Cooper felt impelled to ask. “Did you actually say ‘epitome of discretion'?”

“I can be, if I want. I simply don't always
want
. Now, to continue. We have, as you might say, struck a bargain, much the same as the arrangements I have with Mrs. Bell the milliner, the shoemaker Mr. Wood—pricey, that man! There are others. Oh, and I've established an account for you with Mr. Weston, who vows that you'd be poorly served by Stolz, who hires only ham-fisted tailors. I wasn't able to manage any sort of
arrangement
there, but he's still the best, or so I'm told. You have a fitting at eleven tomorrow. Now thank me.”

Coop had long ago learned that, when it came to his mother, there existed no hole deep enough to throw himself into and pull the dirt back on top of him, so he simply said, “Thank you.”

“Good, and as I've finished saying what I had to say, poor Rose can stop coughing like a consumptive, yes? Now, what's not your problem, darlings? From the tone of your voices as I entered, I believe you may be thinking something you're not saying. Come on, spit it out, and you know I can see through a lie, Cooper. You've much too much conscience to carry it off, which is why, Darby,
you
won't speak unless requested.”

Darby raised his hand, waggling his fingers. “May I please be excused?” he asked cheekily.

“You most certainly may not,” Mrs. Townsend told him sternly, and the viscount looked to Coop for help. Which he didn't get, damn it, for if Darby couldn't be considered reinforcements, at least Minerva Townsend might marginally mind her tongue while he was present. No, that wouldn't happen, but as long as Coop was stuck here, he didn't see any reason to allow his friend to escape unscathed.

“Really, Mrs. Townsend, it's nothing to concern you,” Darby said, but there was little hope in his voice.

“It didn't sound like nothing. Whatever the problem, I have no doubt you're responsible for it. You, and those two other scamps, dragging my poor Cooper into your constant mischiefs. Now, I'm going to sit down—Rose, for pity's sake, are you still standing there? Go on, shoo, and put your feet up. You look totally fagged. And with me twenty years your senior and still not in the least deflated.”

Make that thirty, and the number might be reasonably close.
Oh, yes, Cooper McGinley Townsend knew an Original when he saw one. He'd grown up with one. Give Miss Foster another forty years of practice, and she'd be more than capable of taking up his mother's banner, to become the Terror of Society.

“Minerva, we were just speaking in general terms. Weren't we, Darby? Nothing to set your nose to twitching.”

Mrs. Townsend adjusted her spectacles on her splendid, hawk-like beak. She didn't need them, or so she swore, and only employed them as a prop to give her gravitas. Coop had to admit that whenever she looked at him overtop the gold frames (not to mention the hawk-like proboscis), gravitas commenced to spew out all over the place as would hot lava on the unsuspecting villagers below in the valley.