A Scandalous Proposal (8 page)

Now it was Dany's turn to get up and pace. “I am, yes. The woman owns a small but thriving seamstress shop, and just as you said, in Bond Street. She had her ear to the curtain the whole time Mari and I were speaking in private this morning, but I didn't think much of it at the time. She gave me the chapbook, hinting broadly that what my sister needed was a hero. You, in particular. She...she also told us Mari's increasing.”

“Dare I even ask how the woman would know that?” the baron asked, also getting to his feet. He was all attention now, and clearly anxious to hear more.

“She didn't. I mean, she told us she thought Mari was—although we didn't say she was—but now we know she was right. So what if she's in the employ of that horrible blackmailer and now he knows even
more
to dangle over Mari's head. She certainly can't be expected to suffer any more than she is now and still be healthy for the— We have to
do
something.” She grabbed his hand. “The shops are still open, aren't they? Come on, we need to hurry.”

Cooper looked down at their clasped hands. “Well, that lasted longer than I thought. Possibly even a full minute.”

“What do you—oh.” Dany released her grip even as she gave him a sheepish smile. “I forgot?”

“I understand completely, Miss Foster. It's not difficult to forget what you'd already chosen not to remember.”

“That's not amusing. I was... I was overcome with worry, that's all. What if I've inadvertently made things even worse for Mari?”

“She picked up the spade and began digging long before you were involved,” Cooper pointed out, which served to mollify Dany, if only a little.

“I suppose you're right. I only arrived in town a few days ago.”

“Which explains your ignorance about Gabe's birds. I'm rather glad you missed that.”

“There you go about the birds again. If they're not germane to the current topic, and I'm certain they're not, may we please return to the point? Mari is being blackmailed. And then there's you, and even more if you're correct. How many holes do you think have been dug across Mayfair?”

“Dozens would be my guess. Perhaps several dozens. Not that we can approach anyone and ask.”

“That would be rather difficult, I agree. ‘Good evening, my lord. Are you by chance looking so down at the mouth because you're being blackmailed to keep your wife from learning you've replaced her diamonds with paste?'”

Cooper smiled. “I can't think of a swifter way to get my nose relocated to the back of my head.”

“And Mrs. Yothers, the dress shop owner? We can't approach her, either?”

For a heartbeat, no more, it would have seemed the baron had been turned into a statue. “Did you say Mrs. Yothers?”

“I did,” Dany returned, tipping her head as she looked up at him. “Why? Do you know the name?”

“I've heard it mentioned, yes. Quite recently, as a matter of fact. I suppose that settles the thing—there's no getting out of it now. I was going to suggest we leave, but I think you'd better sit down again.”

“Really? No getting out of what now? And we've already been here a good quarter hour. Even a sad country looby like me knows we've overreached at least a few bounds of propriety even by being here in the first place. Do you think it prudent to stay longer?”

“Under the circumstances, I'm no longer concerned, no.”

“What circumstances?”

“Damn it, Dany—sit down.”

“Well,” she said, positively grinning at him, “since you asked so kindly, I suppose I probably will.”

Oh, how wonderfully and darkly green his eyes went when he wanted to throttle her. He was so sweet...

CHAPTER SEVEN

C
OOP
WAITED
UNTIL
she had seated herself, neatly arranging her skirts around her and then folding her hands in her lap, as if he might be about to tug on some imaginary bellpull and the old man would immediately appear, bearing a tea service and cakes.

Some, he imagined, might see this as acquiescence. Even this early in their relationship, Coop was certain acquiescence was not in Daniella Foster's vocabulary.

Her action was not an eagerness to please, but what she probably believed the shortest route between what she wanted to know and what he would say, a curiosity that would soon turn to—what? Shock? Outrage? Lord help him—amusement? Certainly not meek acceptance, of that much he was certain. He'd known her for less than a day, less than a few hours actually, but he'd already realized that another thing he could count on with Miss Daniella Foster was her unpredictability.

He wandered across the small chapel, either to put a safe distance between them or in search of some sort of inspiration in the faded fresco he stopped in front of, he wasn't sure.

He wasn't accustomed to feeling so helpless, so under the control of circumstances.

He didn't like the feeling.

If it weren't for the woman, for the Prince Regent, Coop would have ignored the blackmailer's threat to call him out as a despoiler of innocent women and much worse, and damn the consequences. But he'd passed beyond that option the moment he'd accepted Prinny's offer in exchange for his silence.

Even if refusing that offer, he'd realized at the time, meant he would have most likely suffered an unfortunate fatal accident within hours of leaving Carleton House. He wouldn't have been invited to the Prince Regent's residence at all, but simply and quietly dispatched, had not the man wanted the reflected light of the hero of Quatre Bras shined upon him, to bolster his own reputation among an increasingly hostile populace.

Coop's mind went back to the conversation he'd had earlier with his mother and Darby. Neither knew now more than they'd previously known about the happenings at Quatre Bras, except that the Prince Regent himself would not be best pleased if the blackmailer penned another chapbook that would reveal “Shame That Rises to the Highest Reaches of the Crown Itself.”

But Minerva did now know about the Countess of Cockermouth's predicament, about Daniella Foster...and her bedchamber...and after that, well, everything his mother and Darby hatched between them had become a bit of a blur in Coop's mind.

He just knew he'd agreed to do what they said.
For his sins...

They'd convinced him to agree to this current mad course of action, or at least he'd allowed them to think they'd convinced him. He'd kept the hope alive that there could be another way, even as he'd drawn the bays to a halt in front of the chapel.

Inspiration had not struck.

But the hour soon would.

And then there were Darby's cheerful parting words to him as he'd mounted his curricle outside the Pulteney, still ringing in his ears: “Buck up, man, put a smile on that hero face. Our Miss Foster is the key to your salvation, remember. It's either you convince the girl, or you can help me pen your eulogy.”

There was such solace to be found in the heartfelt concern of one's friends...

Coop took recourse to his pocket watch. Ten minutes. He had ten short minutes to come up with a better idea. Any idea at all. Ten minutes. An eternity. A single heartbeat in time.

He'd thought their fairly inane conversation since entering the chapel had eaten up a good ten minutes all by itself, but it had in reality only taken less than five. And then he'd run out of anything to say, any reason to keep her here, until Dany's mention of Mrs. Yothers had most probably taken away his last option, that of grabbing her hand and getting the two of them the hell away from the chapel.

So was this it? In less than a space of a day, was he about to irrevocably alter the perceived course of his life? He, Cooper McGinley Townsend. The steady one. The commonsensible one. The one who thought before he acted. Except for that moment at Quatre Bras when he saw children in danger...and again on the flagstones of Bond Street, thanks to a pair of mischievous indigo-blue eyes.

It was time to face facts. There'd been no escape, no real way back, ever since he'd ushered Dany inside the chapel. Probably not since he'd first looked into those same indigo-blue eyes, if he was honest with himself. From that moment, he'd known that somehow she was going to be a part of his life, and him a part of hers.

He had at least partially accepted that. He'd heard of similar blows to the heart from other men, most particularly his friends Gabe and Rigby. He'd come to London to look for a wife in any case. In any other circumstances, having Dany stumble into his arms that morning could have been seen as a sort of less than gentle tap on the shoulder from some helpful gods.

In any other circumstances.

“You know something, don't you?” Dany asked from behind him. “Oh, did I startle you? I'm certain you don't mind, as I'd decided I'd sat long enough. You know something, something bad, and you don't know how to tell me. That's why you brought me here, and that's why you've been dancing about this whole time, attempting to find a way to say what you don't wish to say. It's about Oliver, isn't it? You've heard he's returning home sooner than expected.”

“Oliver?” It took a moment for Coop to absorb that one, even as he continued his feigned interest in the fresco. “No, this isn't about Lord Cockermouth. Not directly, although it does remind us that our time to locate the blackmailer is limited.”

“For you, as well,” she pointed out. “You haven't really told me much about the nature of your problem with the blackmailer.”

“We're after the same man. That's as much as you need to know.”

“Probably. But not as much as I want to know. I'm sure the details are much more interesting than Mari's.”

“Hardly. Contrary to my anonymous biographer's skewed version of my life, romance is not involved.”

“Then it has nothing to do with the woman? How lowering to my expectations. I doubt you're protecting yourself, no matter what you might say to the contrary. And not the nonexistent owner of the signet ring, surely, as that's too much of a tarradiddle for anyone to swallow, that the woman would have turned over any such thing by way of a thank-you to a servant. The Prince Regent, then? I know you're a hero, but a title, an estate? That's quite the reward. Or is
reward
the proper word?”

He turned to face her, nearly bumping into her, for the love of heaven. One of the problems he'd have with Dany was that she was too intelligent. He opened his mouth, and the most ridiculous question came out: “How old are you?”

She didn't so much as blink. “Seventeen. I'm a bit late in making my come-out next spring, by which time I'll be the ripe old age of eighteen, but it was thought I'd needed some
seasoning
before my Season.”

The answer had come quickly, without protest. Without guile. With a smile on her face.

Coop was amazed at how much he'd learned about her in one short day.

“I don't believe you.”

She rather melodramatically slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Why? Do I appear as if I'm at my last prayers? Hagged? Fagged? Perhaps there's a wrinkle somewhere I haven't noticed?”

Coop felt his own cheeks coloring. “No, not that. My apologies. You just don't—it's difficult to believe you're so young. When you speak, that is. Again, my apologies. In my defense, it has been a rather trying day.”

“Don't apologize.” Dany shrugged. “I told them nobody with more than half a brain would swallow any such a crammer, but they would insist. Is the truth important?”

“Not to the world, no.”

“But to you?”

“Probably not, except for my own satisfaction. Unless you're actually sixteen.”
God, wouldn't that just put the capper on it?

“Really. How interesting. A year makes that much difference?”

“I'm told even an inch is a lot, in a man's nose,” Coop shot back, still trying to regain his usually unshakable composure.

Her eyes rather crossed as she attempted a peek at her own nose (lovely nose, quite perfect). “Eating soup and sipping wine could become quite the logistical dilemmas, couldn't they? I see your point. So it isn't the age, not in general. It's where that age is
applied
.” Then she frowned. “No. I really still don't understand. But if it helps, my papa gambled a bit too deep and in the time it took for him to recover enough to launch me in anything more than Mari's cast-off gowns, I'd had the temerity to become two years older.”

Coop began to relax. “So you're nearer twenty?”

“One and twenty in January actually, as I also lost a year to a broken leg. Mama's, not mine, and Mari was so newly married Mama felt she couldn't foist me on her, unattended. Now, frankly, I believe she's gone past caring. Do you really believe age means anything? My parents, and Mari as well, have sworn me to secrecy, saying it would put paid to my matrimonial chances should anyone know. Which also explains why Dexter—my large-mouthed brother—has been sent to tour the Continent with some of his ramshackle friends.”

Cooper smiled. “You can't keep him overseas forever.”

“Exactly! And may I say, another argument totally lost on my parents. Am I really wise beyond my years?”

“Wise? I don't recall saying that,” he said facetiously. “I'd say you're much more of a trial than I'd expected from a debutante.”

“Oh? And what attributes do you believe commendable in a debutante?”

“The usual, I'd imagine. Sweet. And biddable. Shy, not at all forward.”

“Simpering? With a tendency to giggle? Smelling of nothing more than bread and butter, as Byron wrote? Proficient in discussing the state of the weather, as in it is fair, or coming on to rain, or beastly hot? No, not beastly. Horridly hot.”

Even with the fraying cord holding a figurative sword of Damocles dangling over his head, Coop realized he could speak nonsense with Daniella Foster for hours, heartily enjoying himself. “Warm. Ladies of quality don't know the meaning of hot.”

“Yes, I remember now. And moist. Ladies, even if lost in a desert, would get no more than moist. However, under the circumstances, I think you're much better off with me.”

“Yes, in the end, that was the deciding factor,” Coop murmured just as the heavy chapel door swung open, followed closely (too closely, really) by a woman's voice. “Aha! Basil, get yourself in here! Look what I've found. Oh, the shame, the shame.”

Dany whirled about to see the intruder, or she would have if Cooper hadn't grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against him for a kiss. The kiss he was to have stolen just as the timepiece in his pocket chimed out the hour, which it had not yet done.

A kiss, he would later tell Darby when he recounted the scene, as being as inspiring as pressing one's lips against a block of wood.

“Basil, do you see them? Minerva's Cooper and some hapless gel, as I live and breathe. The hero of Quatre Bras—I recognized him immediately from the chapbook. Locked in a clandestine embrace.”

“Yes, dear, I see them,” the Duke of Cranbrook said, puffing only a little from his small climb up the stairs, as neither duke nor duchess would see sixty again. “Nothing we haven't done a time or three, eh, Viv?”

“Not now, Basil, not when we're being decorous,” the duchess scolded, abandoning her husband to all but float across the stone floor in a compilation of skirts and scarves that, were it any darker in the chapel, would have put most in the mind of a ghost. If ghosts wore ruffled, tule-wrapped bonnets.

By now Dany was standing stock-still, her eyes all but popping out of her head, and Cooper had dropped to one knee, her hands held tightly in his.

So she couldn't run away. Or pummel him heavily about the head and shoulders, which he wouldn't dismiss as impossible. Not from the look on her face.

“Miss Foster,” he said hurriedly, squeezing her fingers to get her attention. “Under the circumstances, it would indeed be my honor and privilege to ask for your hand in marriage, in front of these witnesses.”

“You hear that, Viv? We're witnesses,” the duke said, catching up to his wife and slipping his arm about her waist. “I've always wanted to be a witness.”

“Basil, hush. Pretty little thing, isn't she? Minerva was worried about that. Oh, dear, she hasn't answered yet. Go on, dearie, it's your turn now. Say yes,” the duchess prodded, leaning in as if to not miss a word.

Cooper watched Dany as she looked to the pair of seeming cherubs beaming at them, actually dropping into a brief curtsy before redirecting her attention, and indigo eyes gone close to black, to him.

Suddenly, he felt himself transported to Bond Street.

Those eyes, like a mirror into her soul, told him her every thought, each rapidly transitioning emotion. Wide-eyed shock. Embarrassed innocence. Questioning. Recognition. Amusement, almost as if she was laughing at their situation, perhaps even at him.

“Just say yes, all right?” he whispered. “I'll explain later.”

“Oh, my, yes, you will be doing that, won't you?” she answered just as quietly.

“Viv, I can hear them talking, but I can't quite make out what they're saying,” the Duke of Cranbrook complained.

“She said yes, Your Grace,” Coop told him, rising to his feet before raising Dany's hands for what he hoped resembled chastely devout kisses.

“Well, good, then,” the duke chirped. “Good on you, young lady, and good on my nephew's chum. Oh, and good on me, because now I won't be late to dinner.” He tucked his wife's arm within his. “Come on, sweetums, let's leave these two lovebirds alone, to continue their billing and cooing—and whatever else they might put their minds to, eh?”