In My Wildest Dreams (12 page)

“That will never do,” Celeste announced, and stopped the girl. She tucked the material tight around Kiki. Hyacinth hurried to help, and Throckmorton saw Celeste say something to Hyacinth, and saw Hyacinth laugh. Celeste had charmed another unsuspecting soul. But not Hyacinth. This would never do. What was she telling Hyacinth about Kiki?

He started toward the swing.

Hyacinth gave Kiki a push. Ellery's daughter shrieked again.

Celeste watched for a moment, then took Penelope by the hand, and walked . . . toward him. Her eyes met his. She smiled.

But he hadn't realized Celeste knew he was anywhere near. He was dressed like the other men in a dark jacket and trousers. He had followed far behind the throng. And she had never seemed to see him. Now she acted as if she had known all along.

Celeste noted everything that went on around her, either through a natural, bright awareness, or through training by a master of intelligence, or both. If she weren't already working for the Russians, he would like to hire her himself.

He would like to do a lot of things to her himself.

“Papa!” Penelope smiled with pleasure at the sight of him and caught his hand.

His interrogation of Celeste could wait a few moments. He smiled back at his daughter and squeezed her fingers. “Child.” Looking at her was like looking into a mirror.

In a bright, cheery tone, meant to head off his wrath,
Celeste said, “You mean to scold me, I suppose, for meeting the children when you had instructed I should not. I slipped away from the other servants. They didn't even know what I was doing, so you'll confine your reprimand to me.” She beamed at him, dimples flashing, as she acknowledged her duplicity.

She would indeed make a fine spy, for it would be a cold-hearted hangman who placed the rope around her neck.

As luck would have it, he had many times been described as cold-hearted. “Why did you bring Kiki?” he demanded.

“I couldn't bring Penelope without Kiki.”

Prevarication. He narrowed his gaze at Celeste. “Why did you bring Penelope?”

“That's a long story.” She slid a caressing finger along Penelope's cheek. “It seems I got to the nursery in the nick of time. I'm afraid, Mr. Throckmorton, you're going to have to hire a new nursemaid.”

He stared at Celeste. She didn't
look
like a spy and a wrecker of betrothals. He glanced down at his daughter. She stood quietly, composed, waiting for her story to be heard. “A new . . . nursemaid,” he said.

“When I got to the nursery, she was tied to her chair while the girls skipped rope in the corners.”

“Tied to her chair.” He feared his secretary was a traitor, his brother wanted to break his engagement, and his daughter tied her nursemaid to a chair. And Celeste . . . Celeste was too beautiful, too well dressed, and too smart. “Penelope, you let Kiki tie your nursemaid to her chair?”

“Actually, it was my idea,” she confessed without shame. “Kiki is useless with knots.”

Looking down at her, Throckmorton saw a flash of something . . . what was it his mother used to say? “If you're looking for a rogue, it's Ellery. If you want mischief done right, it's Garrick every time.”

But Penelope had never been like that before. Tugging at his trousers, he knelt beside his daughter. “Penelope Ann, you must never tie up your nursemaids ever again.”

“But, Papa, she wouldn't let us go outside because she said we'd be in the way of the tea preparations, and she wouldn't let us jump inside because she said we gave her a headache.” Penelope seemed to believe herself to be the voice of logic. “You must admit, those are poor reasons for not allowing us to skip rope.”

He held up his hand. “Tying up anyone because they don't let you play as you wish is not a good enough reason.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Then why did you teach me how to do it?”

He heard a muffled laugh from Celeste, but he kept his attention on his daughter. “In case bad people come and try to take you away. But only then, Penelope.” Standing, he nodded to Celeste. “There. That should take care of matters.”

Celeste looked at Penelope. Then she looked at him. “You taught your daughter to tie people up?”

“I don't know how to teach embroidery,” he answered, deadpan. “Didn't your father teach you how to tie people up?”

“No, he taught me how to tie roses to an espalier.”

“Hm. Odd.” He squinted at the swing. “Isn't it someone else's turn?”

“Come on, Penelope.” Celeste hurried toward the swing. “You're next.”

Throckmorton braced himself for an explosion of wrath from Kiki, but Celeste spoke to her, and without incident, she slid off the swing. Penelope jumped up and Hyacinth gave her a push.

Then Celeste brought Kiki back to him.

The child was babbling in French, as always, and as always she ignored his English greeting. If she would just reply once . . . but he had to be patient. She had lost her mother, just as Penelope had. She responded by refusing to face the facts of her new life. He could understand, but he couldn't countenance her making his child miserable, or teaching her sedition—or ignoring him so steadfastly.

Kiki bobbed about, waved her hands expressively, and babbled in French.

“Tell her she is not to tie anyone else up,” he instructed Celeste.

“I did.”

“Does she understand?”

“She does.” Celeste didn't have to say it—
but she doesn't care
. “She wants you to teach her to tie up people, too.” Celeste seemed to be having difficulty retaining her gravity.

His gaze narrowed on her.

“Apparently she was very impressed with Penelope's efficiency,” Celeste said brightly.

He wavered. He wanted to snap that no, he most definitely would not teach Kiki to tie knots. But this was such a good opportunity . . . “I don't teach knots in French.” He was watching the child; he saw the flash of
understanding. She comprehended him perfectly, and he and Celeste waited while she struggled between her desires and her rebellion.

In the end, her rebellion won.
“Je ne parle pas l'anglais,”
she said to Celeste.

Celeste turned to him. “She says she doesn't speak English.”

“Well, I don't speak French.”

Kiki stomped her foot.
“Trés stupide.”

“She understood that fast enough,” Throckmorton observed.

“No one here is quite as ignorant as they pretend.” Celeste dropped a little curtsy toward him, then toward the glowering Kiki.

Nothing about his interrogation had gone as it should. He caught Celeste's arm and pulled her away from Kiki. “What are you saying about this child?”

“About Kiki?” She had the gall to look surprised. “To whom?”

He gestured about him. “To anyone.”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” he snapped. “You have to have told them something about the child!”

She understood him now, for she sobered. “I have given no explanation about Kiki. She could be a friend of Penelope's, come to visit for the day. She could be the child of one of your guests. She could be a cousin—your father's side of the family is an enigma to the
ton
. Your guests don't care who she is, Mr. Throckmorton. Only you know there is a mystery.”

She managed to do something only a few had ever managed to do. She made him feel foolish.

“I assure you, Mr. Throckmorton, I wouldn't use a child as a weapon.”

He now felt defamatory and suspicious. “I appreciate the assurance,” he said stiffly. Then he realized—he still had a seduction to perform, and now Celeste eyed him with considerably less partiality than she had last night. So he added, “I apologize for my unwarranted misgivings.”

She accepted his apology with grave appreciation. “Thank you. Now is as good a time to tell you as any—I'm going to spend the evening in the nursery, and sleep there, too.”

He hadn't planned it that way, and he was tired of being thwarted. “You will attend the dinner tonight.”

“Such an imperious pronouncement! Tea today is sufficient for my first outing.” She gave him the impression she had handled everything with deliberation, bringing the children as a diversion, creating a youthful, informal atmosphere that discouraged in-depth conversation.

She irked him. This was her first official social event here at Blythe Hall; she shouldn't be so poised. She shouldn't tell him what to do. She shouldn't make the plans.

“I'll choose some women from among the servants to be with the girls until I've found
two
new, experienced nursemaids.”

“Certainly, but I think the new nursemaids will want some kind of guarantee of safety. I can safely promise them Penelope and Kiki will be better supervised by me.” Kiki starting babbling, pointing toward the swing. “You have to share,” Celeste answered. Then, to
Throckmorton, “Why don't you just build two swings?”

Throckmorton's jaw dropped. “Two?” He'd never thought of such a thing.

“No one should have to share a swing,” Celeste said seriously. “It colors the whole experience, gives a sour taste to the joy, to know your pleasure is finite and controlled by someone else.”

He stared at her. She stood, framed by willow branches, a rose-clad, practical dreamer. Her hair, braided and upswept, bared her neck where little tendrils dusted the skin. Her hazel eyes slanted up, dressed with lavish lashes that flirted without design. Her ears were tiny and delicate, her nose a tilted button, her lips . . . he'd kissed her last night. He'd done a good job of it, just as he did a good job of every task he performed. But he hadn't admitted to himself how much he enjoyed it.

For a seductress, she kissed with a remarkable lack of skill. She'd sagged against the wall, and her hands had dangled by her side as if she didn't know what to do with them. She kissed with her lips closed and when he'd used his tongue she'd jumped—and moaned. He'd kissed her neck, mostly to see if he could startle more of the little sounds out of her. He had. Untutored sounds of pleasure, most flattering to a man. And while most beautiful women tasted like caked powder and acrid perfume, she tasted like sweet clean flesh and a lover's dreams. For a moment, just a moment, he'd wanted to take further liberties, kiss the curve of her breast, slide down her arm to press his lips against the pulse of her wrist.

But good sense intervened. With Garrick Stanley Breckinridge Throckmorton the Third, good sense always intervened.

He must have been staring at her for too long, for Celeste glanced away, then glanced back, and a color that matched the rose of her gown glowed in her cheeks. “Is there something . . . wrong?” She sounded quite faint, as if she knew exactly what was wrong but didn't want to contemplate the truth.

Because, of course, she loved Ellery. The knowledge left a nasty taste in his mouth, and he realized this was the perfect moment to pursue his plan. “Not at all.” He bowed. “I was simply contemplating your beauty and feeling quite . . .” He trailed off as if unable to frame the words.

Celeste blushed harder and looked everywhere but at him.

He would have said more, but Kiki interrupted with a fierce barrage of French.

Celeste's relief matched his irritation.

Celeste answered her in French, then translated to English. “It is time for Penelope to get off, but it's also time for other people to take their turn.”

“Qui est-ce?”
the child asked.

Celeste glanced at him and took revenge for his suspicions. “Mr. Throckmorton, for example.”

Throckmorton stiffened and glared.

Kiki didn't even have the delicacy to cover her mouth before she laughed.

“I have swung on a swing in my day,” he said stiffly.

“I'm sure you have, Mr. Throckmorton.” But Celeste's eyes were dancing, too. “Why don't you take a turn?”

He straightened his shoulders, donned his dignity like a barrister's black robe, and answered, “All right. I will.”

11

T
hrockmorton strode toward the swing. The crowd opened before him. Behind him, he could hear Kiki prattling in French. He could hear the rustle of Celeste's skirt as she hurried to keep up with him. He heard a cough. A snort. A gasp. The movement of many shuffling feet. He could almost savor the crowd's astonishment lapping at his back.

At the swing, he observed Hyacinth, smiling at Lord Townshend, who pushed Penelope. He saw Penelope, swinging with the blissful smile he saw too seldom. He hesitated; it seemed a shame to interrupt her pleasure. But if not him, it would be someone else, and he would show Celeste . . . he shouldn't want to show her anything, yet somehow her amusement, her conviction that he would never relax his dignity enough to take a turn on the swing . . . well, she irritated him.

At the side of the swing, he grasped one of the upright
poles and waited, as any youth does, for his turn. Hyacinth noticed. Lord Townshend was clearly nonplussed.

Penelope dragged her toe in the gravel. She didn't seem at all surprised to see him standing there. “Did you want a turn, Papa?”

“I want a turn,” he affirmed.

Penelope hopped off and patted the seat. He smiled at her, then at Hyacinth who, to his approval, seemed quite able to contain her amazement. Indeed, she even smiled back.

He turned a chilly eye on the immobile Lord Townshend, “I won't need your assistance.”

Townshend backed off so quickly he tripped over one of the braces for the swing.

Throckmorton looked out of the crowd. He'd never seen so many mouths hanging open at one time. Even little Kiki, blond, blue-eyed, beruffled, looked as if a support had been knocked out from under her. He'd show them all he wasn't the predictable, stuffy fellow they thought him.

He sat down and pushed off.

He noted that Celeste didn't look dumbfounded. She watched him . . . no, she observed him. If she was a spy, she was a very good one. She manipulated him into doing what he hadn't even realized he wanted to do.

He hadn't remembered how it felt to swing. He hadn't thought of it in years. The smooth backward glide skimmed him back among the branches. The thrilling drop, then the upward swing that, if he strained hard enough, revealed a brief glimpse over the edge of the ridge to the plain and the winding river far below. Then another stomach-clenching backward drop before
the rope and board caught him and carried him back among the branches again.

He
would
order another swing built right beside this one.

He swung up and back, lying back far enough to have the branches catch at his hair, to see the sky through the leaves.

Celeste was right, no one should have to share a swing. And something she hadn't thought of; it was more fun to swing when there was two. He could almost imagine her laughter and the flutter of her skirts beside him as she rose and fell with the rhythm of the swing.

Like a wave on the sea, like a bird on the breeze, he soared and descended. He kicked his feet out and back. He felt the rush of hair on his face and heard the murmur of voices as if from a distance. This was freedom—from business, from family, from duty. He never wanted to stop.

No, no one should ever have to share a swing.

As he sailed forward once more, he glanced out at the crowd. And saw, near the edge, one of his soberly clad gentlemen.

Pleasure dissipated as if it had never been.

Duty called.

It wasn't her.

“Where is she?” Ellery asked in loud, slurred indignation.

“Sh.” Throckmorton adjusted the weight of Ellery's arm across his shoulders. “You'll wake the guests.”

It wasn't Celeste who was the spy, but Stanhope, the man Throckmorton deemed his friend. Stanhope had sold information about English troop movements on the
Indian subcontinent. Stanhope had killed English soldiers as surely as if he'd used the knife himself.

“Where is my sweet little Celeste?” Ellery stopped his trek back down the long, dim, downstairs corridor. Taking Throckmorton's shoulders in his hands, he stared at his brother in bleary disbelief. “The servants said her bedchamber was here. So where is she?”

The scent of brandy on Ellery's breath almost knocked Throckmorton off his feet, and he thanked his lucky stars he'd been working in his office and heard his intoxicated brother calling Celeste's name. “Celeste is sleeping in the nursery tonight to look after the children.”

Through Stanhope, Throckmorton had to correct the damage done—as soon as possible.

Which left him with one obvious plan.

“I haven't got to see her in days and days.” Ellery frowned with the excessive anguish of a man who had tippled too deep. “My sweet little petunia.”

“Only one full day,” Throckmorton pointed out. “And you're the one who won't come out of his room.”

“I'm ugly.”

“You're handsome, as you very well know.”

“I'm blue.”

Throckmorton steered Ellery toward one of the night candles and squinted at him. “The color appears to be fading.” Which in its way was too bad. “In fact, you're rather rosy.”

“Washed.” Ellery took a quavering breath. “A lot.”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness, old chap.” Throckmorton hoisted his brother's arm back around his shoulders. “If you'd come out, you could see whoever you wish. Preferably your betrothed.”

Not Celeste. Celeste, to whom Throckmorton would provide false intelligence about the English plans. Then he would foster the impression he was truly in love with Celeste. Indulging in pillow talk. Being indiscreet. Stanhope would seek her out, and in his charming, ruthless way, he'd pump Celeste for the information. Celeste would tell him all, and the Russians would be misled.

“She came to visit me today.”

Throckmorton steered Ellery toward the stairs. “Your sweet little petunia?”

“No.” Ellery sounded surly. “Hyacinth.”

“She would be your sweet, tall climbing rose.”

Ellery was too far gone to comprehend even so simple a jest. “She's not, either.” Then, thoughtfully, “Although she does smell nice. I like a woman who smells nice, don't you?”

If they could just keep the conversation on Hyacinth, perhaps Ellery would be reminded of his duty. And perhaps Throckmorton could forget his. “Lady Hyacinth smells very nice.”

Back to surly again. “Have you been smelling my betrothed? Because you're supposed to be smelling my sweet little begonia.” Lifting his head, he caroled, “Celeste! Where are you?”

“Sh!” Throckmorton jabbed his elbow into Ellery's sore ribs.

Ellery flinched away and bumped into the banister. “Why? I want to speak with her. My pretty little carnation.”

“If you try to talk to her at this hour of the night alone in her bedchamber, her father will scoop your heart out with a trowel and bury you beneath the honeysuckle.”

If Milford knew that Throckmorton planned to use
Celeste, he'd do the same to Throckmorton—and Throckmorton would deserve it. He'd used innocents such as Celeste before. He didn't like it. He never liked it. But he told himself the end justified the means, that the future of the British Empire was at stake, that innocent lives depended on such subterfuge.

Yet the thought of leaving Celeste alone with Stanhope, a traitor and a murderer, made his skin crawl.

Which was why Ellery could never see her at night. A guard stood outside her bedchamber—a bedchamber that would change as Throckmorton decreed—and would until she returned to Paris. That would be when the party was over. When she had been shown she could never have Ellery or Throckmorton. When she had served her purpose for British espionage.

“Do you really think it would matter if I married the gardener's daughter?”

“Are you going to marry her?”

“Thinkin' about it.”

“Because she smells nice?”

“Because she's . . . pretty and she smiles . . . a lot.”

Throckmorton wanted to push his stupid brother back down the stairs. A hank of hair and a couple of dimples, that's all Ellery saw when he looked at Celeste? “
Lady Hyacinth
is pretty,” Throckmorton said between gritted teeth. “
Lady Hyacinth
smiles a lot.”

“But Celeste doesn't . . . expect anything out of me.” Ellery belched loud enough to raise a ghoul.

Throckmorton hoped he hadn't raised Hyacinth's father. “What does Lady Hyacinth expect?”

A shiver quivered through Ellery's frame. “She says I'm a good man. She says I'm smart and I work hard and I know what to do all the time. She says she respects
me, 'cause I'm going to be the head of our household and be a good father to our children. Can you believe it? She told me all that!”

Throckmorton wanted to drop his forehead onto Ellery's shoulder. The foolish girl had scythed the deal by, in essence, telling Ellery it was time to grow up.

Just two hours ago, Throckmorton had listened to a half-drowned woman babble in a different language while she coughed up the water she'd inhaled from the river. He'd seen the finger marks on her neck—the marks Stanhope had put there. He had had to face the betrayal of his friend. He now planned to use an innocent maiden as an instrument to correct a great injustice.

And Ellery was frightened by the face of maturity.

The ridiculous, fatuous fribble.

Ellery gave a hiccup. “I don't even know what to do with the tyke I have now.”

“Just pay her some attention,” Throckmorton snapped. “That's all Kiki wants.”

Ellery brightened. “Celeste knows what to do with my kid.”

“Leave her in the nursery to do it, then.” Irritation made him move Ellery along with considerable more briskness.

“Hey!” Ellery said in exaggerated torment. When Throckmorton didn't respond, Ellery showed some remnant of wit. “What'sa matter, you ol' brother, you? You tired? You ought t' go t' bed.”

“After I get you to your room. Come on.” Throckmorton marched him along. “So Lady Hyacinth came to visit you today?”

“She loves me,” Ellery said in a most self-pitying tone of voice.

They had reached Ellery's bedchamber. “You encouraged her.”

“Thought I was going t' marry her. Because she's really a nice woman, you know? She's smart and she's funny when you get t' know her and she's really young but she's going t' be one of those fascinating women I could listen t' forever. Today”—he staggered sideways, pulling Throckmorton with him—“today she said so many great
bon mots
. She made me laugh. I even let her see me. She made me feel . . . like I could conquer the world. Then”—his voice lowered to a whine—“she told me she thought I could. Me! She's got the wrong brother.” Ellery poked at Throckmorton's chest. “You should marry Hyacinth.”

Throckmorton lost his patience. Shoving Ellery against the wall, he leaned his face close. “Now, you listen to me, little brother. You look handsome. Your haircut will start a fashion. And our guests are wondering where you are. There's a hunt tomorrow. You will come out of hiding. You will be pleasant to everyone,
especially
Lady Hyacinth
and
her parents. You will let
me
handle the matter of Celeste.”

Ellery nodded. “You and Celeste.”

Throckmorton grabbed him by the arm before he tottered into his room. “Most of all, you will not drink yourself into oblivion.”

Ellery hesitated.

“You will lose all if you do.”

“Garrick, I don't want to do that.” Ellery's voice sounded husky, almost as if he struggled with tears. Maybe somewhere inside that pitiful conscience of his, he comprehended the consequences of his deeds.

And who was Throckmorton to judge Ellery and his
conscience? He had Celeste and her well-being on his.

Giving him a quick hug, Throckmorton pushed him inside where his sensible valet waited up. Poor man. Like everyone else, he worshipped Ellery, but Throckmorton couldn't imagine when he got to sleep.