Читать книгу How to Wed a Baron - Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 9

JUSTIN WILDE MOUNTED the curving right-hand staircase of Carleton House with all the joy of a condemned man being marched to the scaffold, one of his royal majesty’s flunkies on either side of him. At least the execution would be formal, not slapdash in appearance.

As his well-polished Hessians confidently struck each marble stair, his alert green eyes saw everything, his exemplary brain cataloguing and recording each detail of his surroundings. One might say the baron lived his life in a state of the highest readiness, prepared to fight or flee, should either necessity present itself.

Not that the pair of ridiculous liveried footmen, matching in their height and build and coloring as well, just as if they had been specifically chosen as a matched set—which they no doubt had been—would have entertained the slightest notion that, with little effort on his part, the baron could have dispatched them both to their final reward before they could blink.

And not that the servants could be faulted for their lack of perception. They saw, the world saw, what Baron Wilde wished them to see, and nothing more: a handsome, well-set-up gentleman who appeared to be as harmless as a morning in May.

Only those who knew Justin Wilde well—and these numbered less than a half dozen—saw more than the exquisite lace at his neck and cuffs, the fashionably fine cut of his coat, the perfection that was his longish, carefully casual black hair that matched in color a pair of wonderfully winged eyebrows.

Most impressive of all was his ready smile, which could be mocking, ironic, amused, open, disarmingly friendly and, as those privileged half dozen knew, very rarely genuine.

There was no smile on his lean face at the moment, real or subtly perfected. To receive the Prince Regent’s summons at some point in time had not been unexpected. The man had warned of the eventuality at their last meeting. But now, scant months after their agreement, the sure knowledge that he was to consider himself at the man’s beck and call for the remainder of one of their lives had been brought home in all of its unpleasantness.

“That chandelier is new since my last visit, isn’t it?” he inquired of the footmen, pointing to a crystal-and-gilt monstrosity that hung at the top of the stairs. “I probably paid for it, you know. My God, is that a crystal dove at the center of it?”

The younger of the two servants looked up at the chandelier, nearly losing his step on the marble stairs, so that Justin quickly reached out to steady him.

“Coo, that was a close-run thing, weren’t it? Thank you, milord.”

“Nonsense. I apologize for distracting you, knowing the danger. My late wife perished on these same stairs some years ago.”

“Is that a fact, milord? Took herself a fall, did she?”

“She didn’t drown,” Justin agreed pleasantly.

“Silas, stifle yourself,” the older footman warned, clearly aghast at both the question and his lordship’s answer. “This way, my lord, if you please,” he then added quickly, gesturing to the left—away from the ornate public rooms and toward the private area of the residence.

Wonderful. The only thing more off-putting than Prinny at noon would be Prinny at noon and still in his nightcap. Less than five minutes later, Justin’s worst fears were confirmed.

Once he was announced, the footmen retreated amid a flurry of deep bows. Justin advanced across an expanse of priceless carpets and parquet flooring, stopping at the foot of a bed so high, so wide, so lavishly hung with velvet draperies that even the Prince of Whales appeared small as he sat propped against pillows in the middle of it, munching on coddled eggs.

Justin smartly clapped his booted feet together and inclined his head and shoulders only enough to be civil. “Your obedient servant appearing at your command, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wilde,” the Prince of Wales said, sighing as he put down his fork. “You’re the only man I know who can turn an expression of respect into an insult. Did you see it?”

Justin racked his brain for a moment, and then nodded. “The dove may have been taking ostentation too far, even for you. What next, sir, pink waistcoats?”

“Ha! Nobody has dared to speak so freely around me since George. How I miss that rascal.”

“As do his many creditors, or so I’ve heard,” Justin said, remembering the evening not so long ago he’d spent doing his part in spiriting George “Beau” Brummell out of the city and on his way to safety in Calais. “Is that why I’m here, sir? To somehow assist in raising fond memories of the fellow who was once bosom chum? I’m flattered, yet devastated to admit that my man Wigglesworth doesn’t quite possess the man’s clever way with boot black.”

The prince swept out his arm, sending the silver tray loaded down with chocolate pots and plates and pastries crashing to the floor. “Damn you! Who are you to speak to me that— What do you want? Get out!”

This last was directed at the guardsmen who had entered at the sound of crashing silver and crockery, their swords drawn.

Justin stood his ground. And waited.

“For all of George’s faults, it’s true, I do miss him,” the prince said at last, almost wistfully, his well-known mercurial mood having shifted yet again. “He was well when you last saw him?”

“Alas, I cannot answer that question, sir, as I fear I’ve never actually met the man,” Justin lied smoothly.

“Yes, of course,” Prinny said, apparently remembering that he should show no interest in the Beau, or the fact that he’d cared enough to have ferreted out Justin’s participation in the scheme to extract the fellow from the clutches of the duns and even incarceration in debtor’s prison. “Let us move on to other things.”

“As you wish, sir. I am yours to command.”

“Good, you remember who I am. There are times I find that difficult to believe. Then you recall our private agreement as well, Wilde?”

Justin inclined his head yet again. “I believe I’ve committed it to memory, yes. If I might paraphrase for you?”

“Yes, yes, go on. I want to be assured you remember it.”

Justin’s smile was brilliant. “As I would a badly throbbing tooth, sir. In exchange for a sum of money numbering somewhere in the vicinity of what could in some twisted way be termed a king’s ransom, all of it deposited directly into Your Royal Highness’s private purse—”

“That is never to be mentioned.”

“I stand corrected. Although it was fifty thousand pounds, to be precise,” Justin said, actually beginning to enjoy himself. “Your Royal Highness, known to his intimates as George the Kind, I might venture, acting purely out of a generosity of spirit acknowledged throughout the realm and without thought to personal enrichment, pardoned my sorry self for the crime of firing in self-defense when the fool I’d been forced to challenge to a duel turned and discharged his pistol on two. A mistake that proved fatal to him and disastrous to me, as I then had to flee England or else be arrested and summarily hanged.”

“Better, although you fail to mention that dueling itself has long been outlawed, no matter the result of the meeting,” the prince pointed out smugly.

“How remiss of me. Shall we dig up Robbie Farber and charge him for his crime, do you think?”

“You’re impertinent. Go on, finish it.”

Justin really would rather not, so that the insult wrapped in his answer came to him easily. “In return for this grand and noble gesture, I, Baron Wilde, grateful to be once more standing on the ground first trod by my illustrious ancestors long before yours, sir, had ever heard of England and were still happily speaking German and feeding on cabbages, after eight long and painful years of exile, and once again in possession of both my estates and my fortune—most of the latter, at any rate—am the eager and obedient servant of Your Royal Highness, ready at all times to assist him whenever the need arises. That is our agreement, until such time as Your Royal Highness believes sufficient penance has been served.”

“I can’t abide cabbages, so your paltry attempt at yet another insult will be ignored. But I would be remiss if I weren’t to point out that you’re running perilously close to the limits of my forbearance.” Prinny wagged a finger in Justin’s direction. “You actually did quite well, Wilde, until the last. Handsome devil, I’ll give you that, but your jaw went rather hard there for a few moments. You aren’t eager and obedient?”

“I’m here,” Justin said, taking out his snuffbox. He wasn’t having fun anymore. In fact, he was very nearly bored, which was always dangerous. He deftly opened the chased-gold thing with one hand and then, delicately holding an infinitesimal pinch to his left nostril, sniffed. “For eager and obedient, I suggest His Royal Highness might accept my gift of the pick of my favorite bitch’s recent litter.”

“Damn, that was brilliant. Such understated flair, Wilde. You have to show me how you do it. Didn’t even sneeze.”

“Sneezing is so déclassé,” Justin said, returning the snuffbox to his pocket. “It’s all in the measure, sir. That, and I’ve had my blacksmith line my nostrils with lead.”

“I’d almost believe you. But enough banter. I’m due at the palace at three, to present myself to mine father, who please God isn’t ranting or drooling today. I’m about to make you a very happy man, Wilde.”

“How interesting, Your Royal Highness. And here I am, under the impression that I am already happy. Perhaps you plan to make me ecstatic?”

Prinny readjusted the covers around his ample belly. “There are times I think I’d rather make you mute. A pity we’re all now so modern and civilized. A well-maintained torture chamber was often a king’s only friend. How does one eat without a tongue, do you know?”

“In very small bites, I’d imagine,” Justin said, mistrusting the gleam in the prince’s vivid blue eyes, and therefore prudently not pointing out that the man was still one live if hopelessly mad father away from the throne.

“Your wife is dead these eight years or more, yes?”

“I believe so, yes.” Now Justin was all attention, at least inwardly. “A date you might remember with more clarity than I, as I was already escaped to the Continent. But I’ve always wondered, sir. How does one go about disposing of a dead body at the bottom of the stairs? A terrible inconvenience at best, I would suppose. Did you have her hauled away, or just fold her up inside a cabinet while the party went on without her?”

“You’re cold, Wilde. She was your wife. Granted, a little too free with her favors, but very beautiful. Exquisite, actually.”

Justin remained silent. Yes, Sheila had been beautiful. On the outside. And he’d been young, and beauty had mattered to him very much. Even after Sheila had no longer mattered, he’d found himself involved in a duel to protect her nonexistent honor.

“You don’t agree?”

“I scarcely remember her face, sir. There may be a miniature somewhere. Would you like it?”

“Cold. Cold. You make me almost regret what I am about to offer. A single service to put a period to your…accessibility. An end to your indebtedness. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Wilde lifted a hand to his face. And yawned. It was amazing what one could dare when one had moved beyond the ability to care.

“I’ve found you a wife,” the Prince Regent stated baldly, his tone clearly implying that he was no longer amused by Justin’s antics.

“Oh, I think not, sir. I’m not in the market for a wife.”

“You’re also not in a cell, awaiting the hangman. Which one of those two alternatives do you choose?”

Justin wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of his answer. Even though they both knew that answer.

“Yes, quite. I will go on now. She is said to be the daughter of a war hero, unfortunately deceased. Allow it to be known only to you that this union is very important to the fellow who still most favors the ancient title of Holy Roman Emperor to that of—”

“Francis of Austria,” Justin supplied tersely. “Father of Marie Louise, who was wife to Napoleon, until Francis convinced her to betray him. Nephew of the doomed Marie Antoinette, whom he refused to save from the guillotine because he saw no personal profit in it. The man turned his coat so often since ascending the throne it is something of a marvel that he didn’t end up hanged and gibbeted by Bonaparte—or us. So, this female I’m not going to marry is German? Austrian?”

The prince shook his head. “Bohemian, although I’m assured that her mother, also unfortunately deceased, was English, and her late father a favorite at the court until his death on some battlefield.”

Justin was careful to keep his expression blank, even as an event in his life he’d hoped long banished returned to slap at his composure. “I once visited a city in the region. Trebon. I did not enjoy my time there.”

“No one but a fool enjoys being anywhere but England. Oh, but I know what you’re saying. You think perhaps she’s a Gypsy? Certainly not.”

“They prefer Romany, sir. Never Gypsy. At any rate, if you were told the lady is Bohemian, even if only less than half of her, I believe I’d prefer being hanged in the morning, thank you.”

“They’re a dirty people?” The prince’s face had taken on a rather haunted look, most probably thanks to a memory of his first sight of his now-estranged wife, Princess Caroline. It had been said that she harbored a decided dislike of soap and regular bathing.

“No, sir. And I’m certain the female in question is thoroughly civilized. I momentarily overreacted to an unpleasant memory, no more than that.”

“Please, don’t apologize. I believe I enjoy seeing the unflappable Justin Wilde even slightly discommoded. Trebon, was it? Nasty place? At any rate, this young woman, this—one moment.” He extracted a slip of paper from the pocket of his nightshirt, then read carefully: “‘Lady Magdaléna Evinka Nadeja Valentin.’ Foreign names are all so needlessly complicated, aren’t they? Give me a good Mary, or Elizabeth, or Anne. At any rate, this woman is in need of a husband.”

“Disdainful as I am of repetition, I am not in need of a wife, sir.”

“You’ll pardon me my rudeness, Wilde, but I cannot find it within me to be concerned in the slightest with what you believe you might need. I need—no, strike that. England needs a suitable, well-born husband for the woman, for reasons of trade and all of that nonsense. You are to consider this marriage a foregone conclusion. Any and all information you might need will be provided to you as you leave. And one more thing—marry her and we’re finished. You will no longer be obligated to me in any way. And, yes, before you are so bad-mannered as to ask, you will also find a signed letter from me stating that fact, along with all those pesky details such as the time of her arrival at Portsmouth, which I believe to be fairly imminent. Now, see if you can find your way out without saying something that makes me rethink my generosity. And send in somebody to clean up this mess.”

Justin bowed, his jaw tight, and backed up three paces before turning to exit the overheated chamber. He might banter with the prince, he might even insult him, but there existed no way he could disobey him, not at the end of day, when such things mattered. And they both knew it.

He had his hand resting on the latch before the prince spoke again. Justin didn’t know what the man would say, but he had known he would say something. There was, with the Prince Regent, always something else.

“By the way, Wilde.”

“Yes, sir?” he asked, not bothering to turn around. Christ, the man was so woefully predictable.

“I may have forgotten to mention one other thing. Slipped my mind, I suppose. But, then, why else would I overlook your proven shortcomings as a husband for the lady in favor of your rather unique talents? You see, it would seem that someone wants your affianced bride dead. If any misfortune were to come to her, King Francis and I—indeed, England—would be quite displeased. You amuse me, Wilde, God only knows why. But my amusement has its limits. Now you may go.”

THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE of the Portsmouth seaport and the array of tall masts Justin could see from his bedchamber window had not altered considerably in the time it had taken him to bathe and dress; which, for a gentleman of the first stare like the Baron Wilde, was, coincidentally, considerable.

He’d arrived in the town late the previous evening, having delayed departing London until he could be assured word had gotten back to the Prince Regent that it appeared Baron Wilde was flouting His Royal Majesty’s orders.

After all, why should Prinny be allowed a peaceful slumber if he, the victim in this sad farce, was to be denied his?

“Petty,” Justin muttered beneath his breath. “You are a petty, petty man. With a sore backside from being in the saddle for two full days.”

“My lord? You wish something?”

“No, Wigglesworth, thank you. I was only chastising myself for being seven kinds of fool.”

“Somebody should,” the valet answered, nodding his periwig-topped head. “It will take me days to brush all the road dirt from your buckskins, if they are to have so much as a prayer of ever being again presentable, which, sadly, I very much doubt. I’ll continue in my duties, then, my lord, if you don’t need me.”

“I would no doubt perish without you, Wigglesworth,” Justin assured the man. “Carry on.”

Justin was only half teasing, and both men knew it. Not that Justin needed his valet to survive. Not literally, and not since Bonaparte had been caged a second time and the world was again free to muck itself up without him. But it was Wigglesworth who still kept the facade of Lord Justin Wilde intact, and for a man like Justin, who’d felt himself in need of concealment and for so many years and so many reasons, the foppish, overdressed, fussy little fellow remained the perfect foil.

Plus, Wigglesworth understood the complete necessity of never overstarching one’s shirts. One should never undervalue such talent.

“Still no sign of an Austrian or Czech flag in the harbor, Wigglesworth. I shudder to think we might be forced to endure another day in this dreary hovel before the lady arrives. The prince’s man assured me he’d had word her journey was proceeding according to plan as of two days ago.”

“A man of your sensibilities, my lord, could not but be rendered maudlin by such a thought. If the lady’s ship does not appear by three, I shall make it a point to prepare your supper myself. You must not be made to endure both this inadequate chamber and a less than excellent repast.”

“Be sure to take our good friend and personal protector Brutus with you again if that unhappy event should become mandatory,” Justin warned, as Wigglesworth remained the only man in all of Creation to believe it was his consequence, and not the hulking Brutus’s mountainous physique (and fearsome expression) that opened the doors to sanctuaries like inn kitchens. Bless Brutus, he was an army unto himself, and invaluable to Justin.

“Yes, my lord.” Wigglesworth brushed some imaginary lint from the foaming lace jabot at his throat. He was a man who believed in his heart of hearts that Mr. Brummell should have been horse-whipped for convincing the gentlemen to give up their silks and satins and laces in favor of looking as if they were all a flock of penguins heading off to some perpetual funeral.

He fluttered about the inn bedchamber now like a small exotic bird himself, uncertain where to land.

Poor Wigglesworth. The man had a mind alive with bees….

Wringing his delicate hands, the valet finally flitted to the dressing table, counting for only the fourth time the number of brushes, combs and other silver-backed necessities of the well-groomed English gentleman to be sure none had slipped into the swift and crafty hands of the inn servants who had visited the chamber to light the fire or deliver his lordship’s breakfast, the fine repast Wigglesworth himself had overseen being created in the kitchens.

“Will you be climbing down from your usual worrywart alts anytime soon, Wigglesworth?” Justin at last inquired lazily from the chair beside the window before the man could suffer some injury to himself for lack of anything to do. “Or will I be forced to find a bootjack in this decrepit establishment in order to remove my boots? You did notice this spot on the left toe, did you not?”

Wigglesworth threw up his hands in horror and joy at the same time. How he needed to be needed. “Merde! A spot? A smudge? Say it is not so!”

Justin rubbed lightly beneath his nose, as it wouldn’t do to allow his valet to see him so amused at his expense. “Wigglesworth? Do you have any idea what you’re saying, have been saying ever since you broke bread in the common room last night with the chevalier’s valet?”

“Your pardon, my lord?” Wigglesworth asked as he ripped through the contents of one of the many pieces of luggage the baron required for an overnight stay on the road, at last coming out with a fresh white cloth and a tin of boot black. “And what is it I would have been saying?”

“Merde, Wigglesworth. You have been almost constantly parroting the word merde all the morning long.”

Wigglesworth dropped a small rug fashioned just for the purpose in front of his lordship’s chair before carefully placing his mauve satin-clad knee to it and motioning for his lordship to, if he pleased, lift the leg currently bearing the offending footwear.

“Yes, I have, haven’t I? Frenchmen are by nature a filthy people, but their language is quite melodious, don’t you think? So much better to say merde than mercy, which sounds so…plebian.”

Justin allowed his good angel and his naughty angel a few moments of debate before deciding he should be a better man. “Merde is not French for mercy, Wigglesworth. It is, in point of fact—and forgive my blushes—the word employed most often by the French in referring to…excrement.”

Wigglesworth, who prided himself on having risen from the depths of being put out as a chimney sweep in Piccadilly forty years previously to the heights of caring for arguably the most exquisite gentleman in this or any realm, looked up at the baron with tears in his eyes. “I am devastated, my lord. Ashamed. Aghast. Humiliated.”

“Yes, I should think you would be. Shall I give you the sack?” Justin asked him as Wigglesworth applied boot black and began rubbing an invisible mar with everything that was in his pitifully thin body.

“If it would be your wish, my lord.”

Damn. It was difficult to joke with Wigglesworth. The man was much too committed, too serious. “No, I shan’t dismiss you. After all, if you left you’d probably take Brutus with you. I would miss his conversation.”

“Brutus doesn’t speak, my lord,” the literal-minded Wigglesworth pointed out as he gave one last swipe at the boot and stood up once more.

“Precisely. Which puts him head and shoulders above most people. He can be counted on to never say anything boring. Ah, much better, thank you. I shall now not be ashamed to show myself in public.” He looked toward the window once more, and frowned to see a new flag blowing in the breeze. “Wigglesworth, it would seem the lady’s ship has just dropped anchor. Promise me you will not flee screaming from the docks if she should not be all you believe necessary in my wife.”

“I will do my utmost to contain myself,” the valet promised. “It remains to be known what you will do, my lord.”

Justin accepted his hat from the valet and headed for the door. “Prinny took refuge in cherry brandy, as I’ve heard it told, when he first espied his affianced bride. I think I’d rather face my potential demon fully sober. Although, if our worst fears are confirmed, I suppose a blindfold as I enter the bedchamber for the first time wouldn’t come amiss.”

“We shall hope for the best, then, my lord. It’s important that she’s presentable, if she is to bear our name, if you are to have her hand on your arm as you go about Society. Pleasing to the eye.”

Justin hesitated at the door, and Wigglesworth ran forward to throw it open. “Physical beauty is over-rated, you know. As long as she is passably intelligent and well-spoken, and does not eat little children or frighten the horses, I believe we’ll term the thing a success. Not that we have a choice. We must also remember that this marriage is not the lady’s fault. Why, she may take me in complete dislike.”

“Never, my lord,” Wigglesworth said, bristling. “She is the most fortunate of women.”

“Oh, hardly that. I fear I am not an easy man.”

“You are a very good man, my lord,” the valet said, following the baron into the hallway.

“Why, Wigglesworth, I don’t believe, in our nearly half-dozen years of acquaintance, you have ever before so insulted me.”

Brutus, stepping out from the shadows to make one of his own with his considerable height and breadth, made that snuffling noise that passed for laughter, anger, bemusement and most any other emotion, and fell into step behind them before taking the lead once they were on the street in front of the inn.

Brutus never touched another human as they made their way to the docks. There was nary a shove, a push. But, as was always the case, the bustling tradesmen and loitering sailors and importuning streetwalkers all melted away in front of him, clearing a wide path for his employer and his employer’s valet to follow. Brutus, Justin often thought, was more effective in parting the crowds than a fanfare of trumpets.

The whispers followed, too: Who is that fine set-up Lunnon gentleman? He must be very important. Did you see the cut of his jacket? Coo, ain’t he grand? I’d let him tup me for free, no lie! And look at the little fellow, all dressed up like a Christmas pudding. Let’s follow, see what he’s up to….

Justin liked to think of this recurring phenomenon as hiding in plain sight, a ploy that had worked well in his years of service to the Crown. Or, as someone once said (on quite a different subject, but no matter), there are none so blind as those who will not see. Why sneak in and out of cities under the cover of darkness? Why skulk about in alleyways if there are well-lighted streets to be had? And who suspects someone so determinedly visible of any skullduggery, when it is so much easier to write him off as a fool, a fop, a man concerned only with his own consequence and the tailoring of his waistcoat?

Who? Not the trail of dead men he had left behind him over the course of those years and in a half-dozen countries, that much was certain.

Justin had wearied of the game long before the war, and the necessity for it, was over. But he had held on to the facade, one he felt he needed now more than ever. If people, and most especially his few real friends, could be allowed to see past the silliness, the banter, the supposed fascination for show and fashion, they might be able to glimpse the darkness inside of him, the assassin he had been, the deeds he had done…the mistakes he had made. The one most terrible, unforgivable mistake he had made.

He was alone now, for the most part. Letting anyone in, truly in, was no longer in the realm of his possibilities. That’s probably why he had so easily brought himself around to the idea of marrying at the Prince Regent’s request. Better a stranger than someone he might care for. Better someone who had no interest in really knowing him, someone he had no interest in cultivating. An ancient title, a fine estate, a generous allowance, a blind eye turned to any discreet romantic peccadilloes once the heir was assured and an entrée into Society at the highest level. These were more than sufficient for any wife.

Bringing his mind back to attention, he realized that Brutus had halted at last, halfway along the dock, and stepped aside to give a clear view of the ship and those now in the process of disembarking down a— Was that a red carpet rolled out over the gangplank and onto the dock? By God, it was. And there were ribbons tied to the rope railings. With streamers.

Justin, Wigglesworth, Brutus and the crowd that had followed after them all watched as a full squad of hulking guardsmen in dress uniforms, peaked metal helmets and carrying long, lethal-looking halberds made their way down the gangplank to stand at attention on either side of it for the length of the crimson carpet.

The crowd craned its collective neck when the parade of soldiers came to an end, waiting to see who next might descend.

First came two no-longer-young women, similarly dressed in not quite the first stare, but more in the sedate look of paid companions. They took their place at either side of the carpet directly in front of the gangplank.

Next to disembark was a tall man, probably halfway into his thirties, although with those huge mustachios and sideburns favored in Francis’s court it was difficult to know for certain. The man was also in uniform, the amount of braid and the size of his helmet denoting his elevated rank. His alert blue eyes seemed to be everywhere at once as he surveyed the crowd, before his intense gaze met, and held, Justin’s.

“My, my, my, Wigglesworth, there’s a specimen for you. Should I be cowering, do you think?”

Deftly flipping one side of his short, gold-braid-befrogged cape over his shoulder, and with a hand holding the sword hilt steady at his waist, the man headed sure-footedly toward Justin, removing the ceremonial helmet as he did. “Baron Wilde?”

Justin acknowledged the correctness of the question with a very slight inclination of his head.

“Very good, my lord. We were told you had been warned to be prompt. I am Major Luka Prochazka, emissary of His Highness Francis of Austria, I. Fernec, Apostolic King of Hungary, Franjo the Second, King of—”

“Yes, thank you, Major Prochazka, I am aware of the titles and their implications, as well as my geography.” Stifling a yawn, covering his mouth with a lace-edged silken square he extracted from his sleeve cuff, Justin allowed his heavily lidded eyes to glide along the view of armed soldiers. “Tell me, and I make this inquiry only out of idle curiosity, Major, are you by any chance expecting an imminent assault? Should I be sending Wigglesworth here hot-footing back to my coach to procure my sword?”

The major’s neatly manicured yet hairy face reassembled itself into a bit of a scowl. He stepped closer, speaking softly yet forcefully. “You were not informed? I was told you would be informed, and respond accordingly. Her ladyship is in some danger. Where is your contingent of guards?”

Lord save him from serious men. Justin indicated Brutus with a languid wave of his handkerchief. “Behold. My army.” He turned his head to reassure Wigglesworth. “No offense, my friend. You possess your own unique talents.”

The major clearly was not pleased. “One man? You bring one man to protect your betrothed?”

“One very large man, you’ll agree,” Justin drawled. “There is also myself.”

Luka Prochazka’s lip curled as he ran his gaze up and down Justin’s fashionably dressed form. Or at least the baron thought the man’s lip curled; again, with those elaborate mustachios, it was impossible to say for certain. “You leave me no choice but to ignore my orders to dismiss the guard once her ladyship has been passed into your protection. They will accompany us to London.”

“Oh, hardly, sir. A contingent of foreign soldiers, armed and appearing quite lethal, parading about the English countryside? Many would consider such a thing an act of war. That cannot possibly have been your king’s intent.”

“I will have her safe.”

“I will have her to wife,” Justin countered, a hint of steel creeping into his lowered voice, although the smile never left his face. “What is mine, I protect. Better that we were friends, Major. A fool judges by appearances only. You would not like me as your enemy.”

The major didn’t even blink. “I have heard stories…”

“No, Major. You haven’t. When it comes to Baron Wilde, should anyone dare to inquire, your knowledge of him resembles nothing more than it would a blank slate. Now, if this no-longer-amusing pissing contest has reached its limits, shall we see the lady we have surely kept waiting long enough?”

At last, Luka smiled. “On the contrary, my lord. It is the lady who keeps us waiting.”

“Cowering in her cabin, is she?”

“Hardly, my lord.”

“Justin. As I was informed you are to remain in England for the foreseeable future, we either become informal, Luka, or we kill one another.”

“Justin it is, then. I’ve killed enough men.”

They set off down the length of the dock, their heights similar, their long strides matching perfectly, yet looking as outwardly dissimilar as any two men could be. “That’s the spirit. Always believe you’ll be the winner, even when it is painfully obvious that the outcome will not be in your favor.”

“Oh? We’d duel with handkerchiefs?”

“Only if you fancy mine stuffed halfway down your gullet,” Justin quipped with a smile as he gave the handkerchief one last flourish before it disappeared up his sleeve.

As they approached the ridiculous red carpet, one of the two females turned toward the gangplank, hiked up her skirts and returned to the ship, only to reappear moments later, her eyes downcast as she once more took her place.

Justin halted at the edge of the carpet and removed his hat, his dark hair immediately being blown about in a rather stiff breeze coming off the Channel. Behind him, Wigglesworth sighed.

“I sense her ladyship enjoys making an entrance?”

“Lady Alina is her own person,” Luka said, and this time Justin knew the man was smiling beneath that great mass of mustache.

“Does it itch?” he asked impulsively.

Luka turned to look at him, a question in his eyes for a moment, before he nodded. “And acts as a poor strainer for my food, yes. But all officers are required to be so adorned. When this commission is successfully completed, I plan to resign from the army. Just so that I might shave the damn thing off.”

Justin threw back his head, laughing, feeling that he and this fierce-looking soldier would have no problems now that they had survived their initial introduction. But the smile faded abruptly as a small figure appeared at the head of the gangplank.

She was cloaked in emerald velvet from head to foot, the hood edged with ermine, ermine tails scattered here and there as decorative tassels. Interesting. Queen Elizabeth had favored ermine at her coronation, to symbolize her virginity.

Her ladyship was more than a smidge of a thing, but much less than a tall, stately figure. The hand that reached for the rope railing was ungloved, the fingers long and slender. The face, however, remained in shadow. Teasingly, tantalizingly.

Justin’s thoughts about his prospective wife, and they had been few and far between, if truth be told, had conjured up a meek and obedient woman who could give him an heir and then retire to her knitting while he went about his own pursuits. Now he felt his first stirrings of concern.

Her left hand lifted to the hood and drew it back, slowly at first, and then with a flourish, revealing a mass of shining black curls and a face that drew astonished and admiring gasps from the multitude of interested observers.

Every notion of feminine beauty Justin had ever considered paled into nothingness as Lady Magdaléna Evinka Nadeja Valentin raised her perfect, softly rounded chin and surveyed all the conquered who stood below her on the wooden dock.

Her skin was the finest cream, her brows like delicate ravens’ wings above enormous, tip-tilted eyes the color of old gold coins. The nose, regal, the mouth, wide and softly curving, the cheekbones, high, turning all of her beauty slightly yet wonderfully exotic.

In the suddenly quiet crowd, and without the slightest idea who this creature could be, several of the women curtsied, many men bowed or touched their forelocks. The lady acknowledged this homage with an infinitesimal nod of her head, accepting the gestures as her due.

“Merde,” Wigglesworth breathed, staggering where he stood, his eyes filling with tears of thanks and delight.

Luka’s voice seemed to come to Justin from a distance. “Lady Alina, my lord. Your affianced bride.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Justin murmured under his breath, “the impertinent chit has upstaged me.”

Worse, and for the first time in his memory, Baron Wilde realized that he might actually be experiencing some uneasiness—and a small modicum of anxiety for his own well-being.