Page 42 of A Scandalous Proposal

"Hear me out, sir! If our suppositions are correct, the perpetrator would have even more reason to try to snuff me than he did Geoff. I'm a social equal, so he won't be able to fob me off as he might one of your local operatives. I can claim hospitality, stick to him like a burr on a dog, not just at the depot but for lodging, meals and entertainment. Seeing them off duty, I'll again have a better opportunity than your operatives to observe the activities and spending habits of all the suspects. And we'll let it be known I'm looking into supply irregularities—a few words dropped 'in confidence' at any of the gentlemen's clubs here will quickly make their way abroad. My pushing an investigation much sooner than anticipated and my ability to identify him as readily as Geoff should virtually force the perpetrator to make another move. 'Tis our best hope of a quick resolution."

Lord Blackwell grunted. "Perhaps. Also sounds like a prescription for getting your own throat cut before you're much older."

"Not necessarily. I don't intend to act as more than bait— your experienced field people can bring him in. Have me shadowed constantly. I'm pretty good with my fives in a tight spot, and I'm confident I could hold my own till help arrived if need be."

"And if he manages to slice you into kidney pie before the professionals can get there?''

“Sir, my friends and college mates with Wellington face danger every day. Someone is selling off the arms they need, either to brigands, or worse yet, to the French. I may not be able to change the course of battles, but I know I could stop this. How can I stand by and do nothing?"

"Your patriotism is appreciated, Cheverley, but—"

"Please, my lord, just consider. Acquainting a professional with the details will take days at best. And you may not have available someone who can mingle socially with the suspects. My going now gives .us the dual advantages of surprise and entree. If stopping the loss of arms and solving Geoff s murder as quickly as possible are important, isn't that worth my accepting some risk?"

Lord Blackwell regarded him silently for a moment. "You've a glib tongue, I'll give you that much," he said grudgingly. "But you're about to get leg-shackled, aren't you? Cause some speculation, you just up and leaving."

'"Twould add fuel to the plan."

"Perhaps, but don't you think it unfair to expose your intended to the possibility of becoming a widow before she's ever a wife?"

Since, despite his affection for Andrea, he'd found it increasingly difficult to imagine how he was going to go through with this wedding, the idea sounded rather attractive.

"Her brother was one of the friends I mentioned. Died after the battle of Orthes. I think she'd support any action that helped shorten the war that claimed her brother's life." Doubtless a correct assertion.

Again Lord Blackwell considered him in silence. "Perhaps 'tis due to the earliness of the hour that I'd even consider this, but you're correct in assuming at the moment I have no experienced operatives available. Let me think on it and check with some acquaintances more knowledgeable than I about this sort of operation. I'll get back to you."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Thank you, Cheverley. Whether the ministry decides to accept your offer or not, I want you to know I feel better about the future of this nation, knowing there are men prepared to risk so much for their country's welfare."

If he hadn't dreaded what he must face in the safety of London almost as much as what he might risk abroad, he'd feel less guilty about Blackwell's accolade, Evan thought as his superior walked out.

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Driven to motion, Emily paced her chamber. She could not remain hiding here, but though she'd changed to a morning gown and brushed out her windblown locks, she could not so easily set to order her disheveled mind.

Natalie would be sorting through the post, cataloging invitations and planning the next sortie in her campaign for Emily's acceptance. As Evan would be sorting through his to make plans to avoid her. 'Twas a blackly amusing parallel, if she'd had the strength for humor.

No, she didn't think she could tolerate sitting through a strategy session just now.

Riding always soothed her—but her stomach clenched at the thought. Two mornings in the Park might just have killed her love of her favorite relaxation for good.

A knock sounded at the door. "Enter," she called, trying to quell her irritation and master a sufficiently calm expression that Natalie wouldn't immediately suspect something was drastically wrong.

'Twas only a footman, and she relaxed a trifle. "A caller for you, Lady Auriana. A Mr. Blakesly. Said he knew 'twas early, but insisted we ask if you'd receive him."

When Brent called yesterday with the other post-ball well-wishers she'd been able to avoid speaking privately with him. A respite she'd welcomed, since she was much too agitated to hide her turmoil from his perceptive eyes. For him to be here begging an interview at a time when he knew she'd have no other callers, she must have been less successful at masking that distress than she'd thought.

Being even more distressed this morning, she should probably fob him off. But she didn't think the suffocating ache that inhabited her chest, making it hard to breathe and driving her to restless motion—as if by moving fast enough, long enough she might outdistance the pain—was going to ease anytime soon.

Why should it be worse now? She'd absorbed the blow of losing Evan the first time they'd parted, weathered it hitting harder yet when she'd sent him away after that disastrous midnight visit. She only knew it was worse, as if each repeated chorus of his call for her to come back to him strengthened a deeply buried hope that somehow, somewhere she might discover the justification that would allow her to do so.

Or was it because this time she'd been unable to deny she was losing not just a lover, but her love?

She realized the footman was still standing at the doorway awaiting her response.

She was about to deny Brent when a possible solution occurred. Though a drive in any of the parks was anathema, if he'd brought his curricle, perhaps she could ask him to carry her outside the City, to...to Box Hill, perhaps! Yes, the transit there would consume time, provide soothing motion and limit the necessity for conversation.

By the time they reached the site she might have better settled her emotions. She'd seen the look on Brent's face when he'd claimed her after her waltz with Evan, and knew the inevitable inquiries that glare promised. Nor, so faithful a friend had he been, did he deserve for her to avoid him much longer. Better to address the matter honestly, and soon.

After giving herself at least the healing respite of a drive, however.

"Please direct Mr. Blakesly to the small saloon and tell him I'll be down shortly."

When she entered a few minutes later, Brent was standing by the fireplace tapping his riding crop on his boot, his expression troubled.

“Good morning, Brent. You are well, I trust?''

He came to her swiftly and kissed her hands, his eyes inspecting her face. "What is it, Emily?" he demanded, dispensing with a conventional polite reply. "Has Evan—"

“Please, no questions just yet. Did you drive your curricle?"

"My—! Yes, I drove it. Why do you ask?"

"Would you do me a great favor? Would you drive me out to Box Hill?"

"You've a sudden desire to picnic now?"

"Yes. Immediately. I must...get away. I'll answer all your questions when we arrive there, but oh, please, will you take me now?"

"If that is your wish, of course I will."

She sighed with relief. "Thank you. I'll put on a carriage dress and pelisse. 'Twill take but a moment."

He nodded. "While you change, I'll speak with the kitchen and see if they will make up a basket for lunch."

She laughed, the sound a bit hysterical. "Lunch? If you wish—I care not!"

Smiling slightly, he took her chin, rubbed her trembling lip with his thumb. His eyes held a tender sympathy and— something more. "Even in heartbreak, sweet lady, one must eat," he said softly. "But go now. I'll await you here."

Half an hour later, they set out. The day being overcast and the wind chill, they'd likely have the grounds all to themselves.

Once beyond the City's congestion, Brent settled the horses into a steady pace and, evidently ascertaining at a glance she had no desire to converse, kept silent.

As the scenery flashed by, she did find a small measure of calm. The heavy weight at her chest lightened a bit and she could breathe more easily.

And Brent, dear Brent, was all the friend she could wish, handling the horses, handing her down at their destination and then guiding her around puddles and along garden paths that in her abstraction she barely noticed. He insisted they stop to picnic, and coaxed her to eat a bit of the ham and cheese Cook had prepared, and sip some strong tea.

After, when they both were refreshed, he took her hand and kissed it. "You saw Evan, didn't you? Only that could have upset you so."

She didn't wish to talk of it, but she owed him some explanation. Providing one would likely prove no easier anytime this next decade or so. "Yes."

"Damn him!" he cried, as if unable to help himself. "Did he press you to see him again?"

"No. No, 'twas not that at all."

"Surely he didn't claim he would break with Andrea. He will never do so, I promise you!"

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