How to Wed a Baron (9 page)

All of which she would tell him when he came to fetch her from this Ashurst Hall they were heading for. If he came to fetch her.

Beside her, as he attempted to insert a much-folded cloth inside his unbuttoned jacket, Luka groaned, and Alina brought her straying mind back to attention.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Luka, I'm neglecting you. Are you all right?” she asked him. “Tatiana, why didn't
you help Luka out of his jacket, so that we can see to his wound? Oh, never mind, you were probably too busy watching me make an utter cake of myself. Here, let's do it now.”

“I was told we were only little more than a mile from Ashurst Hall just before we were attacked, my lady,” he told her. “I can wait until we arrive. You shouldn't have to see the wound. It isn't seemly.”

“Neither is bleeding yourself dry,” Alina pointed out, but the coach had now turned, and the wheels were suddenly covering much smoother ground, the ruts and jaw-jarring potholes of the other road no longer in evidence.

“My lady…your clothing?”

Tatiana's warning brought Alina back to her own personal dilemma. That was probably vain of her, but she couldn't help herself. She was about to meet Justin's friends—an English duke and duchess, no less—and she was going to see them for the first time while looking as if she'd just finished rolling about in a pigsty. Oh, how Aunt Mimi would have laughed to see her like this, and then pointed out that it was no less than she would have expected from her mongrel niece.

“I'm going to blame him for
that,
too,” Alina declared as Tatiana, being a down-to-earth sort in times like these—at least once the shooting and the shouting were over—asked her ladyship to please
spit on the corner of yet another linen square, so that the servant could wipe some of the dirt off her ladyship's cheeks.

But then I might allow him to kiss me again…

J
USTIN
W
ILDE ARRIVED
at Carleton House just after midnight, clad in his usual impeccable evening clothes and looking fresher—and smelling better—than most of the other guests of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent.

His appearance in the midst of the
haut ton
was a surprise, and presented a dilemma to everyone else present. Did they pretend not to see him? Did they nod as he passed—after all, he would not have gained entry without an invitation from the Prince Regent. Did they dare to approach him, clap him on the back, behave as if they were delighted to see him again, after dealing him the cut direct only a few months earlier, when he'd first returned to London? So much of society was in knowing whom to speak to and whom to avoid.

But he did look dashing, his well-remembered handsome, impeccable self. All that fashionably styled dark hair above those oddly unreadable green eyes. The way his black evening clothes fit his exemplary body. His snowy-white neckcloth always
above reproach, tied in an intricate style of his own design, one that had never been successfully copied. That insouciant walk, as if he saw nothing in the world he feared. Pockets so deep his wealth seemed to have no measure at all. He was a true
rara avis
in all respects, the compleat, set-up gentleman. And hadn't he always had a smile for everyone, a joke for the men, a compliment for the ladies?

Yes, Baron Wilde was a bit of all right, really. Perfect in so many ways. Shame about him in that duel over his slut of a wife, firing early like that and shooting poor what-was-his-name in the back. Bloody coward…

No one could possibly imagine that the subject of their mingled awe, envy and repulsion had just spent the better part of two days in the saddle, or that he was harboring thoughts of committing dire physical mayhem on the body attached to the pudgy, beringed fingers he was now bowing over with such grace.

But, then, that had always been Justin's way. His smile belonged to everyone; his thoughts were his own.

During his first years in town, he had been sought after, admired, hugely popular with not only the ladies but their mamas, and welcomed by other gentlemen to be one of any party or sporting event. Because he was pretty and mannerly. Be
cause he was entertaining. Because he genuinely enjoyed life.

Before.

Before, in his shallow and trivial youth, he'd married Sheila Broughton after being dazzled by her pretty face, and the way, frankly, they seemed to turn all heads whenever they entered a room together. She had fit him well, rather like his perfectly tailored waistcoats.

Better he should have married his tailor….

He'd never loved her. After the first few months of their marriage, he hadn't liked her, either, any more than she had liked him. He'd married her fine good looks, and she'd pledged herself to his title and deep pockets.

Still, they could have stumbled along, together yet not together, for several dozen years. Many did.

It was Sheila's lack of discretion that had brought both of them down, and taken Justin to that dew-covered lawn where his damned unerring aim had put a period to both Robbie Farber's existence and his own frivolous life as he had known it.

Eight years. Eight long years spent exiled from his country, his estates. Eight interminable years of doing whatever was asked of him, in the hope of gaining a pardon that would reunite him with his homeland and keep his neck out of a noose.

He'd returned to Mayfair only a few months ago, to learn that memories in the
ton
were longer than he
would have imagined. There had been no welcome from anyone save Tanner Blake, Duke of Malvern, and Rafe Daughtry, Duke of Ashurst. But even those friendships hadn't softened society's condemnation of him. The three days he'd spent at his town house had been enough to convince him that he had rushed his reentry into Society, and he had taken himself off again, prepared to await the following spring season before trying again.

Now he was back, only two months passing between a nearly universal cut direct from those who had eight years earlier called themselves his friends and tonight's very visible acceptance by the Prince Regent—all part of the bargain they had struck.

Justin could hear the whispers, even as he could not make out the words. When he bowed his way back from the prince, it would be to see those same people who had judged him, had shunned him, now taking their cue from the prince and rushing up as if they were delighted to see him again.

And he could, in return, be delighted to see them, allow himself to be brought back into favor. Even as he cursed them all for sycophants and fools, while also cursing himself for ever believing this life was the one he wanted, the life he'd sacrificed so much to regain.

“A word in your ear, sir?” Justin suggested quietly. “You may frown as you lead me off, as if preparing to give me one last stern scold before welcoming me
back into the fold of sheep standing all about us now, breathlessly anticipating your reaction and ready to take their cue from you.”

“Damn you, what are you up to, Wilde? Where's the gel?” the Prince Regent asked sotto voce as he allowed two footmen to help him to his feet. He pointed toward a door off in a corner, and Justin fell into step directly beside him, in just the way George Brummell had dared to do, as if declaring them not only friends, but equals. Oh, this would add to his consequence; being so publicly taken off for a private coze with the heir to the throne. How Prinny must hate that. “What are you doing here, Wilde? It was to be tomorrow night, at Covent Garden.”

“What? And miss this delightful gathering?” Justin responded lightly, insinuating his arm through the prince's crooked elbow, knowing the man had no choice but to allow the intimacy. “Imagine my delight, sir, when I returned to London and espied the invitation waiting for me on my desk.”

He refrained from mentioning that the invitation had served to remove the problem of how to break into Carleton House at four in the morning and somehow make it past the guards.

“One of my fool secretaries must have already added you back to my invitation list. You shouldn't be on that list yet, not until you're bracketed with the gel. It was a mistake.”

“I wondered as much. But then I thought, my,
how can I resist? After all, the wish of our Royal Highness can be nothing less than my command. I fair flew through my toilette, I tell you—taking only a miserly three hours to make myself presentable—and then hastened straight here. Please forgive my tardy and doubtless disheveled appearance. Although my man, Wigglesworth, persists in telling me that this waistcoat flatters me no end.”

“Humph,” the Prince Regent responded, which was as good as a compliment on Justin's attire, combined with a curse that His Royal Highness would never see a waistcoat so fine himself…or be able to see past it to his toes, either, come to that.

They'd entered the anteroom now, and Justin carefully first shut, then locked the door, deftly pocketing the key.

“The gel?” the prince said without preamble. “Where the devil is the gel? Did you forget her on the docks? Can't you get the straight of anything, Wilde? She's supposed to be with you.”

Justin's smile never wavered. It was the sort of smile that could make a guilty man feel the sudden need to find a quick exit. “You mean, sir, where is the daughter of one Lady Anne Louise Farber, sister to Robbie Farber, once Earl of Birling, and the man I shot down eight years ago for having maligned my then estranged wife's nonexistent reputation?”

The prince shot a quick look toward the door. “You, um…you found that out quickly.”

Justin raised one well-defined eyebrow, feigning surprise even as his every suspicion was confirmed. “Oh? So you're already aware of the connection? My, my, and here I was, prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, call the whole thing coincidence and be done with it. After all, how can a mere loyal subject even begin to conceive that his presumptive sire might be so devious, so cold-bloodedly calculating?”

“It wasn't like that, Wilde. Not at the beginning, at least.”

“At least? Tell me, is it still considered regicide if you're no more than a sorry excuse for a regent, and not the king? Or, knowing the mood of the populace, would I be looked upon more as a hero if I were to wring your damn neck for you in the next minute?”

The prince's normally pink cheeks disappeared in the full, florid flush that now possessed him from cravat to hairline. “You cannot speak to me this way! I'll summon the guards.”

“Do that,” Justin continued almost affably. “I've locked the door you keep eyeing—the only door to this quaint little closet set aside for your assignations with any of the plump, aged ladies you seem to enjoy having play mother to you. By the time the guards manage to break it down, you'll be on the floor, your face blue and your tongue swollen half out of your mouth. Not a pretty picture, I promise
you. They won't even be able to shove your tongue back in your head for the state funeral. They'll have to snip it off.”

The man who lived only for the day he would become His Majesty, George the Fourth, winced, and nearly gagged.

“Ah, so you do remember who I am and what I do, don't you, sir? Who you and others like you made me? One minute, no more—that's all it would take. But it would be the longest, and the last, minute of your life.”

The prince's eyes shifted to the door, and then back to the key Justin was dangling in front of his face. “I didn't set out to have it happen this way,” he said, nearly pleaded. “When Francis came to my ministers for our help with his problem and his possible solution, he mentioned the name Farber. I remembered the name. That's when I realized I had just the man for what he wanted done.”

“Me.”

“Yes. You. You're just the right man. I read the dispatches, you know. You have no conscience, no scruples. Everyone agreed you were perfect.”

Justin refused to react to the prince's opinion of his character, or the lack thereof. “Counted on that, did you? And that's why you summoned me from Vienna. That's why you offered me the pardon I'd begun to believe would never become fact. That very expensive pardon with all those intricate strings tied
to it. How wonderful for you that you could benefit your own pocketbook, even as you assisted your new ally.”

“Well, yes,” the Prince Regent admitted, relaxing slightly. “That did work out rather conveniently for me, I will admit to that. My creditors have become increasingly strident. Why should the benefits all run in Francis's direction?”

“Stupid, yet clever. The two, combined, make you a very dangerous man, Your Royal Highness. There are times I not only wonder if a monarchy is necessary, but if any of you should be allowed to breed. Eight years. Eight years I've thought of nothing but returning to England. To my homeland and my home. Now I find myself wondering what all the fuss was about, why I even cared.”

“If that's true, Wilde, I am deeply sorry. But I immediately saw that you were the obvious choice. Who better than the Crown's own assassin to protect the lady from an assassin?”

Justin's eyes went cold. “Please, allow us both now to put an end to that particular comedy. You could have found someone else to do what Francis needs done—and what your new bosom chum the king of Austria needs done has nothing to do with safeguarding the lady, but very much to do with ridding Francis of a nuisance. I am simply an added amusement you've thrown into the mix. How jolly for you, to know that you've bracketed Birling's
niece to the man who killed him. Why, I imagine you think it all but borders on the poetic.”

The prince said nothing. Which spoke volumes.

Disgusted but not surprised, Justin pushed harder, needing to hear what this pathetic man had to say. “Admit it. I want to hear you say it. If I were to fail to eliminate Francis's enemy and the Lady Alina were to die because of that failure, her death would mean nothing to you.”

“Who?” The Prince Regent, known for many things, was not often included on any list numbering the sharpest knives in his chef's kitchen.

“Never mind,” Justin said, suddenly unpardonably weary of this conversation. “I know what you want me to do.”

“You've always known that. I want you to marry the gel.”

“So you say. From where I stand, it seems you wish me to assassinate a very powerful and visible public figure for you and your royal friends, while you both keep your hands and your countries clean of the dead. And the devil with what happens to
the gel.
”

Prinny had the wit to at last look somewhat sheepish. “All right, yes, I will admit to not considering the possible problem with the woman. But you are now her protector, and she could have none better. Marry her, and keep her safe from this man the king is convinced wishes her dead. Yes, making the
man dead in the process. They're one and the same, really, as long as he dies. And what do you care about this man? You've killed so many. Then you'll be free of any further obligation. You have my word on that, damn it.”

“You'll forgive me if I remain less than confident.”

“As for this young woman who so concerns you? You will bring her here, present her to me. Why, it would be my honor to give the bride away at Saint Paul's. That should make up for something, showing you are totally accepted by me, by the Crown. And then remain here in town for the small season?”

Justin didn't answer, but only bowed. “You really are a fool, aren't you? And now, as I'm fairly certain I've outstayed my welcome, I think it is time I rejoined my affianced bride.”

He turned toward the door, the key once more in his hand.

“Wait! I have to know. Would you have done it?” the Prince Regent asked, his voice trembling slightly. “Would you have…murdered me? Because you wouldn't have outlived me for more than a few heartbeats, once my guards arrived. Had you thought of that?”