A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(29)

Ned gave Phoebe a helpless look, but she was doing all she could just to stifle her laughter. “Sorry ol’ chap,” she heard him mutter before he tossed Lord Ludovic, sixth Viscount DeVere, into the watering trough.

***

While everyone’s attention was diverted to the wildly cursing, sputtering viscount, Phoebe perceived her opportunity to quietly slip away. With the evidence for the wager in hand, she was resolved to collect the promised money as quickly as could be arranged and to start her life anew—someplace far from London, and even farther from Sir Edward Chambers, the man who had stolen and then trampled her heart.

Last night, he had unveiled her eyes to the wonderment, the ineffable ecstasy of unbridled passion. What had begun as a game had turned into something very real and raw, a conflagration of sensation and emotion that she had never before experienced. He had made her dare to hope for what could be, but hours later, he regarded her as a stranger.

Her eyes stung, yet it was her own fault, she admitted in bitter self-recrimination. She’d carried out a deception, while he’d been nothing but candid. She hadn’t even told him her real name until the tangle of petty lies and deceits were drawn too tight to ever unravel. But then again, he’d never actually said he wanted her. Knowing his weakness, she had seduced him. He had succumbed to her, to the powerful but transient pull of sheer unadulterated lust but had never implied anything more. She scrubbed the angry tears from her face. What would Kitty do now?





CHAPTER TWELVE




Bloody hell! The girl was gone! Although Ned had escaped detection in the tumult, he knew he was in imminent danger of discovery if he didn’t make himself scarce. Having cursed a blue streak, DeVere was now deposited under lock and key in the palace guardhouse, and to make things worse, if that were possible, he was facing the very real prospect of transfer to Bedlam for claiming to be the Viscount DeVere!

Knowing he could do little else in the present circumstances, Ned skulked his way into an empty corridor, discarded his outer garments, and departed St. James Palace less conspicuously in plain shirt and breeches. Leaving his best friend to stew, he set his course for Carlton House.

***

“Duckie.” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Whatever happened to you?”

Phoebe knew she looked bedraggled. Perhaps bedraggled would be a more apt description, she thought wryly. Her hair was a nest of tangles; she’d not had time earlier to tie her laces properly, and she was missing a stocking. She knew she had only escaped the housekeeper’s scrutiny by having diverted her attention to the imposter footman. She wondered, now, what had become of DeVere after his dunking in frigid water. In truth, she couldn’t have imagined a more suitable punishment. The man had sorely needed to be taken down a notch...or three.

“It’s a very long story,” Phoebe said, “And one I don’t yet have time to tell you. Right now, I am in need of your help just one more time. I promise you will be generously compensated.”

The wardrobe mistress waved away the offer of money. “Just tell ol’ Peg what you need.”

“I must go to Carlton House and do not wish to be recognized. Besides, I will never be admitted through the front door unless I appear as a grand lady with servants in tow. Would you accompany me as my lady’s maid?”

“Anything, duckie.”

After a tepid but thorough sponge bath, Phoebe was prepared to reprise her role of Kitty Willis for the final time. The wardrobe mistress laced her tightly into a modish violet and pink silk day gown with a matching violet plumed hat. With a generous amount of powder and rouge, she prayed the effect of dress and cosmetics had sufficiently transformed her from the erstwhile nursery maid to a London lady of fashion. Feeling as prepared as she would ever be, Phoebe called a hack to convey them from Drury Lane to Carlton House.

“Miss Kitty Willis,” she said by way of introduction, adding a haughty lift of her pert nose. She could feel the footman’s disapproval as he scrutinized Phoebe from head to toe behind his supercilious blank mask, but she refused to squirm. Willing her nerves to quiet, she added, “His Highness should be expecting me.”

He quirked a brow at this and then gave a subtle nod. “Then pray follow me, Miss Willis, and I shall inquire if His Highness is receiving.”

When Phoebe entered his private chambers, the Prince of Wales was garbed in a loose flowing banyan. In the midst of his levee, he was surrounded by his tailors, their assistants, and various sycophants. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she advanced into the prince’s private salon, ignoring the lecherous stares she’d invoked by invading a gentleman-only ritual.

Dipping into a puddle of silk damask petticoats, she made her obeisance. When she rose, she focused on a spot in the middle of his forehead, trying not to meet Prince George’s gaze directly. Yet she couldn’t help noting with rising discomfiture his tented brows.

“Miss Willis, is it? Have we met before? I have the feeling we have.”

“No,” she said perhaps too quickly. “I mean not formally, Your Highness,” she amended, “I was present at the little...soiree at King’s Place last night and attended you later with Lord DeVere.”

“She’s the masked Sapphist!” Lord Malden hissed beneath his breath.

The prince smiled. “Ah. And how did it go with you and Lord DeVere?” he asked Phoebe with a sly smile.