Marquesses at the Masquerade(116)

Or some such rot.

“I’m away to dinner,” he said, kissing each daughter on the forehead. “Don’t give Miss Fletcher any trouble, and remember: not a word of my marital aspirations. I must conduct this campaign as I see fit, with no helpful interference from the infantry.”

“Come, Sylvie,” Amanda said, marching to the door. “We must talk.”

That sounded ominous, though Sylvie skipped from the room happily enough. Tyne did not skip from the room, but headed down the steps five minutes later, prepared to endure a long evening making up the numbers at his sister’s dinner party.

He was plagued by the vision of his Valkyrie waiting alone on the path for a suitor who never arrived, though the image of himself being left in the chilly darkness wasn’t any more appealing. Perhaps he’d go to Vauxhall—that was the gentlemanly thing to do—and perhaps he’d leave fairytale kisses in the shadows where they belonged.





Chapter Seven





* * *



Giles had been assigned to intelligence work in the army, though army intelligence had often struck him as a contradiction in terms. His tasks were usually no more dangerous than sitting outside a rural inn and counting the number of wheeled conveyances going past in an afternoon, watching to see which farmer was riding too fine a horse for the condition of his acres, or listening at tavern keyholes and interviewing soiled doves.

He’d learned how to follow someone without being obvious, though, and thus he was inconspicuous as he followed Lucy Fletcher from her garden gate late Tuesday evening.

The only explanation for her dismissal of his proposal was that she had another fish on the line, another gentleman panting after her. Why shouldn’t she? She was pretty enough—considering her age—she liked children, and she was trapped in the household of a priggish lord. Even a vicar’s cottage, where she could be mistress of her own humble world, would appeal by comparison. She’d be a fool to give up such a prospect if the gentleman had nearly come up to scratch.

She’d been so confident in her rejection that Giles concluded his rival must also figure in the lady’s immediate schedule.

Clearly, Giles had been correct, for Lucy wore a long, elegant cloak with the hood pulled up. A sleek town coach stopped in the mews for her—no crests showing—and she quickly ascended.

Naughty, naughty lady. But then, Giles knew she had an adventurous streak. He kept up easily with the coach—nobody went galloping through London at night—and hopped onto the boot of a passing carriage to follow the lady across the river.

To Vauxhall. Where else did lovers meet on cool and cozy nights?

Lucy was intent on a specific destination, for she directed her steps straight to the Lovers’ Walk, no safe place for a lady. She was, of course, on her way to an assignation. Otherwise, she’d never have gone even a short distance beyond the bright illumination elsewhere in the gardens.

She stopped under a stately oak, one casting deep shadows. The occasional couple, trio, or quartet strolled past, but they seemed to notice neither Lucy nor Giles loitering farther down the walk.

Giles’s plan dropped into his head all of a piece, as his best inspirations often did: Lucy was intent on meeting a lover here in the dark, and Giles would oblige her. When she realized that all caps truly were gray in the dark, and one swain could make her as happy as another, he’d have advanced his cause considerably, if not won the day.

*



Lucy had long ago deduced that the Lovers’ Walk was not as dangerous a venue as most chaperones wanted their young charges to believe.

In the first place, torches were placed at intervals, albeit wide, shadowy intervals. In the second, the path was frequented by those intent on discretion. Nobody was peering too closely at anybody else, by mutual, tacit agreement. In the third, the path was far from deserted. While not thronged by foot traffic, a lady crying out in distress would be heard and assistance forthcoming.

Of course, that lady’s reputation might emerge from the incident irreparably scarred, but her physical safety was at little risk.

Lucy’s confidence was further bolstered by the cloak she wore, a loan from Thor and marvelously warm. She’d drawn the hood up before leaving Marianne’s coach and had put Mr. DeCoursy’s Norse tales in her reticule in case she needed to defend herself from untoward advances.

Not that Thor would make any of those. He was a gentleman, of that Lucy had no doubt.

She was also convinced, however, that he was not her gentleman. He was a lovely memory, a very fine kisser, and a man deserving of every happiness, but—

Footsteps along the walkway on the far side of Lucy’s oak gave her pause. A man’s tread, though soft, even stealthy.

“My dear?” He spoke barely above a whisper. “Is that you?”

If Lucy peered around the tree, she’d give her location away, and yet, she could not be certain that was Thor’s voice.

“Madam, I beg you, don’t keep me in suspense. This is the appointed time and place, and I’m here, as agreed.”

Lucy stepped out from behind the oak. “Punctuality is likely one of your many fine attributes.”

She’d recalled Thor as somewhat taller, but perhaps her recollection wasn’t accurate. In the darkness, all she could tell for certain was that a man in a top hat and greatcoat stood a few feet away.