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The Bride of the Unicorn
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
KASEY MICHAELS
“[A] hilarious spoof of society wedding rituals wrapped around a sensual romance filled with crackling dialogue reminiscent of The Philadelphia Story.”
—Booklist on Everything’s Coming Up Rosie
“A cheerful, lighthearted read.”
—Publishers Weekly on Everything’s Coming Up Rosie
“Michaels continues to entertain readers with the verve of her appealing characters and their exciting predicaments.”
—Booklist on Beware of Virtuous Women
“Lively dialogue and characters make the plot’s suspense and pathos resonate.”
—Publishers Weekly on Beware of Virtuous Women
“A must-read for fans of historical romance and all who appreciate Michaels’ witty and sensuous style.”
—Booklist on The Dangerous Debutante
“Michaels is in her element in her latest historical romance, a tale filled with mystery, sexual tension, and steamy encounters, making this a gem from a true master of the genre.”
—Booklist on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Michaels can write everything from a lighthearted romp to a far more serious-themed romance. [Kasey] Michaels has outdone herself.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, Top Pick, on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Nonstop action from start to finish! It seems that author Kasey Michaels does nothing halfway.”
—Huntress Reviews on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Michaels has done it again…. Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details exposing the foibles and follies of the age.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Butler Did It
“Michaels demonstrates her flair for creating likable protagonists who possess chemistry, charm and a penchant for getting into trouble. In addition, her dialogue and descriptions are full of humor.”
—Publishers Weekly on This Must Be Love
“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”
—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts
The Bride of the Unicorn
Kasey Michaels
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
1801
Evil is easy, and has infinite forms.
Blaise Pascal
And doom’d to death, though fated not to die.
John Dryden
“CAROLINE, DO SIT STILL, CHILD. It’s enough that this coach is rocking as if John Coachman were blind as well as deaf and can not see the ruts, without your bouncing to add to the jostle.”
“Felling ill again, pet?” Henry Wilburton, seventh earl of Witham, and soon to become a father again at the advanced age of forty-six, looked adoringly at his young wife, who was still dealing with the fractious three-year-old. “We shouldn’t have stayed so long. Silly children’s party.”
Lady Gwendolyn pulled Caroline closer to her on the wide velvet seat, tucking the carriage blanket around the colorfully embroidered hem of the child’s gown and the chubby legs that refused to remain still, then hastened to reassure her husband. “Nonsense, Henry. It was a delightful evening. I’m much improved now. It was ill-advised of me to have sampled the syllabub, that’s all. At least not until I am past this third month. My reaction to sweet creams was much the same with Caroline, remember?”
“Vividly, my dear, vividly,” Lord Witham answered, stretching forward from the facing seat to pat her hand. “I suppose I will simply have to cosset you outrageously for these next months, a chore I admit I look forward to with great delight.”
“You are the very best of husbands, Henry—and I vow to hold you at your word. I rather enjoy being cosseted.” She reached across her daughter to lift the leather flap over the window and peered out into the darkness brightened only by the coach lamps riding high on either side of the driver’s box, then frowned. She hadn’t been entirely truthful with Henry about the state of her stomach. A lingering queasiness was still giving her fits, and she could barely wait to be out of the swaying coach and on solid ground again. “Are we nearly home? I believe I see raindrops on the pane.”
“Very nearly, pet. Caro, my rambunctious little lamb, why don’t you sing us the song your mama has just taught you? You remember—‘Now Is the Month of Maying.’”
“No, Papa,” Caroline answered with a mulish pout squeezing her small, perfect features. “Caro’s tired,” she said as she burrowed her blond curls against her mother’s breast.
Lady Gwendolyn chuckled at this not uncommon display of temper. “Willful little beast, isn’t she, darling? We can only hope our unborn son will have half Caroline’s starch. Boys should be—What’s that? Henry? That was a shot, I’m sure of it!”
She watched as the earl immediately cocked his head toward the window to his left, then frowned at the unmistakable report of a second pistol shot. He opened his mouth to warn her to take hold of the strap, but it was already too late for her to have time to obey him.
A heartbeat later all three occupants of the coach tumbled to the floor when John Coachman, whose deafness might not have alerted him to the noise, hauled mightily on the traces, then put on the brake as two dark-cloaked riders plunged out of the trees and directly onto the roadway in front of the horses, calling: “Stand and deliver!”
Caroline immediately began to wail, sounding not hurt but angry, as if overcome by a mighty indignation born of finding herself sprawled inelegantly on the floor, wedged partially beneath her mother’s body. Lady Gwendolyn couldn’t blame her, for she too was feeling the effects of being tossed about like so much flotsam.
“Are you all right? Good. Quiet her, Gwen,” Lord Witham ordered as he helped his wife back onto the seat, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small purse that contained ten or twelve gold pieces. “I have enough on my plate being robbed, without Caro’s bawling to add to the chaos. Damned depressing, you know. I was told this road was clear of high-toby men. I’d give half my fortune to be able to turn my pistols on them, but it’s best not to put up a struggle. Give me your jewels, sweetheart, and I’ll step outside and deal with the wretches. We’ll be out of this and home safe and dry in a trice, I promise you.”
Lady Gwendolyn, forgetting her nausea and fatigue, fumbled to remove her diamond earrings and the matching bracelet the earl had given her just that past Christmas. She handed them over, then laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Filthy beasts. I won’t give them my rings, Henry,” she told him firmly, “nor shall they have my beautiful pendant. There are some things that simply cannot be replaced.”
Lord Witham’s smile was eloquent with love, so much so that Lady Gwendolyn felt herself dangerously near to tears. “Anything can be replaced, my sweet,” she heard him say, “except you and our dearest Caroline. Now hurry, my pet,” he added, frowning. “We can’t have the rascals catching more than a glimpse of either you or the child. You are both too beautiful by far, and I don’t wish to tempt them.”
Tamping down what she considered to be a reasonable rise of hysteria, Lady Gwendolyn slipped the rings from her finger for the first time since her husband had placed them there on their wedding day, and laid them in his hand. She was just raising her hands to her throat to slip the pendant up and over her head when the off door was flung open and a man wearing a full face mask gruffly ordered Lord Henry to leave the coach.
“Henry, no! For the love of heaven, don’t leave us.” Lady Gwendolyn felt her bravado desert her, and she clung fiercely to his arm, but he gently shook himself free of her grip, smiled reassuringly yet again, and stepped down into the road.
Left alone with her child, who was now wide-eyed and quiet, Lady Gwendolyn willed herself not to fall to pieces. People were robbed every day on the king’s highways. The lack of safety in these enlightened times was a national disgrace, as she had heard when the subject was discussed earlier, at Sir Stephen’s party for his youngest son’s birthday.
But people weren’t just robbed of their valuables, Lady Gwendolyn remembered. Sometimes, if they resisted, they were shot—killed! A man had met that terrible fate trying to defend himself just last month, somewhere near to London. Shot dead, he had been, and scarcely a mile from his estate.
Not that anything so terrible would happen to them. After all, this wasn’t London. This was Sussex. This was a civilized countryside. And her dearest, bravest Henry was cooperating with the highwaymen.
And yet…
Lady Gwendolyn was so frightened, no matter how reassuring her husband’s smile had been, and longed to do something to help him. Her hands went to her throat and the gold chain that still hung there. It wouldn’t do to have the highwaymen discover her wearing it and believe they had tried to hide some of their valuables. She quickly removed the pendant and chain and hung it around Caroline’s throat, prudently stuffing its length inside the collar of the child’s dress. No one, not even a highwayman, would be so basely cruel, so dastardly, as to search an infant!
But it wasn’t enough. There had to be something else—some other way to help. Henry had asked her to do something, something about Caroline. Yes, yes. She remembered now. He had wanted her kept quiet and concealed; he had distinctly said so. She looked down at the child, to see that Caroline’s little chin was quivering, as if she were about to burst into tears once more.
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all!
And then Lady Gwendolyn was struck by an inspiration that would both keep her daughter quiet and hide the pendant from the highwaymen. Henry would be so proud of her for thinking of it! Why, at the next party they attended, Henry would hold court at the dinner table, recounting their brush with highwaymen and his wife’s brilliance.
Leaning forward, she raised the velvet-covered seat her husband had just vacated and surveyed the small, roughly lined compartment usually reserved for extra luggage. “Here, my darling,” she whispered, lifting Caroline and placing her small body in the compartment. “You hide in here for now, until Papa comes back. Be very quiet, please, so you can surprise him when I tell you to come out again. Can you do that, Caroline? Can you be a big girl and play this game for Mama?”
“A game, Mama?” Caroline repeated, visibly brightening. “Caro play a game?”
“Yes, darling! What a good girl you are. You are my sweet, darling Caro. Now give Mama a kiss.”
She hugged the child, clinging to her desperately, fearfully, for a moment before motioning for Caroline to bow her head so that the seat could be lowered back into position. Then Lady Gwendolyn sat down on the seat, daintily spread out the satin skirt of her gown, took a deep breath, and dared to push aside the leather curtain and peek outside.
It was raining steadily now, a drenching downpour, but the flickering light from the coach lamps provided her with a vague, distorted view of what was transpiring in the roadway.
She saw Henry standing no more than three feet from the door to the coach, his back to her, his hands raised, as one of the highwayman held a pistol leveled at his chest.
A second robber stood nearby, and she could see her jewels glinting in one gloved hand as he aimed a pistol up at the box, at John Coachman, an old man so timid and defenseless that Lady Gwendolyn had more than once suggested to her husband that the man was getting past it. And it was true. If John had only had the ears to hear the first shots he might have sprung the horses and they would be home and dry now, as her dearest Henry had promised, instead of sitting stranded on the roadway, in the clutches of these nefarious highwaymen.
Lady Gwendolyn shuddered, her feelings of helplessness returning. What was taking so long? Surely it was almost over now. Or were they planning to search the coach anyway? But why would they do that? They already had her jewels. They already had all of Henry’s money.
She pressed her fingers against the cold pane, wishing she could touch her husband, wishing she could hear what was being said, wishing she were stronger or smarter or braver.
And then the robber holding her jewels raised his pistol slightly and fired, the flash of powder visible a heartbeat before the earsplitting report that caused her entire body to flinch uncontrollably.
She heard rather than saw John Coachman’s body tumble into the roadway, for she was already looking toward her husband, who had dropped his hands and turned toward the coach, toward her.
“Gwen!” she heard him shout as he took a single step in her direction, his beloved face pale and frightened in the dim light. “Get out the other side. Run! Run into the trees!”
Run? Take Caro and leave him? Never! And yet, even if she had wanted to obey him, she could not have done so.
She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t breathe.
All she could do was watch, horrified, paralyzed, her fingers still locked behind the windowpane, as another shot rang out and Henry was flung forward heavily, to fall against the side of the coach, then slide away from her, to the ground.
“Henry—no!” Lady Gwendolyn reached for the latch, disregarding the earl’s warning, forgetting her child, not caring for her own safety. She threw open the door her husband, her protector, had closed behind him a minute earlier—a lifetime ago.
Her hands braced on either side of the opening, she struggled with the damning reality of seeing her husband lying just below her feet, his body facedown in the mud, a dark, ominous stain spreading on the back of his jacket. “Henry. Oh, my dear God—Henry!”
She raised her head and screamed at the highwaymen, her voice high-pitched with mounting hysteria. “We gave you all our money—all our jewelry. We gave you everything! And you killed him. There was no reason, no need. Why? Why did you do this?”
The man who had discharged his second pistol into the seventh earl of Witham stripped away his dark mask, revealing wickedly grinning features as he advanced in Lady Gwendolyn’s direction. “Good evening, Gwen. Beastly weather, isn’t it?”
She stared at the man as his face was revealed in the flickering light of the coach lamps, unable to understand either his presence or his actions. She then looked down at her husband’s body and shuddered convulsively before turning uncomprehending eyes back to Lord Henry’s killer. “But why? Why?”
She continued to watch as the man—this man she knew, this man she had trusted—took another step forward and slowly pulled a third long-barreled weapon from his belt….
BOOK ONE
A QUESTION OF HONOR
October 1815
Chance is a nickname for Providence.
Sébastien R. N. Chamfort
CHAPTER ONE
We die only once, and for such a long time!
Molière
LORD JAMES BLAKELY trusted his nephew did not view the scene now unfolding for his benefit as particularly jolly. Such interludes were by right supposed to be off-putting, damn it, deadly solemn and hung heavy with foreboding. Later—once the body had grown stiff and cold—there would be ample time for Morgan Blakely to perform a jig on his grave.
If he could.
For now, however, Lord James, in his own way, and in his own good time, would dance.
He had set up the particulars for this occasion with infinite care—planned his starring role down to the last detail. The gloomy, barnlike bedchamber suited his purpose perfectly, for he knew it had never been the most advantageous stage setting for any save moribund frolic.
Lord James had long ago opted to take his physical pleasures in somewhat less inhibiting surroundings, the more baseborn his partner the better. That sort of female did not take exception when the play turned rough. At least they had never shown their distaste—not for the heavy blunt he’d paid down to indulge his appetites.
And if he’d ruined one or two of the round-heeled bitches for the business, well, what of it? Nothing lasted. Nothing lived forever.
And he should know. He could see the demons gathering now, hovering in a far corner, high against the ceiling, rubbing their clawlike hands together and licking slimy, reptilian lips; eager to snatch him up, slash out his soul, and pitch it down, down, into the very bowels of the earth.
But not yet. No. He still had time. He still had something he had to do; a last, perfect mischief that would render his damnation tolerable.
Lord James moistened his parched, fever-cracked lips and looked about the room, searching out his audience of one.
The chamber was particularly musty this October evening, its bog-water green velvet draperies shut tight, its heavy Tudor furniture hulking ponderously against the tapestry-hung walls, the wretchedly ineffectual fire in the oversized grate hissing rather than crackling.
The price of good wood could beggar a man. The smoke and sizzle of green wood might make living plaguey uncomfortable, but it was more than good enough to die by.
The world outside the drafty windows couldn’t have been any more appropriate, nature helping him with his scene-setting. It had been raining all day; a heavy, drenching, reminiscent downpour that had set all the usual damp patches on the ceiling to showing themselves to disadvantage while lending to the stale, musty air another aroma to ponder: mildew.
The only sound Lord James heard was that of rainwater splashing tinnily into a half dozen pails set at irregular intervals on the threadbare carpet—along with his own decidedly evil chuckling and intermittent coughing, as he had just completed entertaining his guest with a little tale about a liaison he’d once had with the local rat catcher’s daughter.
Vulgarity was so comforting, such a glaringly human vice in the midst of this tawdry business of dying. He, Lord James Blakely, rapidly fading but still cheerfully malevolent, would do his damnedest to make his passing as miserable for his guest as possible. He might be only a few days or hours away from being put to bed with a shovel, but was that any reason to alter by so much as a hair the habits of a lifetime?
“The rat catcher’s daughter. My congratulations, Uncle, for you are nothing if not consistent,” Morgan Blakely said now, as Lord James went off in another paroxysm of high-pitched giggles. “I have always so enjoyed your feeble attempts at humor. You really should have written them all down somewhere, for the sake of posterity, you understand. But then, you did write some things down, didn’t you, some little tidbits of information—and then forwarded them directly to France via one of the less discriminating smuggling gangs that frequent the coast.”
Lord James’s face blanched, his enjoyment decimated, and he looked furtively at his nephew. “You know about that?” he asked, his handkerchief still pressed to his mouth, a string of spittle dribbling from his chin.
Morgan spoke in a deadly sweet drawl, his distaste for his uncle maddeningly obvious in the relaxed stance of his long, leanly muscled body. “Dear me, yes,” he answered, smiling for the first time since he’d entered the bedchamber.
Lord James gritted his teeth, shaking with fury. “When? How?”
“Must I really indulge you? Oh, very well. I have known since before Waterloo, since shortly after my return from France. As for the how of it—you do remember my mission during the war, don’t you, my area of operation? Tell me, Uncle—was the money you received for selling secrets all the sweeter for the thought that the information you forwarded to Bonaparte could have meant the end of your brother’s son? I’ve occasionally wondered about that possibility—in idle moments, you understand.”
Morgan knew. Cold-hearted bastard! If only I had my pistol, I’d shoot him square between those mocking devil-black eyes, and consign him to hell before me!
But Lord James didn’t have his pistol. He was dying; defenseless in front of the man he had planned to bring low, now with more reason than simple hate to goad him. Was there no justice? No justice at all?
Lord James’s eyes slid away from his nephew’s face. He felt himself growing weaker by the moment, and still he had not begun to tell Morgan the reason he had summoned him. Instead, Morgan had taken center stage, had muddled the plot with a last-minute alteration to the script. Lord James had wondered why his contacts on the Continent had dried up three years ago—and with them nearly his sole source of income. Morgan had done it. His own nephew!
Yet why was he surprised? Shouldn’t he have known that Morgan was behind it—his maddeningly secretive nephew with the heart of stone and ice water in his veins?
Suddenly it became important to Lord James that his nephew understand the horrors he had been through, the very valid reasons for his treason. “This house took all my money, always has. Decrepit pile, the bane of every younger son! Why else do you think I agreed to work with Bonaparte? But my contact stopped asking for my help, stopped sending all that lovely money.” He tried to lift himself onto his elbows. “Because of you. All because of you!”
Morgan raised a perfectly manicured finger to stroke at one ebony eyebrow. “Ah, your contact, at the War Office. Thorndyke, wasn’t it? Yes, that was his name. George Thorndyke. He became very useful, once we were able to supply him with secrets we wished passed along—through other channels, of course. I could not have the family name involved. Having one’s own uncle hanging from a gibbet could be a tad embarrassing, you understand. I did tell you that poor Thorndyke is dead these past two months or more, didn’t I? I know you’ve been out of touch here in Sussex, dying and all.”
“Thorndyke’s dead?” Lord James narrowed his eyes as he glared at Morgan. “What did you do?”
“Uncle—how you wound me. You know I am not a man of violence. Thorndyke died suddenly. Hanged himself in his study only hours after I left him, as a matter of fact. And we’d had such a lovely visit, too. It was a most depressing funeral. You can count yourself lucky to have missed it.”
Lord James’s once large frame, now ravaged by illness, seemed to shrink even more under his nephew’s casually spoken words. It didn’t matter now. He couldn’t be hurt now, carted away for treason. Yet he had to know. “Who else? Who else knows?”
“Actually,” Morgan answered, “nobody.” He pulled over a chair and positioned it at his uncle’s bedside before sitting down. “I thought it prudent to keep your dirty linen in the cupboard.”
“Your father,” Lord James spat grudgingly, his ravaged face pinched into a condescending sneer. “Your endlessly ungrateful idiot of a father. You did it for him.”
“For my father, yes,” Morgan answered shortly. “I discovered that, at the time, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice his good name in order to exercise a paltry justice on you. But that is neither here nor there now, as your sadly wasted body has saved me from suffering through another interview such as the one I had with Thorndyke—just to tie up all the loose ends now that the war is over, you understand. Dearest Uncle James—and I trust I have deduced correctly: that is a death rattle I hear in your throat, isn’t it?”
