A Scandalous Proposal

The handsome, famous Cooper McGinley Townsend, who had been silent until now, his elbow propped on one arm of the chair, his chin in his hand, ignored the question to ask, “Where is the countess? I would have thought she’d had you bound and gagged and locked up in the nursery by now.”

“Oh, ouch,” the viscount said, wincing rather comically. “Did that hurt, Miss Foster? I rather think it didn’t, not from the width of that smile. We can safely ignore him, you know. He’s been locked in an unpleasant mood all day. Not that he’s ever particularly jolly, being by nature a calm, sensible, nearly boring man. My friends and I tolerate him because of his good heart, you understand. Plus, he’s managed to rescue us from most of our scrapes since our boyhoods with his good common sense. Haven’t you, Coop?”

Dany held her smile, but her heart had never been in it, so that her cheeks were beginning to ache. “The trials and tribulations of being a hero must weigh heavily.” She looked almost boldly into those suddenly dark green eyes. She felt he could look straight through her, and it was unnerving, if also faintly delicious. “I feel absolutely terrible, an encroaching beast and any other vile thing you can think of, but I fear I must hold you to your word. My sister truly does need a hero. She’s in a terrible pickle.”

Cooper got to his feet. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid the viscount is correct. My behavior, both now and on Bond Street, has been beyond reprehensible and far from anyone’s fault save my own ill humor.” He then proceeded to bow from the waist, rather elegantly, and add, “How may I make it up to you, Miss Foster?”

Dany knew herself to be many things, but a lack of backbone (or a mouth) had never been a problem. “A drive in Hyde Park today at five wouldn’t come amiss. Appearing with the hero would probably do my reputation no end of good, which should help placate my sister, who believes I’m nearly past saving even now. My lord Nailbourne? Laughing again? You are easily amused, aren’t you? Have you ever considered trotting into Society with a monkey on a chain? You could wear matching hats.”

Now, for the first time, Dany heard the baron’s laughter, clear and full and wonderfully charming. Even better, he laughed with his entire body—his smile wide, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling, his shoulders shaking as he showed his pleasure.

“Miss Foster,” he said as he seated himself once more, this time with his legs slightly spread, and resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her, “I would be delighted. But on the contrary, being seen with you will do my reputation no end of good, as I do believe you are going to take the Little Season by storm.”

Now Dany leaned forward, feeling more comfortable with each passing moment. “Now you see, that’s just what I said,” she told him earnestly. “Mari isn’t quite so sure, and I know my mother is sitting in her private parlor at home even now, making rash promises to our Lord if He will only keep me mute until some poor fool decides he can’t live without red-haired children.”

“Miss Foster, you are too candid by half. I think I adore you,” Lord Nailbourne interjected.

“Stifle yourself, Darby,” the baron warned quietly. “Ignore him, Miss Foster. He’s much more used to being the one whose every word should be considered a masterpiece of dry humor.”

“Wry humor,” the viscount corrected. “I am an observer, Miss Foster, and do occasionally delight in sharing those observations.”

“I see. And what are your observations of the situation as it stands at this time, my lord? With the three of us here, that is.”

Darby looked at his friend for a long moment, and then shook his head. “No, not today. I think I’ll wait. It might be safer.” He then got to his feet just as Timmerly entered the room with the teapot and some cakes. “I believe I now should recall that I have an appointment with my tailor. Or perhaps with my vintner. In any case, Miss Foster, I’m going to toddle off and leave the two of you to discuss her ladyship’s dilemma without me in the way. Coop, you can fill me in later if it turns out my earlier offer of assistance remains necessary.”

“Coward,” Coop murmured as the viscount preceded Timmerly out of the room. Then he turned back to Dany, who was hopefully striking her most innocent pose. One, sadly, she had never quite mastered.

“I know you’re young, and at least marginally innocent in the ways of the world, but I feel compelled to ask—did you set out deliberately to roust my good friend from the premises?”

Dany sat back against the cushions, one hand to her bosom. “Me? Do something as horridly underhanded as to all but point out that he wasn’t necessary at the moment?” She laid her hands in her lap. “Yes, of course. My sister made me promise not to share her humiliation with the viscount.”

“You could have asked him to leave.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now that, my lord, would have been impolite. Shall I pour?”

“Not for me, thank you, as I won’t be lingering much longer. You know what you are, Miss Foster? You’re the sister I’m so delighted my mother never birthed.”

Dany had been reaching for the silver teapot, but withdrew her hand, as she’d never played hostess before and she was more than a tad worried her hand might shake, giving away her true feelings now that she was all but alone with the baron (Emmaline’s snores were soft, but audible). She would have felt insulted, if not for the smile on the baron’s face. “My sister’s feelings, at least very nearly so. She has said she’d often wished I were the sister my parents didn’t have, or words to that effect. Of course, she says much the same about Dexter, our brother. But she doesn’t mean it.”

“Then I suppose I don’t, either. In fact, I’m going to convince myself you’re no more than a younger sister brimming over with good intentions. Can I safely do that, Miss Foster?”

“Oh, yes, yes. That’s exactly what I am. Not that I’m not madder than a hatter that she managed to get herself into such a predicament. Really. It sounds much more like something I would have done—at least our mother would say so. Except that I know I’m possibly outrageous at times, even a sad trial, but I’m not a complete looby.”

“My friend Oliver married a looby? You must understand that, as much as I wish to be of assistance to his wife, I refuse to do anything that would harm him.”

“Your friend Oliver married a smile as sweet as sugar, a pair of soulful blue eyes and a slim soft body he was attracted to as bees are to honey, and then found himself bracketed to a romantic ninny who believes she should continue to be courted day in and day out for the rest of their lives. I’ve told her, that sort of thing...wears off after a few years, and you become comfortable with each other, as our parents have done. But she doesn’t believe that. Mari...well, Mari needs attention. And...and drama.”

“Which the earl is no longer supplying? You’re putting me to the blush, Miss Foster.”

Dany shrugged her slim shoulders. This explaining business was more difficult than she had imagined. “As I’m not privy to their private lives, I cannot answer that, and you, my lord, should never have asked the question. I can only tell you that he forgot her birthday before heading north with his chums to hook salmon or shoot winged things, which apparently can only be considered a declaration of his disenchantment with his wife.”

Coop scratched at a spot just behind his left ear. “I should probably add this to the list I’ve been keeping on the perils of matrimony.”

“You keep a list? Do you have another on the benefits of the wedded state?”

“No, but if I ever think of anything I’ll be sure to write it down. Miss Foster, can we please get to the point? Your sister revenged herself on Oliver, didn’t she? What did she do? And please don’t tell me she took a lover, because I don’t have the faintest idea how to rescue her from anything like that, unless you expect me to kill somebody for her. Which I won’t.”

“Ah, such a sad disappointment you are, my lord. So it would be asking too much to have you insult the man’s ancestors or some such thing, then demand pistols at dawn? As a hero, I’ll assume you’re a fairly good shot, so it wouldn’t present too much of a problem for you.”

“And then I’d escape to the continent for the remainder of my days because duels are outlawed and I’d be hanged if I stayed?”

“Yes, I suppose that is too much to ask. What are you prepared to do?”

“Since I don’t know the precise nature of the problem, nothing. Again, I remind you, Oliver is a friend.”

“I was avoiding the details,” Dany told him, feeling fairly certain telling him the truth—that she was thoroughly enjoying their nonsense exchanges—would only encourage more, and she was having enough difficulty not melting each time she looked in his amused green eyes.

“Avoid them no longer, Miss Foster. Has the countess taken a lover she now wishes would disappear, preferably without a trace?”

Dany shook her head. “Nearly as bad, but not so dire as to contemplate a permanent solution meted out on the man. She began a correspondence with—and I say this with as much disgust as the words engender—a secret admirer.”

Now it seemed to be the baron’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “Is that all? I agree with you. If we were to line up the married ladies of the ton who have exchanged silly correspondence with supposed secret admirers, they’d probably stretch from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Twice. Simply tell the countess to stop fretting. I’m certain Oliver will understand, although why she’d tell him I have no idea.”

“If only it were that easy, my lord, we would not be having this conversation. My sister penned her innermost thoughts to the man, her complaints and misgivings about the beastly, horridly unromantic, probably philandering Oliver, who of course broke her heart into tiny pieces before going off with his male friends to do Lord only knows what. She bared her heart, my lord, her overwrought, melodramatic soul. And everything you can think of she should never have written.”

The baron slightly adjusted his posture. His lean cheeks colored slightly, which was so adorable, especially in a hero. “Hmm. Would this confession expand to include, um, matters of...of marital intimacy? Please say no,” he added quickly.

Even Dany knew she also should be blushing at this point. But perhaps because this all was rather old news to her, or in the light of her never experiencing “marital intimacy” and therefore not approaching the subject with the amount of gravitas she otherwise might, she answered in her usual amused way. “Or the sad lack thereof, my lord?”

“Not good, not good,” he said nearly under his breath.

“Why?”

“Why?” He looked at her directly now. “Because no man would ever wish his manhood questioned, that’s why. Who’s this secret admirer?”

Dany busied herself with a lemon square, shoving a bite in her mouth and mumbling around it, hoping not to be heard, but knowing she had to tell him the truth. “And therein, my lord, lies the rub. She’s never so much as met the man, or if she did, she didn’t know he and her admirer are one and the same. It’s beyond silly, actually, although she’s convinced Oliver won’t see the humor I see in the thing. To put it briefly, my lord—we don’t know.”

“She—she doesn’t know? For the love of heaven, Miss Foster, how could she not know the name of her secret admir— No, don’t answer that. Because then he wouldn’t be secret, would he? Women, you’re all to let in the attic, aren’t you?”

Dany felt it necessary to defend her gender, and perhaps even her sister in particular. “Now I may call you out. Women, by and large, are ten times more sensible than men. We wouldn’t have stupid wars, for one thing. Even my sister isn’t usually so empty-headed, if that’s what ‘to let in the attic’ means. She’s simply emotional at the moment. My God! I wonder if Mrs. Yothers was right, and she is— No, she’d know that, wouldn’t she? She’d have to know that, for pity’s sake.”

The baron got to his feet, beginning to pace. “When you’re done debating yourself, Miss Foster, perhaps we can return to this matter of the unknown secret admirer?”

Dany put down the remainder of the lemon square, her very favorite, her appetite having disappeared, perhaps forever. “The dress shop owner believes the countess is...is increasing.” She looked up at Cooper, who was now standing stock-still. “A seamstress can’t know more than the person in question, could she?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No, probably not. You’re not as calm and collected as I would have imagined a hero would be, you know.”

“I’m not a hero, damn it!” He held up his hands. “I beg your pardon, Miss Foster. But I’m not a hero. Anything you read in that god-awful chapbook was made up out of whole cloth.”

Well, wasn’t that disappointing. “None of it? You didn’t rescue any children?”

He tipped his head to one side for a moment. “Well, that’s true. But I didn’t plan it. It...it just happened. One minute I was standing there with everyone else, and the next I was tossing down my rifle and running. It seemed like the thing to do. And what does any of that matter?”

“I imagine it matters to the children you saved from being trampled or shot, the Englishmen who were then free to defend themselves from a French slaughter. Oh, and to the veiled lady. Was there a veiled lady?”

“A holy nun. A veiled nun, yes.”

“Now you’re lying,” she said, not knowing why she felt so certain, but certain nonetheless. “You’re protecting her, whoever she is. That’s why she disappeared. You took her somewhere safe, and only then returned to the camp, hours after the battle. Even now, you protect her. She must be very important to someone.”

His green eyes flashed, his eyelids narrowed—just the way his unknown biographer had written. “I don’t like you, Miss Foster.”

“That’s understandable. I’ve rather bullied my way into your life, haven’t I? I have no shame in that, however, as my sister desperately needs a hero, unwilling hero or not,” she told him brightly. “Inconveniently for you, you’re a man of your word, because you’re still here, when a lesser man would have broken down the earl’s front door in his haste to be gone. He knows who she is, naturally.”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We’re back to my sister and her secret admirer. He knows her because the notes he wrote were delivered here. That’s only sensible. But he also knows her because she foolishly signed her name to her notes. Probably with a flourish, and including her title. Mari can be a bit of a twit.”

“All right, I think I finally understand. Your sister wants me to discover the identity of her anonymous admirer in order to have her notes returned to her. And how am I supposed to go about that, Miss Foster? Does your sister by chance keep a list of her admirers, as a sort of starting point for me, you understand?”

“No, and it’s not that simple. I can show you the letters he wrote to her, I suppose. There may be a hint or two there I’ve overlooked. But it’s his final missive—or should I say almost final missive—that is causing all of this trouble.”

So saying, she reached into her pocket and drew out a folded note, handing it over to him.

He looked at it, almost as if he didn’t want to touch it, and then suddenly all but grabbed it from her. Opening it, he read aloud.

“Five hundred pounds or the next person to read your love notes will be your husband, just before the collection is published in a pamphlet entitled Confessions of a Society Matron Forced to Seek Solace in the Arms of Another, Rejected by Her Husband, Who Apparently Is Immune to Feminine Charms, Preferring the Company of Others of His Own Persuasion.

“Yes, this is blackmail, and I’m quite good at it. Your husband returns soon, my lady, and you have no time to dawdle. I will be in touch.”

“You can see he is fairly specific while remaining disturbingly vague. Mari has no idea how to produce five pounds without applying to her husband, let alone five hundred, but she’s fairly certain whatever this man is threatening will greatly upset Oliver.”

“Upset him? Miss Foster, you have no idea, thankfully. Son of a— When did this arrive?”

“A few days ago. Why? Oh, no, he has not contacted my sister again. Should we be looking for a discreet jeweler to buy some of Mari’s necklaces, or are you thinking this is an empty threat?”

“I don’t think the countess can assume it’s an empty threat, no. May I keep this? And do you have his other notes?”

Did he seem more interested now? Yes, he did. Perhaps it was the hero in him stepping to the fore. Or concerns for Oliver. It certainly couldn’t be anything else, could it?

Dany retrieved those from behind the cushions, cloyingly tied up with a pink ribbon, because Mari didn’t learn quickly, if she learned at all. She still probably harbored at least a slight hope that the blackmailer was only trying to attempt to get her to write to him again. Which she would only do over Dany’s dead body, and so she had informed the countess. Folding up notes and placing them in...

“Oh, you might want to know how they corresponded,” she said as the baron pocketed the notes. “The first was delivered by a maid who was handed the note and a copper piece on the street, with instructions for its delivery. I’ve questioned her, naturally. The man didn’t hand off the note himself, but used a young lad who then disappeared. The rest were exchanged by tucking the notes in a knothole in the third tree from the right behind the mansion. My bedchamber windows overlook the mews, and I’ve done my best for the past several nights to remain awake and watching, but am ashamed to admit I make a poor sentry. I’ve never lasted much beyond midnight before falling asleep at my post.”

He was looking at her oddly now, very nearly measuring her. What on earth was he thinking?

“No, I can’t do that. Even Darby isn’t that foolhardy.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing, Miss Foster. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“Only my thoughts on how to catch out the rotter so you can teach him a firm lesson. You will do that, correct, or what is the use of finally knowing who he is? So here’s the thing, my lord. He has to communicate with my sister again, correct? Threaten her with dire consequences and upset her again, then tell her where to place the money and all of that nonsense so that he can swoop down, masked and caped, and disappear with his ill-gotten lucre.”

“Read your share of penny dreadfuls, have you?”

“The blame isn’t on my head if Mama often forgets to lock them up in her desk. But I’m right, aren’t I? He wrote that he would be in touch. I doubt he’ll wait too long, don’t you? Why, he might even return tonight, to place another message in the tree. Which means you have to be in my bedchamber before midnight. It’s the best vantage point. I know that, because I’ve tried them all. There aren’t enough shrubs to constitute a concealed hidey-hole, the windows in the kitchens are barely aboveground and I could only look from my sister’s windows if I involved her, which I won’t. She would send me straight home if she knew I was making myself personally involved in her misadventure. I’d raise too much attention if I availed myself of the view from the servants’ quarters in the attics. Oh, and before you ask, the windows in Oliver’s study are stained glass, and impossible to see through.”

“You’ve put a good measure of thought into this, haven’t you?”

“I have. Which leaves your only good vantage point the windows in my bedchamber.” She smiled at him, knowing he was becoming more frustrated by the moment. “It’s a narrow house, my lord, for all its grandeur.”

“I already ruled that out, thank you.”

“You did? Oh, so that’s what you were muttering about. But you considered it, if only briefly. What turned you against the idea?”

“Why, Miss Foster, I have no idea. Unless I’m looking at her.”

Dany was young, but women are born old as the world in some areas. “Your notoriety seems to have gone to your head, my lord, as you grossly overestimate your appeal.”

“Wonderful. Now, mere aeons too late, you’ve decided to take umbrage. Did it not occur to you that you, Miss Foster, are grossly underestimating your charms?”

Now he’d done it, made her genuinely angry. And they’d been rather enjoying each other’s banter, she was certain of it. Being friendly, even chummy, as Dexter would say. “That isn’t funny. Nor is it flattering, if that’s what you were aiming for with that ridiculous statement. I’d considered us partners in this adven—this arrangement. I can be of help. I want to help. Mari is my sister, remember. I release you of your obligation. You may leave. Now.”

“Do you feel better now that you’ve climbed up on your high horse?” he asked, shaking his head as if looking down at his favorite hound, just to see that it had piddled on his boots. “And I’m not going anywhere. No, that’s not true. I am leaving now, but I’ll return at half past four, to take you for that drive in the park. Or did you forget that?”

Rats. She had forgotten. He was going to lend his consequence to her entry into the Little Season, especially since Mari had taken to her bed, vowing not to leave it again for the Remainder of Her Life. Who’s the looby now, Daniella Foster?

Sometimes it was wiser to bend, at least a little, in order to achieve one’s ends.

“Very well, my lord, I accept your apology.”

“I rather thought you would, even though I haven’t offered one. We may or may not have much more to speak about during our drive.”

“Really?”

He got to his feet. “Possibly. First, I’m going to consult the most unlikely physician anyone could imagine, and have him examine my brain. Until later, Miss Foster.”

Then he bowed over her hand—she’d think about her reaction to that slight intimacy later—and left her where she sat, probably wise not to attempt standing anytime soon.

CHAPTER FIVE

DARBY TRAVERS FINISHED his examination of the two notes, an exercise that hadn’t taken more than a minute at the outside, and placed them back on his friend’s desk. “You aren’t really applying to me for my one-eyed opinion, are you? My sole contribution, I imagine, is only to look aghast and exclaim, ‘Good God, man, the handwriting is one and the same!’”

“As is the phrasing, yes, thank you,” Coop said, still leaning against that same desk, a glass of wine dangling from his fingertips. “The bastard seems to have begun a cottage industry of blackmailing. I wonder how many others there are out there at the moment, suffering the same dilemma.”

“If he’s going after straying husbands and wives, my best guest would number in the hundreds. But then there’s you, which makes a case for the man’s diversity of ambition, and his, shall we say, growth in said ambition. Taking the time to both pen and publish two entire chapbooks for a mere ten thousand pounds? You may be his prize victim, the pinnacle of his nefarious career, if that flatters you at all, and I begin to think you’re also a bird he will pluck more than once if you let him. I wonder how long he’s been working at his trade.”

“You’re thinking of gifting him with a few pointers?” Coop picked up the note to the countess. “Five hundred pounds. I believe the countess has already considered selling some of her jewelry to pay him. The man isn’t stupid, demanding more than she could possibly manage to produce.”

“Not as much investment involved penning sappy, soppy letters to unhappy young matrons. I imagine he considers the amount a fair return on his efforts. No more than fifty pounds to blackmail our own Prinny, and even then he’d probably only receive our royal debtor’s scribbled vowels in return.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. I’m merely looking at the thing from our blackmailer’s point of view, and must applaud his thinking. Five pounds from a shoemaker who passes off inferior leathers by means of clever dyes. Ten pounds six from the seamstress who delivers gowns and picks up various little rewards from milady’s shelves and tucks them up in her sewing basket while inside the residence. That sort of thing could take considerable effort for small reward, but one has to begin somewhere, doesn’t one? Gain polish, slowly grow your profits and then move on to larger targets?”