The Duke's Defiant Bride (Brides of Mayfair Book 4) Read online

  It was an impressive speech, but Carver was not yet ready to trust her. How could he after what happened at Villarosa?

  “There is something more,” she continued. “I confess I wanted to see you again. If admitting that is a crime, then I am guilty.”

  Carver let himself absorb her words, but part of him retreated behind his well-honed defences. “Where do we go from here?” he asked, finally.

  “We focus on the mission,” she said. “And I will do my best to earn your trust. If we can thwart Napoleon’s sympathizers and prevent countless numbers from dying in another war, then everything we’ve been through will be worth it. Don’t you agree?”

  Carver didn’t know what he thought at the moment. Part of him wanted to believe every word Juliet said. Another part of him balked at the idea, even while he wanted to pull her down on the bed and make love to her for the next three days, maybe longer.

  Juliet was right about one thing. Regardless of their complicated past, they had a mission to fulfil which was bigger than both of them. Major Nye had brought them together for a reason. He believed Carver and Juliet could stop Napoleon by uncovering the Emperor’s secret network of supporters here in England.

  “Alright, Lady Blade,” Carver said. “We shall work together and make sure that Napoleon Bonaparte never sets foot in Europe again. But good luck earning my trust, because I am not the sort of man who makes the same mistake twice.”

  * * *

  The next evening, Carver escorted Juliet to a society ball in Mayfair, hosted by the Marquess and Marchioness of Bosworth. Lord and Lady Bosworth were young and fashionable, the marquess having only recently inherited the title. The attractive couple was fast becoming a cornerstone of London society.

  Major Nye had received information that the Bosworths could be part of the network sympathetic to Napoleon. Carver and Juliet were there to see what they could learn.

  Carver kept an eye on Juliet as she spoke with the elderly—and somewhat besotted—Sir Charlton Lindley. The man was approaching ninety, but he stared at Juliet as if she were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Which, Carver thought, was to be expected, for Juliet was easily the most beautiful woman at the Bosworth ball.

  They had turned many heads when the major domo announced them, “His Grace, the Duke of Hawksmoor and Baroness de Rochefort.”

  For tonight’s appearance, Juliet wore an eye-catching gown of deepest royal violet. The high Empire waist and decadently plunging neckline showed off her slim figure and impressive, creamy white breasts. A stunning necklace of amethysts and diamonds adorned her neck, with one large stone in the shape of a teardrop dangling into her cleavage. Her luxurious, long chestnut hair was intricately styled in the Grecian tradition, with a strand of delicate diamond stars woven throughout.

  She looked like a queen, or an empress.

  The truth was, Juliet had chosen tonight’s costume very carefully. Bonaparte’s first wife, the Empress Josephine, had adored violets as her favorite flower. During Napoleon’s exile, violets had become a symbol of those who supported the Emperor and wished for his return to Europe.

  By wearing these colors, Juliet was subtly advertising an interest in the deposed dictator, and his future.

  Carver watched as Juliet played her role like a skilled thespian. She effortlessly held court as the beautiful, widowed baroness, whose late husband held property in France and England. If that wasn’t baiting the hook, he didn’t know what was.

  Just then, two men appeared beside Carver, holding glasses of champagne.

  “Now tell me, Carver, old chap,” one of them said, “who is the mysterious baroness? You never mentioned this distant relation to us before. I must say, Alfred and I are very put out. We are, after all, your former comrades. If you are escorting a beautiful baroness about town, we should be the first to know. Shouldn’t we, Alfred?”

  “Becks is right,” Lord Weston said. “You must tell us more about the lovely Lady de Rochefort. Though we made her acquaintance at Beckett and Isobel’s ball, she is beginning to look more familiar to me. However, I cannot place her. Who is she? And more importantly, Prudence wants to know if you are courting her?”

  Carver paused a moment before answering. During the war, Alfred and Beckett had briefly met Lady Blade upon her arrival at Villarosa, but she had looked different then. The fact that they could not identify her now was an advantage to his and Juliet’s mission.

  Carver sipped his champagne. “I could tell you, but then I would be obligated to kill you.”

  “Oh, then please refrain,” Beckett answered, deadpan. “I have ever-so-much more living to do, and I shouldn’t want to leave young Phineas without a father.”

  Carver cocked a brow. “You’re a tad melodramatic, Becks. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Never,” he said with conviction. “Except for Alfred, and Isobel, and Mother, of course. But what do they know? Now, stop trying to change the subject. Who is the beautiful baroness? And if you aren’t pursuing her, you certainly should be. The two of you could make very handsome children and have wicked fun doing it. You’re a duke. You need children. Trust me.”

  Carver chuckled. “You’re quite the matchmaker. Perhaps you should rent out your services to the Mad Mamas of London. I’ll bet you could have each one of their daughters married off within the year.”

  Alfred had remained quiet during all of this, studying Juliet from afar. He glanced at Carver. “I think I might know who the baroness is, but I’m not sure I should say.”

  “Probably best not to,” Carver answered.

  “Don’t hold out,” Beckett said, clearly miffed. “Tell me who she is, or I shall begin circulating the story about how Alfred fought valiantly against a band of French cuirassiers without wearing any breeches. Which is true, by the way.”

  Alfred shrugged, unfazed. “Go ahead. We won that fight. It only makes me look good, in the end.”

  “I was there,” Beckett said, forcefully. “And I can tell you, it looked anything but good.”

  “I’m surprised the two of you made it out of the war alive,” Carver commented.

  “Truth be told, so am I,” Alfred said.

  Beckett, however, had focused his attention on Juliet across the room. “The war… That’s it.” He looked to his friends, suddenly quite serious. “I remember her, now. Villarosa.”

  Carver held up a hand. “Do not say another word.”

  “Ah. I see,” Beckett replied, quickly, then lowered his voice. “Whatever is going on, you know Alfred and I will help in any way we can. I like to make jokes about our time in the Peninsula, because you know that’s all for show. We were in it together, and I daresay we still are. Call on us at any time, Carver. You know Alfred and I will have your back.”

  “I know,” Carver replied, truly thankful that his comrades were still ready to take up the fight. He led them to a quiet corner of the ballroom, away from listening ears. “For now, keep Juliet’s identity a secret. However, let me know if you hear anyone else questioning it. Major Nye has authorized me to share some of the details with you. It seems there is talk once again of Bonaparte being sprung from his island prison and escaping to Europe, in particular, to England.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Alfred said, angrily. “Boney wouldn’t dare set foot on our shores. Would he?”

  “It seems there is a network of well-connected sympathizers in Britain who idolize the Emperor,” Carver replied. “They are dazzled by stories of his charm and personal power. Those very same people see war as a way of cleaning out the lower classes, ridding the streets of undesirables. You know how it goes. Others have gotten rich off the war, and now they see their profits dwindling. Though Bonaparte easily escaped his exile on Elba, he is now kept prisoner at Longwood House on the island of Saint Helena. However, it would be foolish to underestimate him, even in those circumstances. As we all know, Napoleon can be like a skilled magician. He pulled many surprising victories out of his hat during the war. There
is nothing to say he won’t do so again.”

  “We can’t let him regain power,” Beckett said, soberly. “There are too many good men who died because of him, and for what? Did he achieve world domination? No. But a man like Bonaparte will never change. He’ll always hunger for more, no matter what the human cost.”

  “Exactly,” Carver said. “Juliet and I are investigating several leads provided to us by Major Nye. I would ask you and Alfred to keep your ears open and report any intelligence back to me. But be careful. We cannot go at this in a ham-handed way, or our sources may get spooked.”

  Alfred frowned. “Do you think we’re beginners at this game, Carver? I assure you, Becks and I would rather die than compromise your mission in any way. We know how to do this.”

  “Of course,” Carver said. “There is a lot on the line and I don’t want to fail. Innocent lives are once more at stake, and we may be the only ones standing between them and utter destruction.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” Beckett said, “but is the lady working for our side now?”

  Carver glanced about to make sure they were still out of earshot of any guests. “Yes. You may remember she is half English and half French. She says she wants to make amends for her part in the war. She is acquainted with powerful individuals in French intelligence—whom we might not recognize—and she speaks French.”

  “Do you trust her?” Alfred asked.

  Carver paused and sipped his drink. “Not entirely. But I intend to watch her very closely. That’s another reason I need you two working behind the scenes. I want you to let me know if you hear or see anything that indicates her allegiance to the French.”

  “You suspect her of being a double agent?” Beckett said.

  “I suspect her of being capable of anything that suits her purpose,” he answered.

  As he watched Juliet effortlessly charm yet another powerful aristocrat, Carver knew how truthful those words were, and how deeply they unsettled him.

  Chapter 20

  Juliet tilted her head in greeting as her host, the Marquess of Bosworth, kissed her gloved hand.

  “I am sure I speak for my wife, Baroness, when I say how happy we are that you could join our little fete,” he said. “I see she is speaking with Viscount Estcott presently, most likely about horses. He has quite an impressive stable and my wife adores riding. But how are you enjoying the evening? I hope you find the refreshments to your taste.”

  Juliet played her role of bored baroness to the hilt, arching a brow and favoring the marquess with a smile. There was a subtle gleam in the man’s eyes that suggested he wanted to know more about her tastes in the bedroom, not the ballroom. “I thank you, Lord Bosworth. The champagne is lovely. Of course, a lady must be careful about how much she indulges, as bubbly can go quickly to one’s head.”

  “In that case,” he replied, taking a saucer-shaped glass from a passing footman, “have another.” The marquess handed her the glass, his mouth curved into a wicked grin.

  “Does your wife know how naughty you are?” Juliet asked, brazenly.

  He chuckled. “Unfortunately, yes. The question is, does the duke know how naughty you are?”

  “What does it matter?” Juliet asked. “Hawksmoor is not my husband.”

  “No, but he is a distant cousin and your closest male relation here in London,” Bosworth pointed out, reiterating the story Juliet and Carver had passed about town. “As such, he has some dominion over you. Lucky man.”

  Juliet gave a sly laugh. “If you think that makes him lucky, you do not know me very well, my lord. I can be quite a handful.”

  Lord Bosworth stared down at Juliet with a piercing gaze that barely concealed his attraction to her. “I’m sure you can be, Baroness. I heard you are here in London to handle your financial affairs. I would be more than happy to give you any advice on the subject, or to escort you to the offices of your solicitor, if ever the duke has other commitments.”

  “What a generous offer,” she said. “I will keep it in mind. I assume your lovely wife would be joining us on any outings?”

  He shrugged. “If she is well enough. She often suffers from sudden headaches and has to cancel plans at the last minute.”

  “How awful,” Juliet remarked, as if she didn’t really think so.

  “Yes,” he said, unconvincingly. “Terrible, indeed.”

  Juliet wanted to shake her head in disbelief, or at least throttle the handsome, self-centred marquess. Though she knew it was common practice for some married couples in the aristocracy to engage in affairs, Lord Bosworth was not being very subtle about his intentions.

  However, the flirtatious marquess was exactly where Juliet wanted him. Now that he was on the hook, she would lay out even more bait and see if he jumped at it.

  Juliet sighed and let her gaze search the room.

  “What’s wrong, Baroness?” he asked. “Have you grown tired of our little gathering?”

  She shrugged. “I must confess, I find this all a bit pointless. The balls, the evening entertainments, the theatre…. Now that the war is truly over, there is a decided lack of excitement in the air. Everyone has gone back to their boring little lives. My late husband made a great deal of money shipping supplies to the Peninsula. I loathe to see that market dry up. Though I know it’s not a popular sentiment, I think, my dear marquess, we are in desperate need of another war.”

  This was all part of her backstory as the widowed Baroness de Rochefort. It gave her a perfect opening to test the waters and see who might be secretly sympathetic to another war with Napoleon.

  The marquess seemed to weigh his next words. Taking a sip of champagne, he said, “You might be surprised, Lady de Rochefort, just how many members of the ton might agree with you on that point.”

  “Really?” she asked. “I thought my opinion quite radical.”

  He grinned down at her, indulgently. “You are not acquainted with the realities of the world, as I am, dear lady.”

  Juliet fought to keep her temper. If only Bosworth knew just how worldly she was. She calculated that, if necessary, she could physically subdue the marquess in less than four moves and have him begging for mercy.

  “You are experienced in world politics?” she asked, innocently.

  “I confess to having an interest in it,” he replied.

  “Perhaps we can develop a certain kind of friendship, Lord Bosworth,” Juliet said. “One that might benefit us both, down the line. After all, though I am a wealthy widow, I could become even wealthier if conditions were right. And I should very much like to explore that possibility. I would have no trouble investing in a business venture which might reap rewards later on. Do not forget, my late husband made a fortune in shipping. We still have ships sailing to the East Indies, many of which stop over at very exotic places. The remote island of Saint Helena, for instance. Have you heard of it?”

  “I have indeed,” Bosworth said, casually.

  “Perhaps I should begin investigating new cargo to transport from there,” she commented.

  “It could be a very fortuitous idea, not only for you, but for others.”

  “I shall think about it, then,” Juliet said with a sly grin.

  “Will you keep me informed?” Bosworth asked.

  “Most assuredly.”

  Lord Bosworth kissed her hand again, then stood more formally. “Your cousin, the duke, is glaring at me as if he’d like to wring my neck. Should I be worried?”

  Juliet glanced over at Carver, who stood off to the side with his friends and former comrades, the Earl of Ravenwood and Baron Weston. “Pay him no mind,” she said, still playing up her role. “He is like an overbearing older brother who doesn’t realize I was a married woman.”

  Bosworth kept one eye on the duke. “Forgive me, Lady de Rochefort, but in my opinion, Hawksmoor does not regard you as a sister. I think he means to marry you himself.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” Juliet said, trying to cover up her shock at hearing those words
. “When he marries, I am sure the duke will take a young, virginal bride, not a widow like me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lord Bosworth said. “After all, Napoleon married Josephine, who was a widow, and made her his empress. For myself, I think you would make a wonderful duchess, or even an empress.”

  She smiled alluringly. “Are you suggesting I should offer myself to Bonaparte if he should turn up here in London?” Juliet feigned shock. “Though he divorced Josephine, his second wife still lives.”

  The marquess gave a wicked grin. “The Emperor could do far worse, my lady. For that matter, so could Hawksmoor.”

  Lord Bosworth left to go and attend to his wife, or simply to avoid the duke, who was approaching, menacingly.

  Juliet couldn’t blame the marquess. Hawksmoor made quite the formidable figure, wherever he went. Though his wheat-blond hair and light green eyes gave him an otherworldly image, he always dressed in black, which made him seem more like a fallen angel than one in good standing. Carver’s height, solid physique and powerful bearing only added to the aura of a dangerous duke. It was a role he cultivated and effortlessly inhabited.

  He made a small bow, took Juliet’s hand and kissed it. “My dear cousin,” he said, playing up his fictional role as her distant relation. “How are you enjoying the evening? Did Bosworth keep you sufficiently entertained?”

  “I am enjoying myself very much,” Juliet replied. “Lord Bosworth has offered to advise me on any complicated business matters.”

  Carver arched a brow. “Has he, now?”

  “Yes,” she replied, breezily. “I may take him up on it, if you are unable to escort me in the next few days.”