How the Earl Entices Read online

  So now Christopher was here, drinking watered-down Madeira and pretending to watch the dancing, because he hadn’t yet given up hope. If Ross were somehow still alive, then he would need Kit’s perseverance in protecting his name. But if he were dead…well, it was only a matter of time before the family was stripped of the title and all of its possessions. The standard punishment for traitors. Already the Home Office had taken Kit’s assignments away from him. The crown was simply waiting to lower the axe.

  Since the moment Kit learned what Ross had been doing in Paris and the risks he was subjecting himself to, he’d publicly threatened his older brother with the prospect of becoming a vicar, in order to make a point about the uselessness of martyrdom. But if Ross couldn’t miraculously resurrect himself, then Kit might very well have to become a vicar after all just to survive. Ross would laugh from his grave at the irony of that.

  “Good evening, Mr. Carlisle,” a soft voice said from behind him. “I’m so glad to find you here.”

  He tensed, the glass stopping halfway to his lips. God help him, he knew that voice. Because the woman attached to it frightened the daylights out of him.

  “Miss Winslow.” Lowering the Madeira, he sketched a polite bow as she approached him. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  Her eyes gleamed at that, as if she knew it was a lie. But she was too polite to dispute his untruth—or more likely, the unpredictable chit simply saw it as a challenge. Instead, she sank into a curtsy.

  Evelyn Winslow. A more intimidating creature the good Lord had never made, except perhaps for her sister Mariah, who was now married to his cousin Robert.

  At first glance, Evelyn seemed as ordinary as any other unmarried young lady, from the rosebuds in her hair to the bow-capped toes of her pastel satin slippers, complete with an intoxicating smile.

  What lay beneath, however, was a different matter entirely.

  Her unassuming façade hid a woman so confident and sure of herself that she made grown men quake. One who possessed an endless supply of energy and an intense love of life, coupled with a tendency to leap without looking that was seemingly always putting her into one kind of scrape or another, including some undisclosed predicament during Robert and Mariah’s elopement to Scotland that mandated that she be on her best behavior ever since. No more racing horses through Piccadilly or shooting off guns in the park. No more swimming in the Serpentine. No more parading down St James’s Street beneath her parasol as if she were on the Promenade instead of strolling past rows of gentlemen’s clubs.

  For once, Evelyn Winslow had been on an extended stretch of proper ladylike behavior. Which frightened Kit even more.

  “I hope you’re enjoying the ball,” he commented, because it was expected.

  Her face lit up with a barely controlled excitement. “It’s the most thrilling night of my life!”

  That stunned him, certain that no one had ever before called Totteridge’s annual ball thrilling.

  Before he could think of a reply, she added, “I’ve come to ask that you request a dance from me.”

  She’d come to ask…He blinked. “Pardon?”

  “And it has to be a waltz. The very first waltz of the evening, in fact.”

  She smiled and flitted her fan at that, as if requesting a dance from a gentleman—and from him, no less—was her birthright. As if he wouldn’t dare dream of denying her.

  “Haven’t you heard?” He gestured at the crush around them, which was now leaning in to eavesdrop on their conversation. “I’m a social outcast these days.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient? Because so am I.” She smiled, undaunted. “What better way to thumb our collective noses at society than by waltzing together? Besides,” she murmured as she leaned in closer so she wouldn’t be overheard, “it’s not as if you have anyone else requesting a dance from you tonight.”

  So she did know what the gossips were saying about him yet wasn’t at all wary of it. “Perhaps you shouldn’t either,” he warned gently. “I would hate for you to be cut simply because you danced with me.”

  With a mysterious smile, she tapped her folded fan against his shoulder. “The waltz, Mr. Carlisle.” Then she ordered outright, “Come for me when it starts.”

  Without a backward glance, she retreated through the crowd.

  Kit stared after her. What the devil was she up to, asking him to dance? No, not asking. Demanding. She’d sidled right up to him and demanded a dance. A waltz, no less.

  And not just him, apparently. She was circling the room, stopping to converse with every unmarried gentleman—and some attached—who had the misfortune to stray into her path. A flirtatious smile from her, a nod from the man, another dance most likely secured…At this rate, she’d have every dance for the evening spoken for.

  He couldn’t remember Evelyn Winslow dancing that much at any society ball before.

  Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember seeing Evelyn at any society event except those she’d been forced to attend with her sister, who was nowhere in sight tonight.

  His eyes narrowed. What did the trouble-making gel have up her satin sleeve?

  He continued to hold up the column through the next dance, in which Evelyn reeled with Hugh Whitby, Baron Whitby’s youngest son, then through the next one with a man Christopher didn’t recognize. She didn’t glance his way, presumably filling up the rest of her dances between sets.

  The Master of Ceremonies called out the first waltz of the evening, and the orchestra sent up the opening flourish of notes. Around him, the partygoers pulsed with excitement as they began to pair off and find their way to the dance floor.

  Kit tossed back the last of his Madeira. With a determined squaring of his shoulders, he moved through the crush to claim his waltz, feeling every bit like a condemned man marching toward the scaffold. When he reached Evelyn, he wryly arched a brow and held out his hand.

  She slipped her trembling fingers into his. He almost stopped this fiasco right there. Should have stopped it. The chit didn’t have any idea what she was getting herself into by asking him for this dance. But when she felt him hesitate, she grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor.

  He took her into position and twirled her into the waltz.

  “Your brother’s alive,” Evelyn announced without preamble. Then ordered, “Don’t look shocked!”

  “I won’t.” Just damned confused, he was certain. Then he did his best to keep down a look of grief as he squeezed her fingers. Although the way she’d gone about expressing her support was unusual—everything about Evelyn Winslow was unusual—he was grateful for her optimism and her attempt to keep up his spirits. “Thank you. I appreciate your kind words.”

  “They’re not kind. They’re factual.” She lowered her voice until he barely heard her over the orchestra. “Spalding sent me a letter.”

  Only years of training as a Home Office operative kept him from stumbling in surprise. He held his face carefully stoic as he studied her. “My brother contacted you, of all people? When?”

  “Today.” Then she gave a peeved sniff, clearly offended. “Why not me?”

  “Why not, indeed?” He supposed it made sense, in a way that was completely brilliant. Or utterly mad. All their family members and close employees were being watched, the houses all under guard, in case Ross attempted to contact any of them. Which was also why Kit persisted in making the social rounds, and especially to the clubs. If Ross wanted to send a message to him, he would have to do so through alternative means.

  But through Evelyn Winslow? Kit never would have thought of her. Yet she was a woman who so craved adventure and excitement that she’d eagerly participate in espionage if given a chance, and one to whom the authorities wouldn’t give a second thought. “What did he say?”

  “‘Tell Kit to contact the man we once raced against on donkeys in dresses,’” she recited with exacting precision. “‘Tell no one else, not even Mariah. My life depends upon it.’”

  He waited a bea
t for her to continue. When it became clear that she was finished, he pressed, “That’s all?”

  She smiled proudly. “Every last word.”

  His chest tightened with suspicion. “He signed it?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know it was from Ross?”

  She looked at him as if he’d escaped from Bedlam. “How many other people do you have in your life who would be passing secret messages to you?”

  Dozens, actually. But the gel had a point. “So Spalding sent you that message, and you didn’t think to take it to the authorities, or at least show it to your father?”

  “Of course not!” The suggestion appalled her. “And let them ruin all the fun?”

  Oh, what a stroke of genius Ross had in sending his message through Evelyn! A more perfect conspirator Kit couldn’t have imagined.

  “So all this means that your brother is still alive? That he hasn’t committed treason?”

  “That’s exactly what it means.” His chest soared with the news.

  She frowned as they reached the end of the room and turned to circle back along its length. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, distracted. Already his mind was spinning with plans for how to meet Ross without being followed or alerting the authorities to Evelyn’s involvement.

  “Who wore the dresses—you or the donkeys?”

  “The donkeys,” he answered, deadpan. Then he squeezed her hand, interrupting before she could interject, “What did you do with the letter?”

  “I memorized it and then burned it, of course.”

  “Of course.” He grinned at her, the widest beaming smile of his life. “Miss Winslow, I could kiss you!”

  She leaned scandalously closer. “By all means,” she purred, “don’t let me stop you.”

  He laughed and shifted back to put more distance between them as they continued to twirl around the dance floor. He realized then why she’d gone through the room, reserving every dance she could. So her waltz with him wouldn’t stand out from any of the others.

  Frighten him?

  No. The chit downright terrified the daylights out of him.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I think this proves that I would make a good spy, don’t you?”

  He didn’t let his expression change. She didn’t know about his work with the Home Office. No one outside the department did, except for Ross. But that didn’t stop the tightening of his gut at her question.

  “You’re far too beautiful.” He distracted her with a tight, fast twirl. “In all the novels, the best spies are people who blend into a crowd.” He twirled her again, out of step with the rest of the crush and not giving a damn that they were as long as he could take her mind off spies and Carlisles. “And you, Miss Winslow, definitely do not blend.”

  She laughed brightly at the compliment, drawing the scowling attention of the couples surrounding them. Kit didn’t give a damn about them, either.

  “Are the rumors true? Do you really want to become a vicar?” Her eyes sparkled, as if this were the big secret of the evening and not Ross’s return from the grave.

  They came to a stop as the dance ended. “Don’t tell a soul.” He lowered his mouth to her ear. “It was only an empty threat to irritate my brother.”

  She dropped into a deep curtsy, extending her hand to him with all the polished grace of a princess. “Then I hope you can continue to irritate him,” she said in low voice, “for a very long time to come.”

  He bowed over her hand and mumbled earnestly, “Me, too.”

  Chapter 14

  Grace heard the midnight bell from All Saints peel through the rain-dampened streets along the Chelsea Embankment as the hackney stopped at the alley behind Cheyne Walk. Ross opened the door and swung to the ground, then reached a hand back into the dark compartment for her. She stepped down carefully, then glanced uneasily at the terrace houses fronting the Thames, most of which were already shuttered and locked up tight for the night.

  Ross tossed a coin to the driver and sent the man off. He waited for the carriage to disappear from sight before taking her arm and leading her down the alley.

  “Where are we going?” she asked quietly.

  “Someplace safe.”

  She heaved out an irritated sigh. That was the same answer he’d been giving her since they arrived in Richmond that afternoon by post-chaise. He’d refused to be more forthcoming even when he’d sent off a message just before evening, not telling her whom he was contacting except that the man was an old friend. Then they’d settled into a room at an inn and waited, with Grace filling the time by writing and posting a long letter to Ethan to tell him that she was in London and safe.

  Then, two hours ago, under the cover of darkness, they’d hired a hackney to take them into the city. He hadn’t told her the exact location of where they were headed then, either. Or after they’d switched carriages two times so that the same driver who delivered them to their final destination wouldn’t be able to trace them back to the inn.

  Well, she knew where they weren’t going—not to Spalding House nor the residences of any of his relatives. Those would all be watched. Just as they couldn’t risk renting a room now that they were in London, where an opportunistic landlady or innkeeper might recognize him and call for the watch. But an alley in Chelsea…She hadn’t expected this.

  “We’ve arrived.” He stopped outside one of the carriage houses.

  She looked up at the two-story façade, with its massive double-doors and large fanlight and saw nothing to identify the place. “Where?”

  “Domenico Vincenzo’s studio,” a deep voice answered.

  Grace grabbed at Ross’s arm in surprise as a black form emerged from the shadows.

  But Ross recognized the man, who was nearly as tall and broad-shouldered as he was, and extended his hand in greeting. “Ellsworth.”

  “Spalding,” he returned tightly and shook his hand.

  The man was clearly not happy to be called into service, certainly not at such a late hour. And not dressed as he was, in evening finery that proclaimed he’d been interrupted from a night at a society event, right down to the silver and gray striped satin waistcoat and diamond cravat pin.

  He gestured a white-gloved hand down the alley. “You weren’t followed?”

  “No.”

  The man swung his gaze to Grace and raked an assessing look over her. Then he turned his head slightly to ask Ross, his eyes not leaving her, “Can she keep secrets?”

  “You’d be surprised how well,” Ross drawled with a touch of private amusement.

  She glared daggers at him.

  But the stranger was satisfied. He walked up to the wicket gate set into the carriage doors and reached into his breast pocket for the key to the padlock. He unlocked it, and the door opened with a creak. He disappeared inside.

  Grace clutched Ross’s hand to stop him as he began to follow. “Who is he?”

  “Dominick Mercer, Marquess of Ellsworth. An old friend from university.”

  Unease trailed down her spine. Another peer, another man who might recognize her. “Can he be trusted?”

  He leaned over to whisper, “You’re not the only one keeping a secret identity, Mrs. Alden. Ellsworth will do whatever it takes to keep his hidden from the world.”

  Her eyes widened. “You blackmailed him?”

  He grinned. “I learned from the best.”

  She scowled at him. But as he shifted away, he brushed his lips opportunistically over her cheek, eliciting a tremor from her. Then he took her elbow and led her inside, closing the wicket after them.

  A spark flared as a flint struck on the far side of the room, and an oil lamp hissed to life. Ellsworth hung the lamp from a peg on the central post. As he turned up the wick, the dim halo of light grew in brightness to reveal a large room that had once been a carriage house but now served as—

  “An artist’s studio?” she murmured in surprise as she
looked around, taking in the dozens of canvases of all sizes leaning against the walls, the worktables covered with bladders and jars of paints and pigments. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, filled with large folios of prints. In the middle sat a half-finished painting on a large easel draped with a sheet. Over it all lingered the stench of linseed oil and charcoal.

  “It belongs to Domenico Vincenzo.” Ellsworth’s lips twisted as if at a private joke. “The most brilliant Italian artist since Titian.”

  “The most notorious anyway,” Ross clarified.

  Ignoring that, Ellsworth nodded toward the stairs. “There are living quarters above that you can use.” Then he fixed a knowing look at Ross. “Don’t touch anything down here. You might move something, and I’ll never find it again.”

  Ross nudged her shoulder with his as he confided, “Dom’s still angry about the time we helped him move into a new set of rooms when we were at Oxford.”

  “You didn’t help, and I wasn’t moving rooms.” Ellsworth leaned a shoulder casually against the post, his arms folding over his chest and drawing the jacket tight across his broad back. “I returned from a meeting with my don to find all my belongings and furniture gone.”

  “We put everything back exactly as you had it,” Ross defended himself.

  “Two days later and two halls to the south.” His gaze swung to Grace. “If he offers to help you, refuse.”

  He pushed himself away from the post and stalked slowly toward her, completely unaware of how that innocuous comment sliced into her.

  He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “Dominick Mercer.”

  “Grace Alden.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He smiled flirtatiously as he lifted her hand to place a kiss to the backs of her fingers with a slight bow, as if she were a society lady. A fearful tremor slid through her. Had he recognized her, even with—