Married to the Viscount Read online

  He glanced over at Lady Evelina, the bride-to-be. Thank God she’d apparently accepted his far-fetched tale. Like a china doll, she perched on her chair in cultivated perfection, blond ringlets framing her flawless brow, her cheeks pink but not rouged, and her gown the ideal hue for her porcelain skin. Only her sparkling eyes hinted at the sweet-natured girl Nat and Spencer had teased while she was growing up.

  Catching his eye, Evelina dabbed daintily at her cupid-bow lips with a damask napkin. “I do hope they don’t detain poor Nathaniel at the police offices all night. Did his note say how long it might be?”

  That damned fictitious note. “No, but they’ll probably keep him awhile,” Spencer lied with all the practiced ease of a former spymaster. “He’ll have to give testimony against the ruffian he caught snatching that woman’s reticule.”

  “It was so brave of him to run off after the villain all alone,” she said. “And then to insist on carrying that man to the police himself—how noble of him!”

  “Yes, Nat is nothing if not noble.” That lie came harder in the face of young Evelina’s starry-eyed loyalty.

  Not that Spencer had any other choice. Engaging in a manly pursuit of justice was an acceptable excuse for not attending one’s betrothal dinner; abandoning one’s bride-to-be was not. Until Spencer knew the reason for Nat’s apparent defection, he had to keep lying. Otherwise, Evelina and her widowed mother, Lady Tyndale, would suffer public humiliation. Which Spencer refused to allow.

  Where the hell was he? When Spencer had last seen Nat an hour before dinner, his brother hadn’t mentioned any plans to dash out. And although Spencer’s butler McFee had seen Nat receive a message shortly after that, no one had seen the man leave. But no one could find him, either, not in the house or at any of his favorite London haunts.

  Nat had simply vanished, and it looked deliberate. After all, how much trouble could one man get into in only a few hours?

  Spencer sighed. Nat had acted strangely ever since his return from America a month ago—he was inordinately interested in the mail, came and went at all hours, had mysterious meetings, and in general acted like a man still sowing wild oats instead of preparing to marry.

  Now this. For God’s sake, where was he?

  “Well, I for one am surprised Nathaniel even had the presence of mind to send a note at all,” Evelina’s mother commented. “But the man is always so considerate.”

  “And noble, too,” the woman sitting next to her added with a hint of sarcasm. “Let’s not forget ‘noble.’”

  Wonderful. Now Lady Brumley was putting her nose in it. Why in hell had Evelina’s mother invited a woman popularly known as the Galleon of Gossip? He should have paid closer attention to the guest list.

  But with England’s chaotic political situation occupying him, he’d had no time to plan the betrothal dinner Lady Tyndale had expected him to host. So he’d unwisely given that to her, his designated hostess for the evening. Somehow the intimate little affair he’d suggested had exploded into this assembly of London society’s most prestigious—and chatty—members. That’s what he got for trusting a woman with the intelligence of a pea.

  And there was still a betrothal ball to get through two nights from now. Fortunately, Lady Tyndale was hosting that at her home. Spencer shuddered to think what sort of production it would be. She’d probably invited half the ton to her ball.

  If there was a ball. Given Nat’s disappearance tonight, that was no longer certain.

  He scowled. He wanted to see Nat settled, damn it. Twenty-nine was a good age for marrying, and twenty-year-old Evelina was perfect for him. Insane as it seemed, she’d apparently been in love with the idiot from girlhood, which was all a man could ask for.

  “That note from your brother,” Lady Brumley commented. “Might we see it for ourselves, Ravenswood? I shall have to write about the event for the paper, and I want all the details of Mr. Law’s noble act.”

  What the nosy woman wanted was to uncover scandal. Clearly she hadn’t believed his tale. Just what he needed—the shrewd Lady Brumley voicing her suspicions in that infamous column of hers.

  “I thought you had your own sources.” Spencer sipped his claret with a carefully cultivated air of boredom. “Or have you grown tired of checking your facts?”

  The woman answered his sarcasm in kind. “I suspect that if I wait until tomorrow for that, I’ll hear only the official story. Since the London magistrates report directly to you at the Home Office, I don’t imagine they’ll tell me anything more than you’ll allow.”

  “True.” He set down his glass. “But I’ve already told you all there is to tell.”

  Spencer cast a surreptitious glance at the clock and barely suppressed his groan. Two hours and thirteen minutes. Perhaps this was something other than mere defection. Could Nat have landed in trouble? But how? And with whom?

  “I should still like to see the note—” Lady Brumley began.

  “You know, my lord,” Evelina broke in, “Nathaniel told me and Mama all about his recent visit to America, but we haven’t heard a word from you about it.”

  Spencer regarded the girl with surprise. The polite Evelina rarely interrupted anyone, much less a woman of Lady Brumley’s standing. Perhaps she wasn’t as oblivious to the situation as he’d thought.

  When everyone else turned their attention to her, Evelina flushed, but kept her eyes on Spencer. “I know you didn’t spend as much time there as Nathaniel, but how did you like it? He seemed to enjoy it quite a lot. He spoke highly of the Mercers and was very impressed with Dr. Mercer’s Medicinal Mead.” She smiled at her listeners. “That’s the doctor’s tonic for indigestion and other ailments. Dr. Mercer’s company produces it.”

  “Never heard of it,” Lady Brumley put in. “And you can be sure I know all the tonics for indigestion.”

  “It sells only in America right now, my lady.” Evelina served herself asparagus with shaky hands. “But Nathaniel thinks it could sell quite well here. So in exchange for part ownership in the company, Nathaniel is promoting the tonic in England.”

  Spencer hadn’t known what Nat was planning. What else had his brother not told him?

  Lady Brumley shot Spencer a reproachful look. “Have you gone mad, my lord? Why would you allow your brother to pursue some wild scheme—”

  “But it’s not,” Evelina put in hastily. “Nathaniel believes this Mercer fellow’s enterprise is a worthy one. His lordship does, too—he’s agreed to invest in it himself.”

  “Really, Ravenswood?” Lady Brumley asked. “You’re encouraging this idiocy?”

  “I’m always eager for a good investment.” But Nat hadn’t actually asked him for any money yet, and Spencer only half remembered the drunken night when he’d agreed to invest. “In the brief time I had to observe Mercer’s company, it seemed sound.”

  “Nathaniel is determined to make a go of it,” Evelina said. “He has his own stake in the firm, you see.”

  Yes. Nat had apparently done the impossible, because upon his return to England he’d assured Spencer that old Josiah had relented and made him a partner.

  “Of course,” Evelina went on, “he does have to share the company with the physician’s daughter. But that’s all right, since Miss Mercer is the one who concocts all the medicines. So he needs her anyway.”

  Abigail Mercer. Damn, Spencer might have forgotten the American woman for a few hours, but he’d needed only a mention of her to summon Miss Mercer’s image anew—her bright flash of a smile, teasing green eyes, sun-kissed skin. Why couldn’t he suppress that picture? He’d known her only two weeks, yet she’d plagued his thoughts for months since.

  “So Nat…er…told you about Miss Mercer?” Spencer ate a forkful of squab pie. What could Nat possibly have said that wouldn’t have made Evelina jealous?

  “Oh, yes,” Evelina answered. “Poor thing, to lose her mother so young, then have to face losing her father, too. And still unmarried at twenty-six! She’s unlikely to find a husband even aft
er her father dies. Nathaniel says she’s dark and plain as a crow.”

  Spencer nearly choked. When had Nat become as adept at lying as his older brother? “I believe that Miss Mercer’s spinsterhood wasn’t the result so much of her looks as of her situation.”

  “Oh?” Evelina said with interest.

  “Her father was ill for many years. As she is his only child, his care fell to her, which allowed her little time for the usual courting.” Not to mention that some gentlemen probably objected to her mixed blood. “But I expect she’ll find a husband eventually. She’s an amiable woman with a good—”

  He stopped short. All the women at the table were eyeing him now with rampant curiosity. Bloody hell. He usually knew not to say anything that set matchmaking females to speculating. But Nat’s mysterious disappearance had put him off his game. Too late to undo the damage, judging from the shrewd gleam in Lady Brumley’s eye.

  “You seem to know a great deal about Miss Mercer,” the gossip said. “Perhaps she wasn’t as dark and plain as your brother claims. What did you think of her looks, Ravenswood?”

  Thankfully, he was spared answering when the door to the dining room opened to admit his butler. When McFee approached the table and bent close enough to reveal an unnatural pallor beneath his ruddy Scottish skin, Spencer knew something was wrong.

  “What is it?” Spencer asked in a low tone.

  “I must speak to you privately, my lord.”

  McFee probably had news of Nat. Spencer rose and faced his guests. “I beg your indulgence, but I must step into the hall a moment.”

  Amid murmurs of polite assent, Spencer strode out of the dining room with McFee at his heels, only waiting until he’d shut the door to ask, “What’s happened?”

  “There is a female waiting to see you.”

  Spencer scowled. McFee only used the term “female” with certain sorts of women. By God, if Nat had sent some tart with a message…“What does she want?”

  “To speak to you.”

  “About my brother?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Relief flooded Spencer. “Then tell her to return tomorrow. I have no time for this tonight.”

  “She was most insistent. And I believe you should probably speak to her.”

  Spencer raised one eyebrow at his butler’s presumption. “Why? Who is she?”

  “You see…well…that is…”

  “For God’s sake, spit it out,” Spencer said impatiently. “I don’t have all night.”

  McFee drew himself up with wounded dignity. “She claims to be Lady Ravenswood. Your wife.”

  “My what?!”

  The cry echoed down the hall to the magnificent high-ceilinged foyer where Abigail Mercer waited with her servant, Mrs. Graham. Abby pricked up her ears. “I think his lordship has been informed of our arrival.”

  “Thank the good Lord.” Mrs. Graham scowled. “That Mr. La-Di-Da of a butler was acting so strange I wondered if he would even announce us.”

  Abby bit back a smile. Mrs. Graham had been with the Mercer family for an eternity, first as Abby’s nursemaid and later as general family servant. Though the aging widow could be a grouse at times, Abby couldn’t imagine doing without her. “Well, I feared we had the wrong house, especially with all the carriages in front. His lordship must be having guests for dinner, though why he’d do that on the night of our arrival—”

  “I just want to know why he didn’t have nobody at the docks to fetch us. Didn’t you tell him what ship we was coming on, milady?”

  “I certainly did. And how odd that his lordship wasn’t more solicitous of our comfort. I thought we should never find a hired coach to carry us here.”

  A commotion at the other end of the hall, doors opening and closing and the murmur of various voices, drew Abby’s attention. Lord Ravenswood was probably explaining to his guests why he was being called away.

  Mrs. Graham frowned. “His lordship sure sounded surprised to hear of our arrival. But I think, milady—”

  Abby burst into laughter. “Heavens, would you stop calling me that? Bad enough that you insisted I wear this ridiculous corset. But the ‘milady’ you drop into every sentence is really overdoing it. I keep looking around to see whom you mean.”

  Mrs. Graham sniffed. “Better get used to it. You’re a viscountess now.”

  “I don’t feel like a viscountess. I can hardly even think of Lord Ravenswood as a viscount. In America, he was more like a country gentleman. He always made me feel at ease.”

  “I say it’s about time some man treated you like the fine lass you are. But I didn’t like that proxy wedding business, and poor Mr. Nathaniel Law having to stand in for his brother—”

  “I didn’t mind it so much. This isn’t a love match, you know. I can hardly expect romantic behavior from his lordship.”

  Then again, the way he’d looked at her sometimes during his two weeks in America…Just remembering it sent a shiver of delightful anticipation down her spine.

  Forcibly she reminded herself of the practical nature of their agreement.

  “His letters said he was marrying me because he had ‘feelings of respect and admiration.’ But that’s all right. I have them for him, too.” And his admiration could grow into love in time, couldn’t it?

  He might even now have warmer feelings for her than he would reveal in an impersonal letter. Why else would he have gone so far as to marry an American spinster of mixed blood? Seeing his grand house only confirmed her suspicion that the handsome, clever, and amiable Lord Ravenswood could have any English lady he wanted.

  But he’d chosen her. Just thinking of it fairly started her heart to pounding.

  A door opened and closed again, but this time the murmurs at the other end of the hall were followed by footsteps. “I think he’s coming.”

  “Lord have mercy!” Mrs. Graham patted down a stray curl of her graying red hair. “Quick, milady, give me some of that Mead for my breath.”

  “Good idea.” Although the Mead was intended for medicinal use, it also made a perfect breath sweetener. Removing her personal vial from the kerseymere reticule that dangled from a cord on her wrist, she handed it to her servant.

  Opening it, Mrs. Graham swigged some, winced, and returned it to Abby. “Lordy, that sure is nasty-tasting stuff.”

  “But the scent makes up for it, don’t you think?” Abby lifted the bottle to her lips, the heady aroma of rosemary and neroli oil wafting to her as she sipped. She swished it around in her mouth, then swallowed the bitter tonic as she closed up the vial.

  The footsteps had stopped halfway down the hall, and more murmuring could be heard. Abby returned the bottle swiftly to her reticule. Why didn’t he just come on?

  “How do I look?” Glancing down at her wrinkled traveling gown, Abby groaned. “Oh, I look awful. I hate for him to see me like this.”

  “Can’t be helped. Considering you’ve been hauled from pillar to post to get here, you look pretty enough.” Mrs. Graham stepped in front of her, lifted her black bombazine skirt, and rearranged it to drape more naturally. “You should have let me lace your corset tighter. This gown needs tight lacing to fall proper.”

  Abby snorted. “If you lace it any tighter, I’ll explode out either end.”

  Mrs. Graham clucked her tongue. “You’re just not used to wearing it is all. Your mother, God rest her, shouldn’t have let her strange notions keep you from dressing proper.”

  “Strange notions” was Mrs. Graham’s polite term for any of Mama’s Senecan beliefs. “Mama was right about corsets being unhealthy.”

  “But refined ladies must wear ’em, especially in England. You don’t want these English thinking you’re some country girl not fit to be a viscountess, do you?”

  “What is the meaning of this?” rumbled a voice from just beyond Mrs. Graham.

  With a squeak, Mrs. Graham whirled around and Abby jumped. Rounding the staircase with that stuffy Mr. McFee at his side was the viscount himself.

&nb
sp; My husband, she reminded herself. And heavenly day, what a man. She’d never seen him dressed so formally, his broad shoulders filling out a double-breasted tailcoat and his muscular thighs straining against the fabric of form-fitting breeches.

  And all of it jet-black except his shirt. His black attire, silvery eyes, and rapidly clouding brow made her think of Hino, the thunder god of Mama’s Senecan tales, thunder and lightning and storm all rolled into one.

  Then he strode up to tower over her, and she swallowed hard. She’d forgotten his imposing height. And why did he look so sternly upon her? He’d never done so before. “My lord, it seems we’ve taken you by surprise, but—”

  “You certainly have.” His clipped words cast a chill over her. Then his gaze flicked down. “You’re in mourning.”

  She nodded. “Papa passed away two months ago.”

  The stormy brow softened. “I’m sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you. It was expected, of course, but I still…miss him.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, his voice husky with concern.

  Thank God. For a moment there, she’d thought him a stranger and not at all the considerate gentleman she’d known in America.

  He stepped nearer, swamping her with his familiar spicy scent, thick with bergamot and soap and essence of male. “Death is never expected, my dear, no matter how much one tries to prepare.”

  His kindness brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away, and his face softened even more.

  Removing his handkerchief, he pressed it into her hand. “Now I understand why you’re here. You’ve come to England to work out the terms of your partnership with my brother, haven’t you?” When she stopped blotting her eyes to gape at him, he smiled. “Forgive me, Miss Mercer, if I seemed a bit short at first, but my butler erred in announcing you. He said my wife was out here, and I—”

  “He didn’t err.” Her fingers tightened convulsively on his handkerchief. He’d called her Miss Mercer. Dear heaven, surely he wasn’t denying…“You know perfectly well that we’re married.”