Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection

“Have you heard from the earl?”

Mari shook her head. “No, nothing since his last missive, telling me that he’d be home within a fortnight. And that was three days ago. That’s enough time, isn’t it? You must tell me that’s enough time.”

Dany crossed her fingers in her lap. “I told you. The blackmailer’s note was quite specific. He will contact you another way rather than the knothole. He will arrange to return your letters on trust, and then your chosen emissary will hand over his letters at a designated place and time because he fully understands you have no more funds available, as you explained so eloquently in your note, and has accepted the garnets as payment in full.”

So I can be assured the letters will be tossed in the fire, and not saved as some sort of romantical keepsake, only to be found someday and stir up a mess all over again. Because yes, sister mine, much as I love you, there are times you can be thick as a plank.

“He’s being very nice, isn’t he, in the circumstances?”

Like now.

Dany’s eyes crossed, but she quickly agreed. “Your blackmailer is best of good fellows, definitely. Very nearly a gentleman.”

Mari’s chin went up. “Now you’re being facetious. I know he’s an odiously bad man, but he could have been worse, couldn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, he could have written a chapbook about you.”

Mari shivered. “A chapbook? Now why would you say anything so silly as that?”

Because I also can be a fool, with a very large mouth. “Oh, no reason. I think I heard one of the footmen open the door. Yes, I’m certain I did.” She gathered up her reticule and gloves and headed for the landing leading down to the foyer. “Ta-ta, Mari. I’m off to Bond Street, to bankrupt the baron.”

Coop had just stepped into the foyer when she came charging toward him. “I talk too much,” she said, brushing past him. “Let’s go.”

He replaced the curly brimmed beaver he’d barely had time to tip in her direction, and followed her. “Am I allowed to agree, or would I be safer with a simple ‘Good morning, my dear’?”

She stopped on the flagway, looking at the town coach. “What on earth? It’s not raining. It’s sunny and pleasant, even a bit warm. Why are we riding in that contraption? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

Coop put his hand beneath her elbow, and she studiously ignored the rather pleasant frisson that impersonal touch caused. “Sharp as a tack this morning, aren’t you? Yes, that’s it entirely.”

“Oh, it is not. There’s someone else inside the coach, isn’t there? Don’t tell me it’s the viscount. I may not know him above a day, but I am fairly certain he hasn’t yet left his bed.”

“Or not yet reached it. I chose the privacy of the closed coach because we may be traveling together but we won’t be arriving in Bond Street at the same time. We’ll meet by accident.”

“Then you do have a plan. Thank goodness one of us does.”

“It’s not brilliant, but it is a plan, yes. Now come along, I want to introduce you to my friends and allies.”

“Does that make them my allies, as well?”

“I wasn’t aware you needed allies.”

“I’m with you, aren’t I? I should think it wouldn’t come amiss if I had an entire army behind me.”

“I can see this is going to be a pleasant morning.”

“Perhaps if I had been able to sleep after realizing Mari’s now in twice the trouble she was before I was so fortunate as to find her a hero, I might be more pleasant.”

Why couldn’t she stop talking? Really, the baron would be doing her a courtesy if he stuck a handkerchief in her mouth.

“I warned you I was no hero. Just get inside while I explain to myself why I persist in enjoying your company as much as I apparently do,” Coop said as the groom let down the steps.

“You enjoy my company? Really?”

Yes, there it was, her heart once again going pitter-pat.

“Why look so shocked, Miss Foster? Or does that bother you as much as it does me? Now, please, we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”

Since she was left with no other sensible choice—and told herself that was the only reason she was obeying him—Dany stepped up and pulled herself inside the coach, aiming for the empty forward-facing seat as Coop joined her and the coach moved off into the square.

Sitting on the facing seat was a pair of exquisitely dressed creatures, both of them grinning at her as if either she or they were the resident village idiots.

“Oh, Coop, she’s beautiful!” exclaimed the dimpled young blonde in the bordering-on-outrageous bright pink redingote and high-crowned straw bonnet adorned with red cherries and a sprinkling of what most resembled sugared gumdrops, and tied with a wide green grosgrain ribbon that nearly obliterated her neck. Her voice was slightly high, but adorable in its honey-dripping drawl that clearly stamped her as not being English born. “You didn’t tell me she was beautiful, Jerry.” She gave her companion’s forearm a quick, light slap. “Details, my love. It’s as the duchess says, if you’re going to be of any use to us, you must remember the details.”

“Yes, Clarice,” the sweet-looking cherub of a man apologized. This must be Jeremiah Rigby, Baronet, the friend Coop had mentioned yesterday. Now here was a redhead who’d wandered too close to the carrot patch. Its color clashed badly with his heated blush. “But I did tell you about the hair, right?”

The woman he’d addressed as Clarice leaned over and planted a kiss on the cherub’s cheek. “You did, indeed, precious peach.” She turned her attention to Dany, who had just then been looking at Coop, hoping for some sort of explanation that clearly wasn’t coming. “Hello, Miss Foster. I’m Clarice Goodfellow, late of the Fairfax County Virginia Goodfellows and soon to be Lady Clarice Goodfellow Rigby. That’s my Jerry here,” she said, hooking a thumb toward her betrothed. “Isn’t he just the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen? Well, yes, of course he is. Say hello, Jerry.”

“Miss Foster,” Rigby somehow managed to choke out, tipping his hat. “Pardon me for not rising. It is my honor to meet you.” He then looked at Cooper in some desperation.

“Sir Jerr—Sir Jeremiah,” Dany answered, momentarily wondering if she should put out her hand for him to bow over, but then quickly deciding the man had enough on his plate without attempting such a maneuver in a moving coach. “Miss Goodfellow. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Clarice put up her gloved hands, as if framing the last moments for posterity. “There, you see? That wasn’t so terrible, was it? Introductions are so full of stuffy rules in England. Rough ground, I say, with all the folderol of who comes first and who comes last. Rough ground gotten over quickly is my answer to it all. And now, to settle it, I shall be Clarice, and Jerry here will be Rigby, because everyone save me calls him that, and then there’s Coop and you. You’re Dany, correct? Ah, I love when things are settled, and now we’ve all cried friends. Oh, and fellow conspirators, which is more lovely than anything, I’m thinking. I’ve always wanted to conspir-e-ate.”

Dany saw a mental image of her sister’s face if she could hear Clarice Goodfellow’s opinion of the strict rules of protocol she and her sister had had drummed into their heads for years: her eyes bugging out, jaw dropped to half-mast, her maid fumbling in her mistress’s reticule for some feathers to burn under her nose.

“What a wonderful suggestion, Clarice,” Dany said, wishing she had been able to find a way beyond the Miss Foster and the my lord considering they were betrothed, for pity’s sake. But now Clarice had done it for her. Americans were so refreshing. “Isn’t it—Coop?”

She shot another glance toward Coop, who was still avoiding making eye contact with her or anyone else in the coach. Was he outraged? Dumbfounded? Embarrassed? No, wait, he was experiencing some difficulty with his breathing, wasn’t he, and the eye she could see had begun to water slightly. He was near to killing himself, trying not to laugh.

Ahhh...wasn’t that sweet.

She couldn’t let him suffer like that, poor thing. He might burst something important.

“I couldn’t agree with you more completely, Clarice. Formalities are so—oh, what could be the proper word? My lord Townsend—dearest Coop, I should say—as you have yet to contribute to this delightful conversation, could you be so kind as to assist me?”

His lips pressed tightly together, Coop’s only answer was a quick shake of his head. Clearly he dared not open his mouth.

“No? Oh, that’s too bad. Oh, wait, I’ve got it now. Everyone, tell me if I’ve got it right, please. Formalities are so...formal.”

Clarice pointed her finger at Dany. “Exactly!”

It was entirely possible Lord Cooper Townsend hadn’t laughed, really laughed, in quite some time. If so, he was definitely correcting that lapse now, only able to catch his breath for a moment, at which time he managed to whisper to Dany, “I’m going to kill you,” before going off again.

“It’s the worry, poor man,” Clarice said, nodding knowingly. “Jerry here told me he’s in some sort of terrible trouble, although friend that he is, he won’t say just what. But I’ll get it out of him eventually. Oh, dear, now he has the hiccups, doesn’t he? Jerry, check to see if there’s a flask in the coach pocket. Nothing like holding your nose while downing some strong spirits to beat away the hiccups. Or, as my uncle Soggy, the privy master, often said, ‘Make you not care that you’ve still got them.’ Oh, Jerry, that’s right, you don’t have to nudge me. I shouldn’t have said that, although for the life of me I don’t know why, seeing as how all of you bow and scrape to your privy councillor. A privy is a privy, Jerry, and that will never change.”

“Clarice,” Rigby said in a strangled voice, “I’ve told you. There’s a whacking great difference between your uncle Soggy, who digs privies, and the privy councillors who got their name because it once was the custom for kings to discuss secrets in the privy because that’s the only place His Royal Highness didn’t have to worry about being overheard.”

“It seems to me you can hear lots of things in a privy,” Clarice pointed out with a pout.