B006DTZ3FY EBOK Page 22

  On the other hand, it was more than human nature could resist. He reminded himself that the message couldn’t possibly be private or important, since Ellsworth had thrown the thing away. His conscience was only moderately appeased, but ‘moderately appeased’ would have to do. Having retrieved the note, he was deuced well going to read it.

  He flicked the note open with his thumb and smoothed out the creases. The message was short, and the handwriting beautifully clear.

  I must speak privately with you on a matter of grave importance. I rely upon your discretion and your chivalry, and beg you to come to the orangery at midnight tonight. Pray do not fail, for my need is urgent and I know not where to turn if not to you.

  He read it once. Twice. His mind could make no sense of it at first. The note was unsigned. Except for the “J.E.” on the outside it might have been addressed to anyone. And yet, oddly, he was finding it difficult to breathe, as if all the air in the library had been sucked out by some malevolent spirit, leaving him choked and dizzy. It was as if his body understood the meaning of the note before his brain did.

  Eventually, of course, his brain caught up.

  John Ellsworth had received this note and had assumed that it came from Hannah Chase. That much was plain as a pikestaff. Apparently modest Mr. Ellsworth could not conceive of any other lady sending him such a note. But it seemed to Derek, from Lady Hannah’s evident confusion a few minutes hence, that Hannah had not sent the note. And the list of ladies other than Hannah who might have sent it was woefully short. In fact, he could think of only one other lady whose name could reasonably appear on that list.

  Derek felt as if a leaden weight had descended on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He stared at the note, unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyes. He felt nearly as sick as he had felt that long-ago day in Lord Stokesdown’s town house, reading the notice of Cynthia’s engagement to Filey. For some minutes he tried desperately to think of an innocent explanation for the cryptic message he held in his hands. Why, apart from the obvious, would Cynthia seek a midnight rendezvous with John Ellsworth? He cudgeled his brain, but to no avail. No innocent explanation occurred to him. Whatever was afoot, it was anything but innocent.

  Was it possible... was it remotely possible... that Cynthia had been double-dealing? That the reason why she was so elusive was that she had somehow managed to carry on romances with Ellsworth and himself at the same time?

  He flinched from the very idea. No, no. Surely that was impossible. Even had she been able to achieve such a feat at the house—and he had to acknowledge that that, at least, was possible, albeit unlikely—one only had to consider her conduct at the ball, to discard the notion. She had gone off alone with him for half an hour or more. And she had danced with him twice.

  But she had also danced with Ellsworth twice.

  Derek scrubbed his face with one shaking hand. Oh, this was nauseating. He should be ashamed to have such thoughts. It was lunacy to entertain, for even a moment, the notion that Cynthia was capable of such a monstrous thing. She loved him. He knew that, knew it on some bone-deep level that could not be gainsaid.

  But she had consistently told him she would not marry him. And she had refused permission for him to address her mother.

  Was it possible that Natalie’s interpretation had been right, and Cynthia was merely toying with him? Using him, to explore feelings she knew all along she would, in the end, set aside forever? Was that what Cynthia had been trying to tell him—that he was her last fling, her attempt to experience a grand passion once in her life, before marrying a man for whom she felt nothing?

  If that were so, it was probably unfair for him to blame her. She had tried, over and over, to tell him things that he had refused to hear.

  And yet, unfair or not, he did blame her. He blamed her bitterly.

  Cold rage rose in him. So he was to be used and tossed aside, was he? A handful of kisses, a few whispers in the dark, a dance or two, and then farewell. That had been her plan all along. And, looking back, remembering the things she had said and done, honesty forced him to admit that she had been consistent. She had never once promised him anything more than she had already given. It was his own stubbornness, his refusal to accept reality, that had given him false hope. Not Cynthia.

  This stark truth failed to cheer him up.

  Cynthia had assured him, only yesterday, that she would set no further traps for Mr. Ellsworth... but she had told him, the day before, that she longed to be rich. She had later assured him that that was a lie. Which was the lie, and which was the truth? His heart gave him one answer, but the evidence gave him another.

  He read the note again, his lip curling in disgust. What a melodrama! The orangery at midnight. Faugh. It was the sort of assignation a child might make, playing at spies or ghosts. He screwed the paper into a ball and hurled it with great violence at the wastebasket, returning it where it belonged.

  He was halfway up the stairs, heading for his bedchamber, when it occurred to him that Cynthia was about to spend a long, cold hour in the orangery, waiting in vain for John Ellsworth to arrive. A bark of mirthless laughter escaped him. Well, let it be a lesson to her. She should have known better than to send an unsigned note to a simpleton. Her misguided attempt at discretion had backfired.

  Of course, there was another way in which Cynthia’s little intrigue had gone awry. She didn’t know that Derek had intercepted her note. She didn’t know that her secret perfidy had been exposed. He’d be willing to bet that he was the last man on earth she would have chosen to show that note.

  He paused, one hand on the banister. An interesting idea had occurred to him. Ellsworth didn’t know that Cynthia was waiting in the orangery, but he did. And Cynthia didn’t know that he knew. He could surprise her by unexpectedly showing up in Ellsworth’s stead. Should he do so? It might be highly instructive. Painful, perhaps, but instructive.

  The possibility was intriguing. He strolled into his room, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. What would happen if he walked in on her, suspiciously alone in the orangery at dead of night, and obviously waiting for someone? Would she try to pretend that her motives were innocent? Would she be defiant, reminding him that she had told him all along she would never be his? Would she weep and beg his forgiveness? Would she try to turn the tables on him, demanding to know what he was doing in the orangery? Or would she enact him a scene that somehow incorporated all those elements?

  There was one way to find out.

  He caught sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror and frowned, studying his appearance. If what he wanted to do was expose Cynthia’s game, his best chance of doing so was to come upon her unawares. But how? The most conspicuous feature of an orangery, the thing that made it an orangery, was the glass that ran the length of it on both sides. She would be watching his approach through those windows, no doubt. And he looked nothing like John Ellsworth.

  Still, people generally saw what they expected to see. Under cover of darkness and muffled in a greatcoat, he might just pass for Ellsworth—since Ellsworth was who she expected to see.

  His build was more powerful than Ellsworth’s, and he was considerably taller. But when he put the greatcoat on, he discovered that it hid these attributes reasonably well. Beneath its bulk, he might be any shape at all. And the coat was long enough that he could walk with his knees slightly bent, thus taking a few inches off his height. He pulled a hat low on his forehead. He looked more like a highwayman than a lover on his way to a tryst, but perhaps that was all to the good. He hoped he looked intimidating. In fact, he hoped he looked terrifying. Cynthia evidently needed a good scare.

  Filled with grim determination, he slipped downstairs and out into the night. It was much colder than the night of the ball had been. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the neat paths that traversed the duchess’s rose gardens, bare-stemmed and bleak in the moonlight.

  The orangery topped the next rise. It was a romantic structure, built to resem
ble—vaguely—a Greek temple. The effect was heightened by the fact that it stood in splendid isolation, and one must approach it via a gently winding path. The irony struck Derek forcibly as he approached; it reminded him strongly of a drawing he had once seen, a fantasy of ancient worshipers approaching the Parthenon. Trying to shorten himself by walking with bent knees added to the illusion. He almost felt he should be carrying a stick of incense or a sheaf of wheat as he climbed the low hill to where the orangery waited, its tall, arched windows glittering blackly against pale stone walls.

  The last third of the path was lined with some sort of shrubbery. There was no sign of life as he approached the door. The proportions seemed to dwindle as he arrived; the orangery’s situation, isolated at the top of the rise, had made it appear larger than it was. When he reached the actual building, he saw that what had appeared to be a temple was really just a single room, long and low and lined with as many windows as the architect thought the building would bear.

  The latch turned quite easily when he touched it. Derek stepped noiselessly inside and closed the door softly behind him.

  The air was unexpectedly warm. It was nearly as warm as if the place housed people rather than plants. In fact, it was so much warmer than the wintry night outside that his face tingled with a pleasant flush of heat.

  And then the perfume hit him, taking him completely by surprise. A fragrance like heaven itself filled the room, so delicious and heady that he instinctively lifted his nose to it, like a spaniel tasting the wind. None of the potted trees that lined the walls were large, but there must have been dozens of them; lemon and lime and orange after orange after orange. Some of the perfume was from their fruit, and some from flowers, for, incredibly, many of the trees were bearing both at once. He had never seen anything to equal it. Or, rather, he had never smelled anything to equal it.

  There was a glass dome in the orangery’s ceiling. Silvery light poured down through it into the center of the room, faintly illuminating the marble floor and a small, well-banked stove, from whence the heat radiated. And, adding to the perception that he had accidentally wandered into paradise, Cynthia stood within the pool of spectral light, warming her hands at the stove. Her back was to him. She had not heard him come in.

  Derek felt pain constrict his heart. She was, of course, a vision of pure loveliness. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and the moonbeams caught in her hair shimmered like a halo. She looked every inch the angel of his dreams.

  And she was waiting for another man.

  He tiptoed up behind her and placed his hands over her eyes. She gasped and jumped, startled, then gave a breathless little laugh.

  “Guess who?” he growled, in a voice that might have been anyone’s.

  She did not even hesitate. With his hands over her eyes, he could feel the smile lift her cheeks. “John Ellsworth,” she replied, her voice warm with delight.

  And she turned in his arms and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Chapter 17

  Derek felt his body go rigid with denial. He pulled away from her at once. “Wrong,” he said, his voice rasping with anger and grief. “Guess again.”

  She laughed. He could hardly believe the evidence of his ears: she laughed. “Well, let me see,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she considered him. “How many guesses may I have?”

  He stared at her. Something was amiss. His galloping emotions lurched to an abrupt halt, as if someone had just pulled the brake on a runaway carriage.

  In the uncertain moonlight it was difficult to read every nuance of her expression, but he could have sworn... he could have sworn she looked perfectly relaxed. She was smiling at him. She seemed neither startled nor dismayed. And yet she must know, now, that it was Derek Whittaker who faced her, not John Ellsworth. Her reaction made no sense whatsoever. Unless—

  “Cynthia, you know it is I,” he blurted.

  Now she looked surprised. “Of course.”

  Of course? What the deuce—! He frowned at her, bewildered. “Why, here’s a riddle,” he exclaimed. “Why did you say you thought I was Ellsworth?”

  Her eyes widened with further surprise. “I was joking you.” Sudden laughter lit her face again. “Don’t pretend you thought I was serious! As if I could mistake you for poor Mr. Ellsworth.” She shook her head, still laughing.

  So she had said it as a joke. That’s exactly what he had thought—after the initial shock. It was the only explanation that tallied with her demeanor. But it made no sense. “Were you not expecting Mr. Ellsworth?”

  A strange little pause ensued. Her laughter faded. She seemed to be as puzzled by his behavior as he was by hers. “Why would I expect Mr. Ellsworth, of all people? Unless—did you bring him?”

  “I? Why would I drag Ellsworth out here in the middle of the night?”

  “I’ve no idea. Derek, what on earth—?”

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s begin again, shall we?” He paced back toward the door, then turned around and approached her for a second time. “Now. Who am I?”

  She stared at him in the liveliest astonishment. “Unless I am much mistaken, you are Derek Whittaker.”

  “And who were you expecting to meet here?”

  “Derek Whittaker.” Her expression and tone were amused, but also exasperated. “Are you not Derek Whittaker after all? Is this what we are here to discuss—the fact that you are an imposter?”

  He rubbed his chin. “I’m beginning to wonder,” he remarked, baffled. “Cynthia, my love, if you intended to meet me, why the dev—why the deuce did you send your note to John Ellsworth?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why did you—” he began again, slowly and distinctly, but she interrupted him.

  “I heard you. I simply didn’t understand the question. Derek, I sent no note.”

  “To me. You sent no note to me.”

  “I sent no note,” she repeated patiently. “At all. No note to you. And certainly no note to Mr. Ellsworth. Derek, what are you talking about?”

  “My dear girl, if you sent no note, what are you doing here?”

  “Meeting you,” she exclaimed. “As you asked me to do.”

  Her confusion seemed completely genuine. His definitely was.

  “The perfume in this place evidently casts some sort of spell,” he informed her. “One or the other of us has been bewitched. May I take off my coat? It’s too warm for this room.”

  “By all means,” she said politely. “Perhaps you are suffering from heat stroke.”

  “That would explain it,” he agreed, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his coat pocket. “Hallucinations.” He tossed his hat and muffler aside and started to work on the buttons of his greatcoat. “I could have sworn you sent a note to Ellsworth, begging him to meet you in the orangery at midnight. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Very silly.” She crossed her arms. “Especially since, if the note went to Mr. Ellsworth, you would not have seen it.”

  “I—uh—found it in a wastebasket. Never mind about that,” he added hastily, seeing that she was about to question him on this point. “I wish now that I had brought it to show you, but I naturally returned it to the wastebasket. Are you saying you never wrote it? You must have written it.” He looked doubtfully at her. “You are here, precisely where the note said you would be. At midnight, which is when the note said to meet you.”

  “Yes. Because this is where your note said to meet you. What game is this? It is a game, isn’t it?” She looked puzzled again, and a little hurt. “You know perfectly well I would not send such a note to Mr. Ellsworth. And why would I want to meet him at the time and place where I had already agreed to meet you?”

  “Hold a moment.” He ran his fingers through his hair, distracted. “You received a note from me.” It was not a question. The picture still was not clear to Derek, but he felt it becoming clearer every moment, like a foggy landscape once the wind starts to blow. “Do you have the note with you, by any chance?�
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  She shook her head. From the anxious expression she wore, it seemed that Cynthia, too, was guessing that she and Derek had stumbled into something strange. “It said to write ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and then return it. So I wrote ‘yes’—to tell you I would be here—and then slipped it under the corner of the rug outside the drawing room.”

  “Is that what the note said to do?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Was the message not from you? How—how could that be? There is no other ‘D.W.’ who could have...” Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide with a stricken expression. “Oh, this is dreadful. It means—it means someone knows about us.”

  He frowned. “Does it? There is some sort of deep game being played, but I haven’t quite figured it out. Cynthia, are you certain that the note you received purported to be from me? And are you certain you were the intended recipient?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did it say, specifically, that it was from me to you? Or did you just assume it was?”

  She stared at him as if he were a lunatic. “It was addressed to ‘Lady C.F.’ and signed ‘D.W.’ So unless you can tell me of another couple whose initials match ours—”

  He gave a short laugh. “No; it seems the note you received was fairly specific. The note I saw was not. It was addressed to ‘J.E.’ but it bore no signature. Ellsworth thought it had been penned by Hannah; it was I who deduced that the note was from you. Or, rather, that he was meant to believe it was from you.”

  “This is all rather complicated.”

  “I agree.” He folded his greatcoat in half and dropped it neatly beside his hat and muffler. Then he slipped one arm around her waist. “Sit with me,” he murmured, “and we’ll puzzle it out together.” He guided her toward a stone bench placed between two potted trees. After the wild swings of emotion he had endured in the past few hours, it was a relief to end with unlooked-for happiness. Alone with Cynthia, and in such a setting—!