Kiss of a Traitor (12 page)

“Yes, sir,” Ford replied with a lack of enthusiasm. He saluted and mounted his horse. Since the day of their picnic, he’d avoided the vexing Miss Bellingham, citing his injured knee as an excuse. Instead, he concentrated his spying on the British in Georgetown while Tarleton operated in the western part of the state. Now Marion was forcing him back into his fiancée’s clutches. A bothersome feeling beset him since the day he last had the pleasure of her company, a gut reaction that his disastrous mishaps had more in common with malice than coincidence. He had no proof and berated himself for clinging to such a foolish idea, but his intuition continued to warn him that Wilhelmina had orchestrated his humiliating injuries. He resolved to keep his distance from the minx at the musicale and be on his guard for any more “accidents.”

“He is coming to the musicale,” Willa moaned. “I expected, for certain, he would refuse the invitation after our picnic. He cannot have recovered that quickly.” She sent a miserable glance toward Quinn and Jwana. “When Plato cut that hornet’s nest and dropped it, Montford flew into the pond like his breeches were on fire. Then, when Emma took our horses, I fancied he would simply lie down on the ground and expire. What shall we do now?”

Jwana smoothed her hand over Willa’s hair. Quinn patted her on the shoulder. Emma had a thoughtful look on her face.

Willa smiled.

“Lord’a mercy,” Jwana said. “Wot you thinkin', chil'?”

“I have another idea.”

Quinn took a step backward. “Dare I inquire what?”

Willa’s smile expanded into a grin when she faced her coconspirators. “Killer and Sweetie.”

At her chilling words, Jwana shuddered.

Quinn backed up another step and raised his hands as if Willa had aimed a pistol at his chest. “Pray, not them. Surely you would not inflict
them
upon him, not at this point in the plot.”

Willa nodded. “Indeed, I would.” “May I suggest an alternative, one a trifle less drastic?” Emma broke in with a plea. “Let us reserve Killer and Sweetie as a last resort.”

“Very well,” Willa sighed. “I pray, for Montford’s sake, your plan works, and he comes to his senses soon.”

The musicale was well underway by the time Ford made his appearance. A contralto’s piercing, off-key voice blasted from the open parlor doors, grating on his ears like a rusty hinge and causing him to wince. Quinn, stationed at the front door, took Ford’s overcoat, riding gloves, and hat. Tonight Ford had attired himself in his uniform instead of wearing an outlandish outfit. The green dragoon coat and buff breeches would allow him to blend in with the other military officers. But he dared not forego all Lord Montford’s trappings. He had painted and powdered his face and wore a powdered bagwig for his betrothed’s benefit. When he completed his mission, he reckoned he could pursue employment as a clown in Astley’s London Circus.

Quinn gestured toward the parlor doorway, and Ford shook his head. “I do believe I shall wait here until she is quite finished,” he said, referring to the singer. “I should hate to disrupt her concentration.”

Quinn returned to his station with a smile concordant with Ford’s sentiments.

When the song peaked into a less-than-spectacular crescendo and quavered away on a long-held note, Ford moved to the doorway and examined the company. Satins and silks abounded in rainbow colors, intermixed with the green and red coats of Tory and British officers. He spied Wilhelmina’s head of short, dark ringlets next to her stepmother’s silver-blond waves and sausage curls. Applause sounded as the contralto, a thin woman with a sallow face, took a bow, blowing hard from her vocal performance. He prayed she’d not the intention of sucking in more air for an encore.

Willa twisted around in her chair to see whether Montford had arrived. He lounged in the parlor doorway, his shoulder leaning against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest. The sight of him in his uniform froze her to the chair. She had no conception of what she expected to see tonight, some horrid mixture of pink and puce, she supposed, and her breath suspended in her throat at the impact produced by his short, tight green jacket with wide black lapels, snug buff breeches, and high black riding boots. A frown puckered her forehead. Why had she not noticed before now how wide his chest, how narrow his waist and hips, how flat his stomach, how muscular his legs?

Hmm,
perhaps Jwana was correct and there was more to Montford than one perceived on the surface. How had she managed to miss it? She peered up at his painted face and powdered wig and asked herself no more questions. His effeminate outer garb and ornamented features had distracted from the underlying man. Just when she began to lean toward believing he warranted a second look, she shook her head. Not bloody likely. Regardless of how masculine a figure he cut this evening, she still had no interest in a husband.

Willa left her chair, squeezed past Marlene, and plotted a course through the silken, perfumed bodies to Lord Montford’s side. He bowed when she came up to him and pressed a kiss to her extended hand.

“You are quite breathtaking this evening, Wilhelmina,” he said, his words directed to the top of her head.

What he was about? He seemed to be searching the crowd behind her rather than focusing his attention on her. She glanced over her shoulder to see what held his notice but saw nothing of note. “I am ever so grateful for your noticing, my lord. And you look less like a Gypsy’s monkey. King Louis requested the return of his wardrobe, I presume?”

“You are far too kind, my dear,” he replied, obviously distracted and catching not a word of what she said. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and pulled her forward. “Shall we take a turn about the room and meet your guests?” Without awaiting her answer, he hauled her along beside him.

Willa craned her head over the assembly to capture Jwana’s gaze. The maid displayed her comprehension with a short nod and took off toward the kitchen. Another tug on Willa’s arm caused her to stumble.

“My apologies,” her fiancé said. He looked down, seeming truly to see her for the first time. “Is my pace too rapid for your short limbs? I tend to forget you are such a wee bit of a mouse.”

A mouse?
Her temper sprouted legs. “Indeed,” she returned in her sweetest voice. “I, too, tend to forget you are such a bloody great, hulking ape of a sorry excuse for a man.”

His painted mouth twitched. Seeming to swallow his smile, he bestowed upon her instead a look of censure. “I say, Wilhelmina, I do admire spirit, to a certain degree, but I must tell you I cannot abide poor manners and coarse language in my betrothed.” Then he lifted his head like a wolf scenting game, and once again she was forgotten, a mere supernumerary appendage hanging onto his arm.

She tried to steer him toward the buffet laid out in the formal dining room. But directing Montford was akin to maneuvering a coach-and-four through a flock of turkeys. Every few feet, an officer, planter, or floral-scented, bosom-baring woman stopped them and begged an introduction. After some time, they broke free of the throng. They almost reached the dining room doorway when Montford halted and pried her hand from his arm.

“Madam,” he said, still absorbed by his own thoughts, “if you will excuse me, I must speak with your father. Would you mind finding your own way to the buffet?” In a burst of movement, he collared the nearest unaccompanied male, a scarlet-coated lieutenant with a pockmarked face, and dragged him over. “Better still, perhaps Lieutenant …” He arched his eyebrows.

“Johnstone,” the man supplied, his cheeks going rosy.

“… Lieutenant Johnstone would consent to be your escort.”

“Cer-certainly, Major.” Johnstone held out his bony elbow. “It would be my honor to escort you to the buffet, Miss Bellingham.”

She ignored the young man and his extended arm as she peered at Montford through half-lowered lids. He was acting extraordinarily bizarre this evening, rather more bizarre than usual. “The thing is, I believe my father is unavailable. I seem to recall he promised to show Major Dundee his newest acquisition to the stables.”

“Excellent.” The baron picked up her hand and draped it over Lieutenant Johnstone’s arm, which still wavered in the air between them. Then he took off, bucking the oncoming traffic as he disappeared among the bodies heading toward the dining room for refreshments.

“Mi-Miss Bellingham?” Johnstone inquired, the words tangling on his tongue. She barely heard the man as she remained still and stared at the spot where Montford had vanished. Her betrothed’s actions so stunned her she’d not even the opportunity to berate him for his rudeness in handing her off to the lieutenant like a horse to a groom without so much as a by-your-leave.

The lieutenant’s voice at last penetrated her displeasure. She turned to smile at him. “Shall we, Lieutenant Johnstone? I vow I shall catch up with Major Sinclair later. He cannot think to slip away from me that easily.”

Confusion covered the young officer’s face as they joined the line to the buffet table.

Ford exited the parlor and evaded Quinn’s notice while the butler busied himself with late arrivals. Once away from the main entry, Ford slipped down the hallway past the staircase and made his way toward the back of the house. At the door to Bellingham’s study, he detected a noise that made him pause. He stepped into an alcove in front of a window looking out over the back gardens, edged behind the curtain, and held his breath.

A woman’s voice murmured and was followed by a man’s laugh. The voices were muted, as if deliberately lowered to remain between the pair. Despite that, Ford heard them clearly as they carried on their conversation directly beyond his curtain. A swish of satin hissed on the pinewood floor, and the curtain stirred as the couple passed by. The woman’s gown raised a breeze infused with magnolia scent.

Ford released his held breath and moved to sweep the curtain aside but stopped when he caught the drone of voices again as the duo halted beside the study door. He wished them to the devil. Were he compelled to dally much longer, someone would surely note his absence.

“Five minutes,” the man said. “I vow. ‘Twould take no longer than that.”

“Perhaps for you,” she replied with a low, silky laugh.

Damn it to hell!
Ford looked up at the ceiling. If they would simply take their tryst out into the gardens or find an empty room … any room other than the study. He heard the study door open and cursed again under his breath.

“In here,” the man said. “I know you want it.”

“Are you mad?” The woman’s voice no longer held any hint of seductive teasing. “Have you lost all sense of where we are? My husband is in attendance. When we are this close to gaining all we desire, we cannot afford to make a mistake. I want you, too, but for now, keep your breeches buttoned until we have no fear of discovery.”

The door slammed. “Damnation,” the man snapped. “I assume, then, you will meet me later tonight, as we planned?”

“Should I find the opportunity.”

Footsteps faded down the hall.

Ford left the alcove and threw a glance at the retreating couple. He caught a glimpse of them as they turned the corner. Were he not mistaken, the lovebirds were Thomas Digby and Marlene Bellingham. He shook his head. Every officer but he seemed to be involved in a liaison. Then he placed his ear against the study door. When he was confident the room was empty, he turned the handle and slipped inside. He eased the portal closed and leaned back against the wood.

A masculine room with a few feminine touches. Heavy drapes spread open to the night, revealing scattered diamond-brilliant stars and a near-full moon, which splashed its silver light through the tall, multipaned windows. In its illumination, he examined the room, calculating where to begin. Shelves crammed with leather-bound books soared against the wall adjacent to the windows. The wall to his left held a collection of mostly antique weaponry, paintings depicting hunting scenes, and an armoire with locked doors emitting an odor of gun oil and black powder. A gun cabinet. The fourth wall, behind a walnut desk, was upholstered in rust-red leather and studded with brass buttons. In an area near the bookcases and windows sat two high-back, leather wing chairs and a piecrust-top occasional table holding a chessboard. Two smaller Queen Anne chairs with petitpoint embroidered seats, a tea table wedged between them, reclined in front of the desk.