How to Wed a Baron. Кейси Майклс

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СКАЧАТЬ reasons of trade and all of that nonsense. You are to consider this marriage a foregone conclusion. Any and all information you might need will be provided to you as you leave. And one more thing—marry her and we’re finished. You will no longer be obligated to me in any way. And, yes, before you are so bad-mannered as to ask, you will also find a signed letter from me stating that fact, along with all those pesky details such as the time of her arrival at Portsmouth, which I believe to be fairly imminent. Now, see if you can find your way out without saying something that makes me rethink my generosity. And send in somebody to clean up this mess.”

      Justin bowed, his jaw tight, and backed up three paces before turning to exit the overheated chamber. He might banter with the prince, he might even insult him, but there existed no way he could disobey him, not at the end of day, when such things mattered. And they both knew it.

      He had his hand resting on the latch before the prince spoke again. Justin didn’t know what the man would say, but he had known he would say something. There was, with the Prince Regent, always something else.

      “By the way, Wilde.”

      “Yes, sir?” he asked, not bothering to turn around. Christ, the man was so woefully predictable.

      “I may have forgotten to mention one other thing. Slipped my mind, I suppose. But, then, why else would I overlook your proven shortcomings as a husband for the lady in favor of your rather unique talents? You see, it would seem that someone wants your affianced bride dead. If any misfortune were to come to her, King Francis and I—indeed, England—would be quite displeased. You amuse me, Wilde, God only knows why. But my amusement has its limits. Now you may go.”

      THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE of the Portsmouth seaport and the array of tall masts Justin could see from his bedchamber window had not altered considerably in the time it had taken him to bathe and dress; which, for a gentleman of the first stare like the Baron Wilde, was, coincidentally, considerable.

      He’d arrived in the town late the previous evening, having delayed departing London until he could be assured word had gotten back to the Prince Regent that it appeared Baron Wilde was flouting His Royal Majesty’s orders.

      After all, why should Prinny be allowed a peaceful slumber if he, the victim in this sad farce, was to be denied his?

      “Petty,” Justin muttered beneath his breath. “You are a petty, petty man. With a sore backside from being in the saddle for two full days.”

      “My lord? You wish something?”

      “No, Wigglesworth, thank you. I was only chastising myself for being seven kinds of fool.”

      “Somebody should,” the valet answered, nodding his periwig-topped head. “It will take me days to brush all the road dirt from your buckskins, if they are to have so much as a prayer of ever being again presentable, which, sadly, I very much doubt. I’ll continue in my duties, then, my lord, if you don’t need me.”

      “I would no doubt perish without you, Wigglesworth,” Justin assured the man. “Carry on.”

      Justin was only half teasing, and both men knew it. Not that Justin needed his valet to survive. Not literally, and not since Bonaparte had been caged a second time and the world was again free to muck itself up without him. But it was Wigglesworth who still kept the facade of Lord Justin Wilde intact, and for a man like Justin, who’d felt himself in need of concealment and for so many years and so many reasons, the foppish, overdressed, fussy little fellow remained the perfect foil.

      Plus, Wigglesworth understood the complete necessity of never overstarching one’s shirts. One should never undervalue such talent.

      “Still no sign of an Austrian or Czech flag in the harbor, Wigglesworth. I shudder to think we might be forced to endure another day in this dreary hovel before the lady arrives. The prince’s man assured me he’d had word her journey was proceeding according to plan as of two days ago.”

      “A man of your sensibilities, my lord, could not but be rendered maudlin by such a thought. If the lady’s ship does not appear by three, I shall make it a point to prepare your supper myself. You must not be made to endure both this inadequate chamber and a less than excellent repast.”

      “Be sure to take our good friend and personal protector Brutus with you again if that unhappy event should become mandatory,” Justin warned, as Wigglesworth remained the only man in all of Creation to believe it was his consequence, and not the hulking Brutus’s mountainous physique (and fearsome expression) that opened the doors to sanctuaries like inn kitchens. Bless Brutus, he was an army unto himself, and invaluable to Justin.

      “Yes, my lord.” Wigglesworth brushed some imaginary lint from the foaming lace jabot at his throat. He was a man who believed in his heart of hearts that Mr. Brummell should have been horse-whipped for convincing the gentlemen to give up their silks and satins and laces in favor of looking as if they were all a flock of penguins heading off to some perpetual funeral.

      He fluttered about the inn bedchamber now like a small exotic bird himself, uncertain where to land.

      Poor Wigglesworth. The man had a mind alive with bees….

      Wringing his delicate hands, the valet finally flitted to the dressing table, counting for only the fourth time the number of brushes, combs and other silver-backed necessities of the well-groomed English gentleman to be sure none had slipped into the swift and crafty hands of the inn servants who had visited the chamber to light the fire or deliver his lordship’s breakfast, the fine repast Wigglesworth himself had overseen being created in the kitchens.

      “Will you be climbing down from your usual worrywart alts anytime soon, Wigglesworth?” Justin at last inquired lazily from the chair beside the window before the man could suffer some injury to himself for lack of anything to do. “Or will I be forced to find a bootjack in this decrepit establishment in order to remove my boots? You did notice this spot on the left toe, did you not?”

      Wigglesworth threw up his hands in horror and joy at the same time. How he needed to be needed. “Merde! A spot? A smudge? Say it is not so!”

      Justin rubbed lightly beneath his nose, as it wouldn’t do to allow his valet to see him so amused at his expense. “Wigglesworth? Do you have any idea what you’re saying, have been saying ever since you broke bread in the common room last night with the chevalier’s valet?”

      “Your pardon, my lord?” Wigglesworth asked as he ripped through the contents of one of the many pieces of luggage the baron required for an overnight stay on the road, at last coming out with a fresh white cloth and a tin of boot black. “And what is it I would have been saying?”

      “Merde, Wigglesworth. You have been almost constantly parroting the word merde all the morning long.”

      Wigglesworth dropped a small rug fashioned just for the purpose in front of his lordship’s chair before carefully placing his mauve satin-clad knee to it and motioning for his lordship to, if he pleased, lift the leg currently bearing the offending footwear.

      “Yes, I have, haven’t I? Frenchmen are by nature a filthy people, but their language is quite melodious, don’t you think? So much better to say merde than mercy, which sounds so…plebian.”

      Justin allowed his good angel and his naughty angel a few moments of debate before deciding he should be a better man. “Merde is not French for mercy, Wigglesworth. It is, in point of fact—and forgive my blushes—the word employed most often by the French in referring to…excrement.”

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