The Undercover Scoundrel Page 17

  A rush of poignant relief flooded through Henry. It was still a long shot, but having the acrobats persuade the earl to hand over the diamond meant Henry didn’t have to; it meant he did not have to involve Harclay in Woodstock’s scheme; he would soon, with a little luck, be in possession of the jewel.

  Which meant he could trade it to Woodstock in exchange for Caroline’s life.

  It also meant Henry might at last end, however unsatisfactorily, this business with the French Blue in a matter of days, and be back in Paris by the end of the week.

  He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Especially after the difficult truths he’d revealed to her.

  He prayed Woodstock had not bruised her neck.

  “Excellent. We’ll corner them before the show starts, let them know Harclay’s their man.” Henry stood and ran a hand along his jaw. “Better yet, I do believe Harclay keeps a box at Vauxhall. We can point him out to his minions, so that they can put a face to a name. It’s better if the acrobats know who they’re looking for. I’ll make sure the earl is in his box.”

  Moon arched a brow. “And his sister?”

  Henry turned to the mirror and began untangling the disheveled knot of his cravat. “Good night, Mr. Moon.”

  He could feel the heat of Moon’s glare on the back of his head.

  He was glad for the low light in the room; for Henry’s face burned. Moon wasn’t a fool; he knew that Lake knew that Moon knew about his growing attachment to Caroline. Or something like that.

  But Moon was nothing if not professional, and so he dropped the wool stockings he’d been folding into a drawer and exited the chamber, quietly, leaving Henry alone with the violent tangle of his thoughts, with the achingly sweet memory of Caroline’s kiss on his lips.

  The Next Day

  While Mr. Moon saw to the acrobats backstage at Vauxhall Gardens, Henry waited outside the wrought iron gates of Harclay’s Hanover Square mansion.

  Luckily Caroline’s maid had forgotten to close the windows in her bedchamber, and Henry was able to catch the last stages of her toilet. He let out a sigh of relief.

  She was safe. She was whole. Woodstock had kept his word, for now at least.

  It was more than a little strange, watching her like this, and perhaps even a bit disturbing. But Henry couldn’t help himself; looking away would be akin to seeking shadow on a chilly day rather than turning one’s face up to the sun.

  Caroline sat at her vanity as a round-bosomed maid saw to her hair. Henry watched as Caroline held her fingers to her ear, hooking a pearl earbob into the lobe. He imagined what the skin there would feel like between his thumb and forefinger: soft, silken, like a lamb’s ear.

  He watched her smile at something the maid said. He felt himself smiling, too. He watched her turn down the lamp on her bureau; moments later, he watched her alight the house’s front steps on the arm of her brother.

  The breath left Henry’s lungs. He felt as if he’d been socked square in the gut.

  Heavens, but she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made his heart swell.

  Caroline wore a gown of pale pink satin that shimmered in the waning twilight. It matched the color of her cheeks, a shade lighter than the peonies they’d planted together in the garden. His excitement dimmed, for a moment, when he noticed the gown’s high neck; Woodstock had left his mark on her.

  Henry would have his revenge. He just had to be patient.

  Henry was so distracted that he forgot, for a moment, that he was supposed to be hiding in the shadows. As Harclay helped Caroline into the waiting carriage, he glanced over his shoulder; Henry ducked just in time, heart jolting to sudden life.

  He was never sloppy in his work. And his breeches had never felt quite so tight.

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  Shaking the haze of desire from his head, Henry stole through the streets after the carriage, following its progress toward the Thames. He breathed another sigh of relief as Harclay’s lacquered vehicle crossed to the south bank, toward Vauxhall.

  Good, Harclay had received Hope’s invitation. He would be in his box.

  Caroline would be there, too.

  Despite its swollen size, Henry’s heart leapt inside his chest. He would have to tread lightly. He’d put her through hell these past days, but at least he would see her, could ask after her nerves, her throat, her head.

  Besides. Tonight might be the last time he saw her. If all went to plan, the diamond would be his. And what happened after that had nothing—and everything—to do with Lady Caroline Osbourne.

  After a quick meet with Moon—“it’s done, sir, our hairy friends are in play”—Henry went up to Thomas Hope’s box, where he found his host ensconced in what appeared to be awkward conversation with Lady Violet’s very pretty, very young cousin, Sophia.

  They were both blushing like debutantes—Sophia had an excuse, as she was a debutante, but Henry had never seen Hope quite so pink—but before Henry could ask any questions, the earl and Caroline arrived.

  They stood between the open curtains of heavy red velvet that marked the entrance to the box, Caroline’s eyes wide with uncertainty as they moved over the crowd. At last they landed on Henry; she blinked, lips parting. And then she looked away.

  Henry drew his brows together. There was something in her eyes—fear, it looked very much like fear—that unsettled him.

  “My lady.” He bowed over her hand. Her fingers felt cold, even through the fine kidskin of her glove.

  “Mr. Lake,” she said. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Yes,” her brother drawled, his face screwed up in an unfriendly smile, “how lovely. Tell me, are you to star in tonight’s show?”

  “William!” Caroline hissed.

  “What? I daresay he’d make a rather dashing addition to the acting troupe.” Harclay turned back to Lake. “There’s something . . . thespianlike about the eye patch, don’t you think?”

  Thespianlike. Ha bloody ha. Henry gritted his teeth against the impulse to sock his lordship in the face, so that he might be forced to sport an eye patch of his own.

  “I think you’ve had too much of that dreadful punch,” Caroline replied, giving him a gentle tug. “Let’s go sit. Mr. Lake, my sincerest apologies.”

  She didn’t look at him as she said it; nor did she offer him so much as a parting glance as she led her brother to the front of the box.

  For a moment Henry stood by the curtains, the chill of embarrassment prickling his nape. It was the only thing that tempered his rising anger at the earl’s insult. Really, the man was insufferable; Henry felt sorry for Caroline, having a scalawag brother like that.

  Henry passed the first show in brooding silence. It was a lewd comedy, something he would’ve typically enjoyed (along with Vauxhall’s infamously stout arrack punch) had a persistent feeling of unease not tightened inside his chest.

  How was Caroline feeling? He understood her terror, he did. But did she not know he would protect her from Woodstock? He would die before he ever let the man touch her again. He’d never let him near her. His distress over these things was acute; she was suffering, and it was his fault.

  And then there was the kiss they’d shared in the dark warmth of her brother’s study. He wanted her to have enjoyed the kiss as much as he had, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand.

  While everyone else took their seats at the front of the box, Henry lingered at the back, arms crossed about his chest. He tried to watch the show, really, he did. But his gaze kept landing on the slope of Caroline’s covered neck, and his thoughts returned again and again to the feel of her in his arms the night before.

  Henry did not deserve her. He didn’t deserve much of anything after what he’d done to her, to his family. And the regret—the pain in his leg pulsed brightly as the familiar weight of his regret settled over his heart.
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  He should leave her be. He would leave her be, once he had the diamond in hand.

  The diamond. He had to focus on the French Blue. If all went to plan, it would be his in a day or two, maybe less.

  And then he could pay off Woodstock, and get the hell out of London. Leave her to her well-deserved peace.

  The first act drew to a blessed end. Henry moved into the shadows put off by paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. The earl moved to speak with Lady Violet; Caroline, taking advantage of her momentary freedom, darted through the curtains and into the gallery outside the box.

  He didn’t have to think. It was instinct; it was impulse. Henry darted after her.

  Where was she going? He could only guess that his presence upset her; heavens, the woman had been nearly choked to death the night before on his account. He did not blame her for running.

  Still, he had to make sure she was all right. He wanted to be the one to comfort her if she was not.

  She moved quickly, urgently, as if the building were on fire. The crowd was thick and boisterous, but she made fast work of weaving through bodies, and only managed to trip, once, when she pummeled down the stairs.

  Henry’s stomach lurched along with her, and he was about to leap through the crush when an elderly gentleman, red-faced, potbellied, caught her. His eyes raked hungrily over her as he righted Caroline on the landing.

  So Henry wasn’t the only one aware of her quiet, exquisite loveliness.

  His hands curled into fists at his sides.

  She thanked the man, and continued her progress down the stairs. Henry followed her, aiming a black look at the potbellied gentleman as he passed. If he wasn’t so eager to get to Caroline, he would’ve done quite a bit more than that.

  Lake drew up at the bottom of the stairs. Vauxhall Gardens stretched out before him, a wide expanse of green beneath a darkening bluebell sky. Lanterns dotted the landscape like stars blinking awake; down here the air was warm but fresh, the very best a London spring could offer.

  People milled about the pathways that converged at the theater. Caroline moved through them with a bit more difficulty now, legs snapping unevenly as if her impatience had risen to panic.

  Henry followed her more closely, his brow furrowed, pace less polite than before. He wanted to be close in case she fell.

  He could smell the clean freshness of her perfume.

  At last she stopped, placing a hand against the trunk of a nearby tree as she bent at the waist, the other hand on her stomach.

  She exhaled sharply and her back collapsed with the release of whatever it was she’d been holding in.

  Henry spoke at the same moment he reached for her.

  “Caroline.”

  Startled, her eyes flew to meet his. She was trying, hard, not to cry.

  “Caroline,” he said again, his hands sliding around her wrist.

  She pulled away from him, stumbling back from the tree. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t.”

  Henry stepped around her, blocking her exit. He looked down at her and she backed away from him and his heart clenched at the idea that he was scaring her.

  “Caroline, wait.” His voice was edged with panic. “What happened last night—I am sorry—if there is anything I can do, know I will keep you safe—”

  She looked over his shoulder at a passing couple. Henry took her wrist once more in his hand and tugged her through the row of trees onto a narrow pathway, this one quieter, more secluded. Henry drew Caroline up before him, his hands on her elbows.

  “Are you all right? Tell me what’s wrong. Now.”

  She swallowed. Hesitated.

  “Don’t force me to pull out your fingernails. I’ll do it, I swear,” he said.

  A shadow of a smile crossed her lips, and then disappeared.

  “We should get back,” she said. “William will notice we’re gone, and think the worst.”

  “I don’t care what William thinks. Something is wrong, I see it in your eyes, and I know it’s about last night. Me. Us.”

  Her gaze flashed as her eyes flicked up to meet his. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She was wiping at her eye with the bottom knuckle of her thumb. He tried to reach out to help but she batted him away.

  “Doesn’t matter?” He drew back. “Of course it matters.”

  “Your secrets,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I never meant—you know I never meant to hurt you, Caroline. Not when I left. Not when I told you everything last night.”

  “I know. But these secrets—the time we’ve lost—” She looked away.

  When he’d torn himself from her life, Henry had been comforted by the idea that a girl so lovely and lively and good would surely be scooped up by the season’s most eligible bachelor.

  Of course, he’d never imagined that eligible bachelor would end up being his best friend. But that was beside the point.

  Twelve years, they’d lived this way. The pain lived on in them both.

  “They are secrets no longer,” Henry said. “Now you know. You know everything. You know about Woodstock. You know the mistake I made. You know why I left.”

  She shook her head. “But for so many years, I thought you’d lied to me. I used to think you were a scalawag, a scoundrel. All that time I leaned on the only friend I had. My husband, Osbourne—it comforted me to know at least someone was honest with me.”

  Hurt, tinged a shade darker by his anger, by jealousy, tightened inside his chest. Before he could think better of it his fingers were tightening around the soft flesh of her arms and he was holding her against him, his face inches from hers.

  “Honest?” he lashed out. “I’m no saint, I’ll admit that. What I did was unforgivable. I’ll never forgive myself, Caroline. And you shouldn’t, either. I wasn’t honest then, yes—I couldn’t be, not with men like Woodstock on the loose—but neither were you. We betrayed each other.”

  She drew back. “How did I ever betray you?”

  The words came before he could stop them. “Were you in love with him? The whole time we were together—did you love him?”

  “Who?” Her eyes widened. “Osbourne? My hu—”

  “Yes, Caroline,” Henry spat. “Your husband. You married him less than two months after I left. How could you marry someone so quickly, if you weren’t in love with him before?”

  Her face contracted, a wince of pain, as if she were anticipating a blow to the face. Why are you doing this? he screamed at himself. Stop, you idiot, stop! She’s been through enough; she’s lost enough on your account.

  But he couldn’t stop. He needed to know.

  “Is that what you think?” she said softly.

  “I don’t know what to think,” he replied. His breath was coming in short, hot spurts. “You married my best friend, Caroline. In practically a fortnight—”

  “It was longer than that.”

  “Not much. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were relieved to have me out of the way.”

  She was weeping now, silent tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. He felt each one as a nail struck through his breastbone. He hadn’t meant to ask these questions, not here, not now.

  But he couldn’t trust himself when it came to Caroline. And so the questions came.

  “I can’t stop thinking about your secrets,” she said, “because I keep one of my own. I had to marry him, Henry.” There was a desperate edge to her voice. “I knew him, our families approved. He lived close by.”

  “You didn’t have to marry him so quickly.”

  “Yes,” she looked up at him. “I did.”

  “Your father? Did he find out about—about what we’d done?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” he said forcefully. “Why did you hav
e to marry Osbourne so quickly? When you were already married to me.”

  “Because, Henry,” she replied, her voice rising. “I was with child. Your child.”

  Nineteen

  Henry’s eye unfurled with understanding. His grip loosened on her arms. The high color of his anger faded, replaced by a pallor that shone in the yellow light of a lantern above.

  His brows unhooked; the grooves in his forehead loosened. His lips parted and came back together, as if he had a hundred questions, and didn’t know which to ask first.

  Caroline looked away. She’d never meant to tell him. What did it matter now? And this wound—opening it again was too much to bear.

  But he’d shared his secrets, and so she felt compelled to reveal her own.

  She closed her eyes against the sting of her tears.

  “It was a girl,” Caroline said. “She died before she was born, a month too early.”

  “Oh, God,” he said. He pulled her against him, as if he might embrace her.

  She stepped back. “Please don’t.”

  “Oh, God,” he repeated. “Caroline, I’m—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say—Christ. I’m sorry you had to do that. Do it alone.”

  A beat.

  “Did you”—his voice was threadbare—“get to see her?”

  She scoffed, splattering her tears as she shook her head. “Red hair, just like yours. She was beautiful. Tiny, these little bones, like a kitten’s.”

  Another beat. And then he said: “I wish I could have seen her.”

  Caroline looked up at him. “I wish that, too.”

  His grip tightened on her arms now.

  “Caroline,” he said. “I had—I didn’t know. I had no idea. If—”

  “Osbourne knew,” she nodded. “He knew all along. Knew when I married him. He did it for you, you know. He loved you, and didn’t want your child born . . . to parents who weren’t married.”

  Henry’s grip tightened again. Her skin pinched in protest.

  He looked down at her. His eye was wet, but no tears fell.

  “I didn’t want this for us,” he whispered. “We were—I was so young, I didn’t know what I was doing. I should’ve been more careful when we—when it—”