What in heaven’s name was he doing here? He passed Lady Alice’s chamber. Hurriedly, Dorothea closed her door. Heart thudding, she waited as his footsteps came closer. He must be passing Mother’s room now. The footsteps stopped. She heard Mother whisper something, followed by the low rumble of Wellough’s voice, but she couldn’t catch the words. Mother shut her door, and Wellough continued on.
God, no. Surely he wasn’t coming here! Her heart thudded. If he came in, she would try to slip out unseen. She closed the bed curtains to make it seem as if she were in bed, grabbed the poker from the fireplace just in case, and hid near the door.
From outside his bedchamber, Cecil watched Lord Wellough bumble his way down the passage. The instant Dorothea had gone upstairs, Lady Darsington had moved to sit near Lord Wellough. He’d been unable to eavesdrop on their low-voiced conversation, but judging by what Restive had overheard earlier, Cecil assumed Dorothea’s demented mother wanted to force her to wed Wellough—the only other titled gentleman available.
Now, Wellough had a compelling reason to agree. It wouldn’t pay all his debts, but it might save his life. Most likely, he had promised to deliver the medallion to French hands. Since he couldn’t do so, those same French hands, fearing exposure, might do him harm. Marriage to Dorothea would enable Wellough to turn the tables on his employers, for Sir Frederick would protect him rather than face ruin if his new son-in-law’s treason came to light. It was the only solution to his troubles.
Cecil tiptoed after his lordship. As he passed Lady Darsington’s room, her door opened. Cecil was too far away to hear her whisper, but he caught Wellough’s, “Later.”
Later…for what? If he were about to try to compromise Dorothea…but no, he passed her door and kept going.
Wellough’s footsteps moved slowly past Dorothea’s room. Feeling a little foolish—she’d made too much of his constant leering—she set the poker down and opened her door the tiniest amount. He tapped on the Contessa’s door.
“Lord Wellough!” the Contessa said. “What do you want?”
“To speak to you privately.”
She made a contemptuous noise. “I am not a whore, whatever you may think.”
“It’s urgent.” He paused. “About my cousin Restive.”
She chuckled. “You needn’t worry. He is an amusing man, but I don’t want to marry him.”
“It’s nothing to do with that. Another matter entirely.”
There was a silence, after which Dorothea could practically see the Contessa’s shrug. “Oh, very well.”
Lord Wellough lumbered in, and the door closed behind him. Dorothea scurried out of her room and put her ear to the Contessa’s door. Was she a spy? She heard Wellough’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. She eased the door slightly ajar.
“No, I do not want that medallion,” the Contessa said. “What would I do with it?”
“Give it to your cousin.” After a pause, he explained, “The soldier who wants to rule the world.”
“What would be the use of that? It is not the genuine medallion, but merely a copy.”
“No, but a good silversmith could obliterate the jeweler’s mark, and then who would know?”
“No one, perhaps, but anything my cousin did with such a holy relic, whether real or a copy, would be unworthy of a true believer.” She snickered. “Poor little cousin. He will be so angry if he ever learns I refused to buy it for him.”
“You can’t refuse! Your cousin is a French soldier. It’s your duty to support the French cause.”
She snorted. “My only cause is my own enjoyment. I am not interested in the affairs of nations.”
“But—your patriotic duty!” Wellough protested.
“I am Corsican, and my husband was Italian, and that medallion does not belong to you. Go away, old man, before I tell Lord Restive that you tried to sell it to me.” She tutted, sounding amused. “That makes you a traitor. What about your patriotic duty?”
“You’ll be sorry,” he blurted. “After I wed the Darsington girl, I’ll have her father arrest you as a spy.”
The Contessa burst into laughter. “You poor, deluded man. Miss Darsington will never marry you. She’s in love with that sweet Mr. Hale.”
“She has to marry me. Her mother promised. The girl will be so compromised that she’ll have no choice.”
The Contessa cursed in Italian. “You are as evil as her mother—no, you are worse! You will not succeed, and if you accuse me, I shall accuse you in return.”
“Who do you think will be believed? A foreigner or an old friend of Sir Frederick Darsington? Think about it, Contessa. I’ll give you until morning to make the right decision.”
“You do not frighten me,” the Contessa said. “Go!”
Dorothea backed into the shadows at the end of the passageway. She dared not wait for Cecil in her own chamber, for she now knew Mother’s ghastly plan. The old man thumped slowly down the passage.
She must find Cecil…but first she should reassure the Contessa. She reached the Contessa’s door just as it opened.
“Oh!” the Contessa whispered. “I was coming to speak with you.”
“My errand is the same,” Dorothea said, “but your room is safer, I think.”
With difficulty, Cecil resisted the temptation to interfere with Dorothea’s eavesdropping. She was doing a fine job of aiding him, and he was available to protect her if something went wrong. He slid into her bedchamber and watched from there.
Wellough left the Contessa’s room, and almost immediately, Dorothea went in. He almost leapt forward to prevent her, but that would give him away to Wellough—too soon, for he didn’t know what Dorothea had overhead.
Damnation. He had confidence in Dorothea—she wouldn’t risk her life if she knew the Corsican lady to be a spy—but suppressing his protective instinct was agony.
The old man passed, muttering under his breath. “No damned choice. But it won’t be all bad. She’s a tasty dish, by Gad.” He opened Lady Darsington’s door and went in.
Caught between two eavesdropping options, Cecil put his trust in Dorothea’s commonsense. He whipped out the folding ear trumpet and listened hard. It didn’t take long. He pocketed the trumpet and proceeded with a plan of his own.
Chapter Twelve
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Dorothea asked, belatedly realizing she would have to admit to eavesdropping. With what excuse?
“To tell you that your mother and that old man have conspired to compromise you so that you will have to marry him,” the Contessa said.
Dorothea nodded. “Thank you. I thought she was planning something horrid.”
“If you wish to sleep here with me, you are welcome.”
“That’s most kind, but won’t Lord Restive come to you again?” Heavens, she was becoming almost as frank as the Contessa. “I should hate to get in the way of, er, illicit love.”
The Contessa shrugged. “Your safety is more important than a night’s lust.”