“Actually,” Dorothea said diffidently—perhaps complete frankness was still a little awkward—“I believe I shall take refuge with Mr. Hale.”
The Contessa laughed out loud. “That will be far more amusing. But if you did not come to stay with me, what did you wish to speak to me about?”
Dorothea decided on partial truth. “To tell you that Lord Wellough has no influence with my father—in fact, my father dislikes him—and that if he accuses you, I shall tell him it’s not true, and make sure my father knows he is a traitor.” She grimaced. “It’s a frightfully awkward situation, for it will harm innocent family members such as Lady Alice and Lord Restive, but one cannot allow a traitor to go free.”
After a silence, the Contessa said, “It was you who opened my door a little.”
Warning bells clanged in Dorothea’s mind. She’d been a fool to assume the Contessa hadn’t noticed the door was ajar, in which case she also couldn’t be sure the Contessa had told Wellough the truth. What if she were a spy after all?
“I do apologize,” Dorothea said hastily, “but I wanted to know what my mother and Lord Wellough were planning. They had their heads together earlier, and Mother looked at me with the expression that says she intends to do something drastic, and then she didn’t come to scold me. She always scolds!” Was she babbling? Probably. “I couldn’t sleep for fretting. Then I heard his footsteps—thank heavens he’s so noisy—but instead of coming to my room, he passed it and came here! What if he had tried to force you to go to bed with him? I had to be sure you were safe.” She blundered on. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, but I felt it was my duty.”
“Your father is a master of spies, so you understand duty very well.” The Contessa’s voice was cool. “He would be proud of so intrepid a daughter.”
Unnerved but determined not to show it, Dorothea shook her head. “No, he would be furious at me for taking a risk.”
“He would be correct,” the Contessa said. “It is fortunate for you that I am not a spy. But I think I must leave England all the same. In the north of Italy, I possess a villa on a lake. I shall go there and live retired. Perhaps I shall have a lusty gardener to tend to my needs.”
Apparently, the dangerous moment—if that’s what it was—had now passed.
“When this foolish war is over, you and your Mr. Hale shall come to visit me.”
“We should love to,” Dorothea said. “I’d best go now. I wonder if Cecil is upstairs yet. Perhaps I can wait in his room.”
“What a lovely surprise for him. I shall accompany you. You must not pass that old man’s room alone. Perhaps I shall bring my pistol.”
“You have a pistol?” Was this a warning?
“In case of highwaymen. I am a good shot.”
“I have a pistol, too,” Dorothea said. “I always bring one when I travel.”
“The daughter of a spymaster must of course possess one. If that old man accosts you, you will shoot him dead!”
“For a lady who is not a spy, you are very bloodthirsty, Contessa.”
“It is in my heritage.” The Contessa smiled. “We are friends, yes? You must call me Bianca.”
“And you shall call me Dorothea.”
The Contessa picked up a candle, but thankfully, no gun. “Let us go.”
Cecil heard Wellough and Lady Darsington coming and slipped under the coverlet on Dorothea’s bed. Her aroma, caught in the sheets, teased his senses. He fully intended to spend the night in her room, but not in the bed. It wouldn’t be easy to resist her, but she deserved respect, not rampant lust.
The door opened, and candlelight shone through the crack between the curtains. Cecil pulled the counterpane over his face, leaving the crown of Dorothea’s frilly nightcap uncovered. Lord Wellough’s heavy footsteps approached the bed.
“Hurry up,” Lady Darsington hissed.
The curtains parted. Wellough breathed a heavy sigh. “She’s asleep.”
“It’s almost midnight. What did you expect?” Lady Darsington said. “Get onto the bed.”
“I’ll need the steps,” the old man said.
Lady Darsington huffed impatiently. “Why must I do everything? Very well, I don’t actually have to find you in the bed.” She yanked back the coverlet. “Dorothea, my dear, how improper of you to arrange a secret tryst with Lord W—”
She shrieked. Lord Wellough cursed.
Cecil rolled onto his back and yawned.
“What are you doing here?” Lady Darsington’s voice throbbed hysterically.
“I was asleep.” Cecil sat up. “I might ask you the same question.”
“Villain! Dastard! Ravisher!” She wailed like a banshee. “How dare you despoil my daughter?”
Cecil blinked and looked about. “I don’t see your daughter in this bed. Do you?”
“Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“Nothing yet, alas,” Cecil said.
Whoops of laughter came from the doorway. Dorothea and the Contessa clutched one another, shaking with mirth. “You look so ridiculous in that nightcap!” Dorothea said.
Cecil preened. “I think it becomes me rather well.”
“What in the name of God is going on?” The commotion had awakened Lady Alice. Attired in a voluminous wrapper, a woolen cap over her hair, she moved the mirthful ladies aside and eyed the scene with distaste.
Dorothea sobered. “Merely a prank, Lady Alice. Boys will be boys.”
“I hoped to spare Miss Darsington further annoyance,” Cecil said, “by having Lady Darsington vent her spleen on me.” He stood and examined himself in the pier-glass. “Lucky I didn’t try for complete verisimilitude, nightdress and all.” He tossed the nightcap onto the bed.
“Tsk,” Lady Alice said. “What are you doing here, Wellough? You’re far too old for pranks.”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m doing bloody nothing.” He shambled towards the door, fingering the medallion which still hung around his neck.
“But, Lord Wellough—” Lady Darsington tried to stop him.
He shook off her hand. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered. “It’ll never work. I’m doomed.” The ladies at the door parted to let him through.
Cecil raised his brows at Dorothea. She responded with the slightest of nods. “Perhaps you should ensure that Lord Wellough reaches his bedchamber safely. He didn’t look at all well.”
“Good notion.” Cecil left.
Dorothea watched him go, thinking how much she loved him.
Mother’s voice recalled her to the present. “Dorothea.”
She braced herself for another public tirade.
“Do you intend to marry that fortune hunter?”
“He’s not a fortune hunter,” Dorothea said through her teeth. “Yes, I intend to marry him. I love him, and I have reason to believe Papa will approve.” A thought flitted through her mind, something she couldn’t quite catch—but somehow, she knew her father would support her in this decision.
“Your father is a sentimental fool. I shall never, ever forgive you.” Her tone was implacable. “Henceforth, you are dead to me.”