Confessions of a Viscount

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Charlotte felt light-headed.

“Married? At your age?” Father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Bed the wench and be done with it.”

Charlotte would have gasped, had she been able to draw a deep enough breath.

Moncreiffe tucked her closer against his side, his hand possessively curving around her shoulder. “I’ll thank you to speak more respectfully of my intended, sir.”

Father held the candelabrum higher and leaned toward them over the balcony railing, examining Charlotte. Moncreiffe held his ground, and his grip on Charlotte. She stayed perfectly still, chin up, hardly daring to breathe.

At last the older gent backed up. With a harrumph, he grabbed his companion, who was obviously cold in her thin silk dress with no undergarments, and retreated back into their room, muttering imprecations about “that damn stiff-rumped duke’s doing” as he slammed the door.

Charlotte had grown roots. Couldn’t move if she tried. Never in all her years of working on the Continent had she found herself in such a situation.

Moncreiffe cleared his throat and took a step back, then leaned over the railing as though judging the distance to jump to the ground. Finally, he faced her. “I most humbly beg your pardon, Miss Parnell.”

Her mouth fell open.

“I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking that I, that you and I, er…”

“Had a carnal relationship?” She had the satisfaction of seeing his Adam’s apple bob beneath his exquisitely tied cravat.

“Er, yes. He keeps telling me to, ah, sow wild oats, as it were. And I would never, er, not that you’re not appealing, but…”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Keep digging, my lord. You’re well on your way to China.” His discomfort should have increased hers, but instead had the opposite effect. Now that her breathing was almost back to normal, she could see the humor in the outrageous situation.

He ducked his chin, his blue eyes sparkling in the candlelight flickering next door, his full lips twitching as he held back a smile. Her stomach fluttered.

“The good news is, I doubt Madame Cyprian, whoever she was, will tell anyone of our encounter, and my father certainly won’t. The last thing he wants is for me to become engaged. That would make my grandfather far too happy.”

Sounded like a family situation she should stay far away from.

He cleared his throat again. “I appreciate you playing along like that. You’re very quick on your feet.”

At least he hadn’t made the mistake of saying “light” on her feet. She was trying to think of something brilliant and witty to say when Moncreiffe rested a hand on the railing and leaned toward her. “But I must confess to a great deal of curiosity as to why you were hanging from the rooftop.”

Oh. About that. Hmm. She tossed the question back to him to stall. “And I am curious how you came to be out here, with such propitious timing.”

Moncreiffe hadn’t moved away. “I was preparing to make some astronomical observations from the roof next door when I saw a more earthly body in a precarious position.” His teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled. “And you, Miss Parnell?”

She gulped. His hand rested on the railing at her back. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, remember the feel of it next to hers, inhale his scent. She could not let that distract her. Men became insensible, talkative creatures with her, not the other way around. “You’re sure your father won’t speak of our encounter?”

His lips twitched, silently acknowledging her diversionary tactic. “Certain of it.”

“Then we should leave before anyone else discovers us and reaches the wrong conclusion.” She ducked under his arm and reached for the door handle. She’d used several extra pins to hold up her hair in case she needed one to pick a lock, but fortunately, Madame Melisande was a trusting person, or just careless, and had failed to lock it. Charlotte hurried inside.

“You don’t seem the usual type of burglar,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She hadn’t heard him follow her in, yet felt his presence at her side as strongly as if he were still holding her. They stood stock-still in the shadowy room, with the only light coming from the faint glow of the embers in the fireplace.

“We can’t be seen together,” she whispered, ignoring the urge to reach out and touch him again. “I’ll wait a few minutes after you’re gone, then go downstairs, just like the other hotel guests.”

She walked toward the door to the hall but stopped when she felt the heat and weight of his hand land on her shoulder. A delicious tingle coursed through her as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I sincerely hope the rest of your evening is less eventful, Miss Parnell.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away.

The balcony door curtains fluttered as he passed. She heard the faint clang of his shoes on the iron railing, and then he was up and gone from view, back the way he’d come, just as quick and agile as Steven when it came to climbing about on balconies and roofs. Gratifying to know her initial assessment had not been proven incorrect.

Charlotte stood frozen, staring at the empty balcony, reliving the moments in Moncreiffe’s company. The encounter with his father could prove problematic. The marquess did not wish Alistair to marry, but apparently the duke did. Too bad she didn’t know the viscount’s thoughts on the subject.

She gave herself a slight shake. What on earth was she doing, thinking about Moncreiffe and marriage, when she had gone to such lengths — not to mention risk — to be here, now, to search Melisande’s room?

She made sure the hall door was shut and locked, did the same for the balcony and sitting room doors, then lit one candle from the glowing embers and began going through the widow’s bedchamber.

Ten minutes later, she sat back on her heels and let out a huff of frustration. Of course it wouldn’t be this simple. She got up and made certain everything was back in its original position. She had found plenty of evidence if she were inclined toward blackmail; at least a dozen gentlemen would pay handsomely for the return of their tokens of affections. Melisande collected paramours the way other women collected fans or gloves. But there was no sign of the object Charlotte was after.

Well, she’d just have to search again. She had concentrated on Melisande’s trunks and other personal belongings, thinking the courtesan would want the item easy to grab and go. This time she’d pay more attention to potential hiding spots in the room itself. She’d start with the bricks surrounding the fireplace.

A key turned in the lock of the connected sitting room.

Her heart pounding, Charlotte waited until she heard the door to the hall open and close again, then let herself out into the hall. Once at the landing at the end of the hall, she forced herself to calmly walk down the stairs, past other hotel guests and staff, out the front door, around back to retrieve her slipper, and then back to the ball next door. Aunt Hermione acknowledged her return with a nod but didn’t interrupt her conversation with the duenna seated on her other side.

What next? Charlotte wasn’t going to try climbing down from the roof again, at least not while wearing a gown. Perhaps she’d wear her maid costume and pick the lock to get in from the hall when she was certain Melisande was out.

Perhaps Melisande carried such a valuable item in her reticule, or on her person? She’d have to find out Melisande’s schedule and follow the courtesan. Go to the same social functions, get close to her.

If she went alone, it might raise suspicion, not to mention possibly causing a scandal if she came to the attention of some busybody stickler for propriety. Aunt Hermione and her gout were only good for a couple outings per week.

She’d need an escort. Steven was out of the question, obviously. He’d only be interested in finding her a suitor and would ditch her while he went off on his own search, conveniently forgetting all about their successful partnership. The rat.

Suitor. Hmm. Marianne had been squired about by Lord Glavin to all sorts of events and outings while they were betrothed. A husband was still out of the question, but a fiancé might be just the ticket.

She went still. Viscount Moncreiffe. He’d already brought up a fake engagement.

How could she let him know she would like to continue his charade, without him thinking it a ploy to actually lure him into parson’s mousetrap?

* * *

“You sly puss,” Steven said with a grin two days later, tossing the morning’s paper onto the dining table in front of Charlotte. He waved dismissal to the footman stationed by the sideboard, so they were alone.

She swallowed her bite of egg on toast. “Beg pardon?”

Steven pointed at an article halfway down the page that contained all of the social announcements. “When were you going to tell me you snagged yourself a viscount? One that’s heir to a dukedom, no less.” He ruffled her hair. “Nicely done, poppet. Mama and your papa would have been so proud.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Though to be proper, shouldn’t they have come to me to discuss marriage settlements before making the announcement?”

Charlotte’s fork clattered to the floor, unheeded, as she snatched up the newspaper. There it was, printed in black and white for all the world to see. The Duke of Keswick announces the engagement of his grandson, Alistair, Viscount Moncreiffe, to Miss Charlotte Parnell of Bath. It went on to discuss the two families, including Moncreiffe’s father, the Marquess of Penrith, and listed information about her pedigree of which Charlotte had only a vague recollection.

“But marrying you off to the heir to a dukedom! I suppose we can forgive them their little oversight.”

“I… we… it’s not like that. We barely—” Charlotte gave up on an explanation at the sound of the door knocker. It was still far too early for any of Aunt Hermione’s friends to come calling, even with this juicy tidbit to discuss.

The butler appeared in the doorway moments later. “A gentleman caller, miss,” he announced, proffering the silver tray with a lone calling card.

Steven snatched up the card. “The bridegroom comes!” He pulled Charlotte’s chair back from the table. “Where did you put him, Farnham, the drawing room?”

“Yes, sir, but the gentleman asked specifically for Miss Parnell.” His disdainful sniff conveyed his opinion of the impropriety of calling at such an early hour.

Charlotte snatched back the card from Steven. “Surely you’ll allow me a few moments of privacy with my fiancé?” She flounced out of the room without a backward glance.

“Five minutes,” Steven called. “Then I’m coming in, and I’m not going to knock.”

* * *

Alistair paced before the empty fireplace in the drawing room. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should never have lied to his father, or at least not that particular lie. He should have known Father would confront Grandfather, believing it was the duke’s influence that made Alistair inclined toward matrimony at the tender age of twenty-five.

He plowed his fingers through his hair, wishing yet again the two men would choose someone else to be the rope in their decades-long game of tug-of-war.

Because his father couldn’t keep quiet and Grandfather couldn’t resist rubbing success in his son’s face, now all of London was privy to a private conversation. A conversation regarding a fake engagement. How did one go about asking a gently bred miss to declare herself a jilt?

Why, why couldn’t he have thought of a better reason for being alone on a balcony in the dark — the balcony of a hotel rumored to be a favored setting for assignations — with Miss Parnell?

And why had she been dangling above said balcony in the first place?

He turned at the sound of the door opening. Miss Parnell stood still for a moment, as though reluctant to share the room with him. No sign of a chaperone. The footmen in the hall were stationed on either side of the drawing room doorway, their backs to him.