Kasey Michaels - The Bride of the Unicorn

“I met a man recently,” he began, deliberately tamping down any further misgivings about what he planned to do. “He was dying and made his last confession to me, including the admission that he had been involved in the disappearance of Lady Caroline. His last wish was for me to find her and return her to the bosom of her family, in expiation of his sin.” He smiled, spreading his hands wide as if to bestow a blessing on this dead sinner. “How could I, as a God-fearing Christian, refuse?”

Caroline looked at him levelly for some time from across the dimly lit room, then shook her head. “You’re lying,” she pronounced flatly. “Or, at the very least, you are not telling me all of the truth. But it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I’m out of Woodwere, and Aunt Leticia, Ferdie, and Peaches are with me. I don’t need to know why you want to use me, as long as you keep your promise to take care of my friends.”

“Oh, so you noticed my reluctance to adopt those three sterling characters, did you?”

“I would have had to be blind as a cave bat not to,” Caroline returned, grinning. “They’ll be nothing but trouble, you know, even if they mean well. Except for Peaches, of course. She’ll be after your silver, bless her heart. So why did you? Adopt them, that is.”

That was a good question. Morgan, smiling thinly, squashed the cheroot into the tin dish holding a small candle. It had cost him a good deal of blunt to convince Woodwere that he could deal without Haswit and Miss Twittingdon, and he felt certain—as their relatives never visited anyway—that the director planned to continue to collect fees for housing them. “As soon as I have an answer for you, imp, I shall race hotfoot to report it to you.”

She uncurled herself from the chair and stood, tilting her chin at him defiantly. “You just do that, my lord. We made a bargain, you and me, and I’ll see that you stick to your end of it.”

Morgan stood and executed an elegant leg. “I am your servant, Lady Caroline,” he said mockingly, then added as he straightened, “although there has been one small alteration to my plans. I had not really counted on finding you—for from this moment on you are to consider yourself the true Lady Caroline—and my plans were more slapdash than well thought out. I cannot take you and the rest of our traveling freak show to Clayhill. It’s too dangerous, as I wish to keep your discovery private until I have groomed you sufficiently to take your place in London society.”

Caroline pulled a face, her mobile features turning mulish. “Aunt Leticia has been preparing me for my come-out for over a year. I know how to behave. I even know how to eat turbot.”

“My felicitations, Lady Caroline,” Morgan returned affably, watching as she scratched an itch on her stomach—an itch that probably signaled the existence of a family of fleas that had taken up residence in her gown. “However, Miss Twittingdon’s undoubtedly comprehensive instructions to one side, I fear I must insist upon some further education in the ways of the ton. To that end, and because my father no longer moves in society, either in London or here in Sussex, I have decided to move directly to The Acres, his estate. There we can prepare you for your reunion with your relatives without them immediately locking you up somewhere as a disgrace to the family name. Now, are there any more questions, or may I bid you a good night, my lady?”

Caroline looked at him through narrowed eyes, then quickly snatched up another apple from the wooden bowl. “I think I understand everything now,” she said, her grin once more turning her into a scruffy wood sprite. “Good night, my lord. I look forward to seeing your father’s house. Is Mr. Clayton as arrogant as his son?”

“There is no Mr. Clayton, my lady,” Morgan told her, deciding to begin her education. “My name is Morgan Blakely, and I am the Marquis of Clayton, among other, lesser titles. My father’s name is William Blakely, and his most senior title is that of his grace, Duke of Glynde. Do you think you can remember that?”

“If I’m ‘well recompensed,’ I suspect I can remember anything—and forget anything just as easily. Miss Twittingdon didn’t teach me that, but Peaches did,” Caroline said, then skipped out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Morgan to wonder if, this time, his revenge, his planned retribution for an unpardonable sin, was truly worth the bother.

And to wonder why Caroline Monday’s intelligent green eyes pleased him so—on a level much more personal than thoughts of revenge.

It is impossible to please all the world and one’s father.

Jean de La Fontaine

CAROLINE SAT COMFORTABLY on the soft leather seat of Morgan’s closed coach, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of having her stomach filled with good food. She had been eating almost constantly since driving away from Woodwere, and warranted that no single ambition in this life could be loftier than to continue filling her belly at regular intervals until she was as immense as a wheelbarrow and rocked from side to side as she walked.

Not that she believed she would get that chance, certain that she would soon be sent on her way. She had seen the marquis briefly this morning as they all exited the inn, before he climbed on his beautiful bay horse, vowing he would not ride inside with the four none-too-sweet-smelling additions to his entourage while he retained a single sane bone in his body. He had said much the same yesterday, Peaches had told Caroline, while the two of them were traveling to Woodwere, a statement that just proved that the marquis was “too high in the instep by half.”

But it wasn’t his desertion, riding ahead to The Acres and leaving the coach to follow along as best it could, that had forced Caroline to conclude that her introduction to polite society was still no closer to becoming a reality than it had been in Miss Twittingdon’s room as that lady taught her the correct way to curtsy to the Prince Regent. No, it was more than that.

Morgan Blakely, Caroline had decided, had spent the night adding up one side of his personal ledger with the benefits to be had from declaring Caroline Monday to be Lady Caroline Wilburton, then deducting the drawbacks to such a scheme on the other side. Peaches, Aunt Leticia, and Ferdie—who had taught her all she knew about ledgers—had to number on the minus side, as she probably did herself. He certainly had not gone to any great lengths to hide his contempt for them all.

The only thing that could make the ledger amounts tilt in her favor would be if the marquis had some very personal reason for wanting to have her declared the missing heiress. He hadn’t labored very long claiming that he was just an Englishman doing what was right. He had his own reasons for finding Lady Caroline, she was convinced, and his own plans for using her to his advantage. And, most probably, to someone else’s disadvantage.

But Caroline would leave off all this heavy thinking for a while, she decided, and enjoy her second ride in a coach in as many days. She had never before traveled in such style, having rarely left the orphanage for more than an occasional trip into the village, and had been transported to her position at Woodwere on the back of an open wagon. To be surrounded by luxury such as that provided by the marquis’s crested coach was an adventure that nearly outstripped last night’s treat of sleeping in a bed with only two other people, Peaches and Miss Twittingdon, sharing it with her.

Unwilling to miss a single moment more of the trip due to fruitless introspection concerning Lord Clayton’s motives for seeking out a plausible Lady Caroline Wilburton, she lifted the leather flap and looked out at the scenery that was flying by at a dizzying pace. According to the marquis, they were now traveling the same roadway the earl and his countess had ridden along that fateful night.