Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Louise Allen
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passed beyond that option the moment he’d accepted Prinny’s offer in exchange for his silence.
Even if refusing that offer, he’d realized at the time, meant he would have most likely suffered an unfortunate fatal accident within hours of leaving Carleton House. He wouldn’t have been invited to the Prince Regent’s residence at all, but simply and quietly dispatched, had not the man wanted the reflected light of the hero of Quatre Bras shined upon him, to bolster his own reputation among an increasingly hostile populace.
Coop’s mind went back to the conversation he’d had earlier with his mother and Darby. Neither knew now more than they’d previously known about the happenings at Quatre Bras, except that the Prince Regent himself would not be best pleased if the blackmailer penned another chapbook that would reveal “Shame That Rises to the Highest Reaches of the Crown Itself.”
But Minerva did now know about the Countess of Cockermouth’s predicament, about Daniella Foster...and her bedchamber...and after that, well, everything his mother and Darby hatched between them had become a bit of a blur in Coop’s mind.
He just knew he’d agreed to do what they said. For his sins...
They’d convinced him to agree to this current mad course of action, or at least he’d allowed them to think they’d convinced him. He’d kept the hope alive that there could be another way, even as he’d drawn the bays to a halt in front of the chapel.
Inspiration had not struck.
But the hour soon would.
And then there were Darby’s cheerful parting words to him as he’d mounted his curricle outside the Pulteney, still ringing in his ears: “Buck up, man, put a smile on that hero face. Our Miss Foster is the key to your salvation, remember. It’s either you convince the girl, or you can help me pen your eulogy.”
There was such solace to be found in the heartfelt concern of one’s friends...
Coop took recourse to his pocket watch. Ten minutes. He had ten short minutes to come up with a better idea. Any idea at all. Ten minutes. An eternity. A single heartbeat in time.
He’d thought their fairly inane conversation since entering the chapel had eaten up a good ten minutes all by itself, but it had in reality only taken less than five. And then he’d run out of anything to say, any reason to keep her here, until Dany’s mention of Mrs. Yothers had most probably taken away his last option, that of grabbing her hand and getting the two of them the hell away from the chapel.
So was this it? In less than a space of a day, was he about to irrevocably alter the perceived course of his life? He, Cooper McGinley Townsend. The steady one. The commonsensible one. The one who thought before he acted. Except for that moment at Quatre Bras when he saw children in danger...and again on the flagstones of Bond Street, thanks to a pair of mischievous indigo-blue eyes.
It was time to face facts. There’d been no escape, no real way back, ever since he’d ushered Dany inside the chapel. Probably not since he’d first looked into those same indigo-blue eyes, if he was honest with himself. From that moment, he’d known that somehow she was going to be a part of his life, and him a part of hers.
He had at least partially accepted that. He’d heard of similar blows to the heart from other men, most particularly his friends Gabe and Rigby. He’d come to London to look for a wife in any case. In any other circumstances, having Dany stumble into his arms that morning could have been seen as a sort of less than gentle tap on the shoulder from some helpful gods.
In any other circumstances.
“You know something, don’t you?” Dany asked from behind him. “Oh, did I startle you? I’m certain you don’t mind, as I’d decided I’d sat long enough. You know something, something bad, and you don’t know how to tell me. That’s why you brought me here, and that’s why you’ve been dancing about this whole time, attempting to find a way to say what you don’t wish to say. It’s about Oliver, isn’t it? You’ve heard he’s returning home sooner than expected.”
“Oliver?” It took a moment for Coop to absorb that one, even as he continued his feigned interest in the fresco. “No, this isn’t about Lord Cockermouth. Not directly, although it does remind us that our time to locate the blackmailer is limited.”
“For you, as well,” she pointed out. “You haven’t really told me much about the nature of your problem with the blackmailer.”
“We’re after the same man. That’s as much as you need to know.”
“Probably. But not as much as I want to know. I’m sure the details are much more interesting than Mari’s.”
“Hardly. Contrary to my anonymous biographer’s skewed version of my life, romance is not involved.”
“Then it has nothing to do with the woman? How lowering to my expectations. I doubt you’re protecting yourself, no matter what you might say to the contrary. And not the nonexistent owner of the signet ring, surely, as that’s too much of a tarradiddle for anyone to swallow, that the woman would have turned over any such thing by way of a thank-you to a servant. The Prince Regent, then? I know you’re a hero, but a title, an estate? That’s quite the reward. Or is reward the proper word?”
He turned to face her, nearly bumping into her, for the love of heaven. One of the problems he’d have with Dany was that she was too intelligent. He opened his mouth, and the most ridiculous question came out: “How old are you?”
She didn’t so much as blink. “Seventeen. I’m a bit late in making my come-out next spring, by which time I’ll be the ripe old age of eighteen, but it was thought I’d needed some seasoning before my Season.”
The answer had come quickly, without protest. Without guile. With a smile on her face.
Coop was amazed at how much he’d learned about her in one short day.
“I don’t believe you.”
She rather melodramatically slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Why? Do I appear as if I’m at my last prayers? Hagged? Fagged? Perhaps there’s a wrinkle somewhere I haven’t noticed?”
Coop felt his own cheeks coloring. “No, not that. My apologies. You just don’t—it’s difficult to believe you’re so young. When you speak, that is. Again, my apologies. In my defense, it has been a rather trying day.”
“Don’t apologize.” Dany shrugged. “I told them nobody with more than half a brain would swallow any such a crammer, but they would insist. Is the truth important?”
“Not to the world, no.”
“But to you?”
“Probably not, except for my own satisfaction. Unless you’re actually sixteen.” God, wouldn’t that just put the capper on it?
“Really. How interesting. A year makes that much difference?”
“I’m told even an inch is a lot, in a man’s nose,” Coop shot back, still trying to regain his usually unshakable composure.
Her eyes rather crossed as she attempted a peek at her own nose (lovely nose, quite perfect). “Eating soup and sipping wine could become quite the logistical dilemmas, couldn’t they? I see your point. So it isn’t the age, not in general. It’s where that age is applied.” Then she frowned. “No. I really still don’t understand. But if it helps, my papa gambled a bit too deep and in the time it took for him to recover enough to launch me in anything more than Mari’s cast-off gowns, I’d had the temerity to become two years older.”
Coop began to relax. “So you’re nearer twenty?”
“One and twenty in January actually, as I also lost a year to a broken leg. Mama’s, not mine, and Mari was so newly married Mama felt she couldn’t foist me on her, unattended. Now, frankly, I believe she’s gone past caring. Do you really believe age means anything? My parents, and Mari as well, have sworn me to secrecy, saying it would put paid to my matrimonial chances should anyone