CHAPTER SEVEN

      COOP WAITED UNTIL she had seated herself, neatly arranging her skirts around her and then folding her hands in her lap, as if he might be about to tug on some imaginary bellpull and the old man would immediately appear, bearing a tea service and cakes.

      Some, he imagined, might see this as acquiescence. Even this early in their relationship, Coop was certain acquiescence was not in Daniella Foster’s vocabulary.

      Her action was not an eagerness to please, but what she probably believed the shortest route between what she wanted to know and what he would say, a curiosity that would soon turn to—what? Shock? Outrage? Lord help him—amusement? Certainly not meek acceptance, of that much he was certain. He’d known her for less than a day, less than a few hours actually, but he’d already realized that another thing he could count on with Miss Daniella Foster was her unpredictability.

      He wandered across the small chapel, either to put a safe distance between them or in search of some sort of inspiration in the faded fresco he stopped in front of, he wasn’t sure.

      He wasn’t accustomed to feeling so helpless, so under the control of circumstances.

      He didn’t like the feeling.

      If it weren’t for the woman, for the Prince Regent, Coop would have ignored the blackmailer’s threat to call him out as a despoiler of innocent women and much worse, and damn the consequences. But he’d 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