The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [103]
“It will blend with the night,” the little maid said, her voice squeaking with excitement.
Georgiana shook her head. “How do you know that His Grace is prepared? May I remind you, Olivia, that you met Sconce all of four days ago?”
Olivia grinned at her. “That man longs to serve the nation; if being a spy will allow him to, he’ll be a spy. He positively writhed with jealousy at the idea of Rupert’s going to war. He’ll accompany me.”
“And what will the dowager say to that?”
Norah shivered. “They do say below-stairs that the duke generally does whatever Her Grace demands.”
“She will not be happy,” Georgiana persisted.
“I would venture to say that unhappy doesn’t approach her feelings on the subject,” Olivia said, considering the matter. “But there’s this to be said about it: If Quin stays in England because of his mother’s objections, then he is not a man whom I wish to marry.”
“A test?” Georgiana asked, her tone rather dubious.
Olivia nodded. “Do you remember that old story of the lady who was decreed to be a real princess because a pea had been hidden under her mattress? Well, this is my version. No prince is real if he obeys his mother.”
“Rather than his fiancée?” Georgiana asked.
“Rather than the spirit of adventure!”
Twenty-five
The Matter of a Parental Blessing
Quin was in his gunroom, assessing the rather extraordinary number of weapons collected by his forebears. In the end, after careful consideration of what lay ahead, he chose a pair of small but deadly Italian pocket pistols.
“I trust these have been oiled recently?” he asked Cleese.
“Absolutely, Your Grace.”
Quin handed Cleese the pistols and watched absentmindedly as the butler wrapped them tenderly in a fold of flannel and replaced them in a specially made case emblazoned with the Sconce coat of arms.
One duke upstairs, dead to the world.
The heir to that dukedom on a beach in France, dead—or very nearly so.
He felt as though he were living in a novel, the kind with an improbable plot and histrionic characters. At any moment a piece of armor or something equally preposterous would fall from the sky.
“We’ll take a boat from Dover,” he told Cleese, watching him pack bags of powder and shot in the case. “Send a footman ahead to engage the best captain and vessel available. We’ll anchor offshore and take a rowboat with muffled oars under cover of dark. With any luck, the marquess will be on English soil by tomorrow night.”
“I trust that will be the case,” Cleese said, looking as unconvinced as Quin felt.
The door popped open. “There you are!”
Quin looked up, and felt a surge of emotion so strong that he was dizzy. Olivia was dressed for travel. In the crisis, he had forgotten how beautiful she was: those green eyes, the color of sea glass, the mouth that was made for kissing. “Are you nearly ready?” she asked.
The very idea of allowing her on a boat, anywhere near the Channel, was unnerving. And yet he knew that he had no choice.
“We must leave immediately,” she said. He saw anxiety in her eyes, but her smile was bright and brave.
“What on earth are you carrying?” he asked, as she carefully put a basket on the ground.
“Lucy, of course,” she answered. “I’m afraid she’s not very happy with the basket, but I don’t want to risk her falling into the sea.”
He stepped forward and took her hands, looking down into those lovely eyes. “Will you please remain here at Littlebourne in safety while I go to fetch Rupert? I will have the marquess at your side within twenty-four hours, if it’s humanly possible. I’m sure his condition has improved while the courier was travelling to us.”
Olivia’s smile widened.
“I had to try,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her.
“Your mother is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
Quin took the pistol case from Cleese. With it, he was as prepared to protect his lady as he possibly could be. He was a crack shot, but he knew perfectly well that aim and a well-oiled pistol would go only so far. He would need luck.
Olivia stood