How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy Read online

Because of Michael, you birdwit.

  It astounded her how easily she forgot about her almost-fiancé whenever she was anywhere near Will.

  “I hope you’re not too offended, Evie,” he said in a concerned voice. “I’m sure the duke doesn’t dislike you in a personal way.”

  Evie had formed the opposite impression last night, thought it seemed odd since she’d never spoken to the Duke of York. But he clearly disapproved of her on some level, and if Will did know he would wish to spare her feelings and not tell her.

  She gave his arm a brisk pat. “Your father has only your best interests at heart, and I understand that. But if I may give you some advice, it would be that you not consistently defer to him. Yes, he’s a prince and your commanding officer, but he needs to understand he can’t order you about, at least not when it comes to domestic matters.”

  He raised mocking eyebrows. “And is that the advice you follow when it comes to dealing with your mother?”

  “Ouch,” she said, giving an exaggerated wince. “Very well, I’ve learned my lesson and will no longer provide any commentary on your private life. I would ask, however, that you afford me the same courtesy.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said in a rather formal tone. “If that is what you wish.”

  She almost groaned. “I was joking, Will. Now, I suggest we not ruin the rest of the day by talking any more about our tiresome parents. And since you’ve made your apologies in an appropriately abject fashion, will you now tell me where we’re going?”

  She had an idea, though it seemed a strange choice for a social outing. But when the curricle turned onto Coventry Street, with its gold and silversmiths and jewelry shops, her suspicions were all but confirmed.

  “Surely you’ve guessed by now?” he asked with a smile.

  “You’re taking me to St. Margaret’s.”

  “Indeed. I’d like to see what you do there.”

  “Why?” She’d assumed his earlier questions about her work had been nothing more than the polite interest of an old friend.

  “I’m not entirely a frippery fellow,” he said in a wounded voice that didn’t fool her a bit. “I can be serious now and again.”

  “You’re actually the least frivolous person I know. Or, almost,” she amended, thinking of Michael. “But why in heaven’s name do you want to spend the afternoon poking around a charity school? Won’t you be bored?”

  Will kept his attention on his horses while he navigated the curricle around two carts whose drivers were engaged in a shouting match. He didn’t speak again until he’d negotiated their safe passage, and Evie couldn’t shake the feeling he was composing his answer.

  “Nothing you could do would ever bore me,” he said. “This is important to you, so it’s important to me.”

  She fiddled with the delicate brass chain on her reticule, not sure what to say. The idea that she was important to him raised more questions than it answered.

  “Besides,” he added, “Alec is interested in supporting the place, so I thought it made sense for me to take a look. He’s a bit of a soft touch, if you want to know the truth, and I wouldn’t want him taken advantage of.”

  She twisted in her seat to glare at him, her flustered worries dissolving under a flare of anger. “William Endicott, are you suggesting that I would do such a thing?”

  “Dammit, Evie,” he said. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “I don’t know how I could take it any other way.”

  “It’s not you I’m concerned about,” he growled.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “Michael. I really don’t understand why you don’t like him. He’s a thoroughly decent, honorable person who’s invested a great deal of his own money into St. Margaret’s and the Hibernian Benevolent Association.”

  “If you can’t deduce why I don’t like the man, I’m certainly not going to tell you,” Will said in a dry voice. “But we’ll save that discussion for another time. For now, be assured that I’m most sincere when I say that whatever interests you, interests me.”

  Part of Evie did wish to explore why Will had conceived such a dislike for Michael. She could almost believe he was jealous, as silly as that seemed. But since Michael had quite clearly developed a corresponding dislike of Will, she couldn’t think of any other explanation that made sense. However, that was a topic fraught with danger and she decided to agree with Will and let it drop.

  “Very well,” she said, “what would you like to know?”

  “How did you come to be involved with St. Margaret’s?” He slowed the curricle to turn into Princes Street.

  “Through Michael, of course. As you know, I met him at a lecture at the Royal Society, and we soon realized we shared a number of common interests.”

  A grunt from Will told her how little he liked that answer.

  “In any event,” she hastily carried on, “he introduced me to St. Margaret’s and the Hibernian Benevolent Association. The work is worthy and the need great, I assure you. I was happy to become involved.”

  “I can imagine,” he said coolly. “How do your parents feel about your spending so much time in St. Giles?”

  “Mamma hates it, of course,” she said gloomily. “Papa is better, although he worries it’s dangerous for me to go into the Holy Land as much as I do.”

  Will threw her a startled glance. “Christ, please don’t tell me you actually go into the rookeries.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not a complete idiot, Will. But I certainly would if I thought I needed to.”

  “I would strongly advise against it under any circumstances,” he said with a thunderous scowl. “It’s more dangerous than you can imagine.”

  She didn’t tell him that she could imagine, since she’d had to venture into the stews on two occasions to deliver food and supplies to ailing families of parishioners. But she’d only done so in the daytime, escorted by Michael and one of the local men who used their services. It hadn’t felt especially dangerous, though the conditions in the tenements had left her feeling tremendously sad and rather hopeless.

  Still, she had no intention of sharing that information with Will. Only Eden knew the extent of what she did at St. Margaret’s, and her sister would never betray her.

  “I repeat—I am not an idiot.”

  “I never thought you were,” he said, sounding frustrated. “But you do have an exceedingly kind heart and a tendency, on occasion, to be a tad bull-headed.”

  She rounded her eyes in mock indignation. “Are you sure you’re not talking about Edie? I’m the absolute pattern card of caution.”

  He snorted. “You used to be. I’m not so sure about that now.”

  She rather liked that assessment. She no longer wanted him to think she was the meek little miss of long ago, too cautious to venture outside her small circle of friends. Working at St. Margaret’s—and with Michael—had helped her overcome the most bothersome elements of her lamentably shy nature.

  “Tell me more about your work,” he prompted.

  As he guided his horses through the busy streets, moving closer to the teeming warrens of St. Giles, she described the work she did at St. Margaret’s, which was mostly with the charitable association attached to the parish rather than with the church itself. But both were intertwined, since the church also ran a charity school for the local children and most of the adults who came for help were first and foremost parishioners.

  “Not that being a faithful attendant to services is a prerequisite,” she said with a tiny sigh. “If that were the case, we certainly wouldn’t be able to help nearly as many people as we do.”

  “Ah, problems among the faithful?” he asked wryly.

  “Life is very hard for them, and most don’t have much time for church. That and other things tend to keep them out of the pews.”

  “Like drinking?”

  She grimaced. “Yes. Beer, mostly, but gin can still be a problem. Not that it’s only the Irish immigrants who are plagued with the vice. You mustn�
��t think that.”

  Since she’d started working at St. Margaret’s, Evie had come to better realize just how much bigotry still existed against the Irish, both for their nationality and their religion. That bigotry was something she had to fight on a regular basis as she tried to extract support from potential benefactors. More often than not she failed, and since the death of Lord Cardwell, the charity’s most generous patron, she and Michael had been finding it ever more difficult to raise the necessary funds.

  Will gave a sympathetic nod. “The Irish are no more predisposed to that particular vice than Englishmen. It’s ridiculous to think otherwise.”

  “Your view isn’t shared by many in the ton, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve had some difficulty raising money for your work?”

  “The charity school doesn’t really have a problem,” she said. “It’s generally supported by some of the more prosperous shopkeepers and merchants of Irish descent in the city. They provide for most of the upkeep of the church, too.”

  He nodded. “I take it you’re not that involved with the school or the church itself.”

  “Michael and I are both stewards of the school, but we’re primarily involved with the activities of the Hibernian Benevolent Association.”

  “With a name like that,” Will said dryly, “I can understand why you have trouble raising money from the ton.”

  “How true,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But I can’t get Michael to change it. He’s devoted to the cause of justice for the Irish and says it’s important we not be afraid to speak out on the issue.”

  Will slowed the carriage almost to a crawl as he avoided yet another pair of overloaded carts jostling for the right of way at a crowded corner. Once they’d maneuvered past the knot of bystanders thoroughly enjoying the verbal brawl between the carriers, he resumed the conversation.

  “And what about you?” he asked. “What do you think about the plight of the Irish?”

  She frowned, again wondering why he was so interested. “I’m deeply concerned about their living conditions, and I want to do everything I can to alleviate their distress. But if you’re asking if I have a specific political opinion on either the Union or Catholic emancipation, I don’t. I know those issues are exceedingly important, but I’m more concerned with feeding starving children, putting a roof over their heads, and helping their parents find work.”

  He glanced down at her, a faint smile tipping up the corners of his mouth. Evie couldn’t help feeling like she’d just passed some sort of test.

  “That’s what you do?” he asked, the smile warming his voice. “Feed the starving and succor the poor? Well, it’s certainly what I would expect of you.”

  “You make me sound like some sort of dreary medieval saint,” she said, trying to cover up the fact that his praise—and the expression on his face—made her insides flutter with pleasure. “I do, however, try my best to help when I can.”

  He nodded, once more switching his attention to the bustling street. “And I understand you do that by helping people find respectable work, some of them within the households of the ton.”

  “Yes. Did Michael tell you that?”

  “No, Alec did. He and Beaumont have been talking about St. Margaret’s quite a lot, as you may have noticed.”

  She realized she was clenching her reticule in an anxious grip. “I do hope Captain Gilbride is serious in his interest. Believe me when I tell you that we could use the help. It’s become discouragingly difficult to raise new funds.”

  “He is, as am I. But I’m surprised to hear you sounding so discouraged.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have adorable English orphans to use as fodder to appeal to our donors. I have adults—mostly illiterate and sometimes ill-spoken or inebriated. Or both,” she said, deciding to be candid. “Add in the fact that they are both Irish and Catholic, and you can imagine the usual response to my requests.”

  “Yes, but it’s not like you to sound so downtrodden about it, Evie.”

  She jerked slightly in her seat. Had she? She thought she was simply being honest. “I suppose you don’t know me that well anymore, do you?” she said, trying—and failing—for a light tone.

  He transferred the reins to one hand and reached over to cover her clenched fists. “Then I’m very pleased to acquaint myself with the new Evie. And happy to help you in any way I can.”

  Pleasure mingled with confusion as she peered up at him. She used to be able to understand what he was thinking just from the fleeting expressions that crossed his face. But now . . . well, she supposed they were both new to each other. Given the passage of time and all that had occurred between them, it made sense that he would find her greatly changed from their more carefree, childhood days.

  But before she could say anything, he released her hands and turned the curricle into the paved yard behind St. Margaret’s Church. Well into the tangle of streets that radiated out from Seven Dials, Will had unerringly guided them to their destination without once asking for direction from her. She frowned, again thinking it odd that he took such an interest in the place, and in her affairs.

  He pulled up in front of the low, warehouse-like building attached to the small church. “Shall we go in? I’m most eager to see what you’ve been working on.”

  As he handed her down, she tried to shake off the sense that Will was up to something. She might not be able to read him as well as she used to, but a little voice inside insisted she hadn’t entirely lost the knack.

  Chapter Twelve

  Evie fussed with the skirts of her carriage gown, avoiding his gaze. That added to Will’s certainty that she was hiding something. Something to do with her work at St. Margaret’s.

  But what?

  Every instinct told him she knew nothing about conspiracies or assassination plots, especially after her response to his probe about the Irish question. It was just like Evie to focus on the practicalities of the situation rather than the politics. Even as a young girl, she’d always confronted the problem that lay directly before her, whether it was a tenant’s sick child or a stray dog caught in a poacher’s trap. Her twin, on the other hand, took on the larger battles. Eden had a force of character and personality that would have ensured her a career as a politician if she’d been a man. Evie, however, much preferred to address the smaller problems of daily life, caring for those around her with a quiet, endearing concern. She was born to be a wife and mother, bringing order and comfort to all within her orbit.

  She was passionate about her work but wasn’t a radical. And she sure as hell wasn’t an assassin. Nor would she ever involve herself in a cause that hurt another human being. But that didn’t mean that Beaumont—or someone else—wouldn’t try to take advantage of her kind nature. Evie might think herself an experienced, even cynical woman of the world, but at her core she was still the affectionate, trusting girl he’d always known.

  “If you’ll wait here,” she said with a hesitant smile that made Will want to kiss her, “I’ll fetch one of the boys to look after the horses.”

  As she crossed the yard, he took a few moments to enjoy the enticing sway of her backside before she disappeared into the building attached to the church. In the years since he’d last seen her, he’d almost forgotten how splendidly built she was. Some might call her plump, but he thought her perfectly proportioned, with a slender neck, a long, graceful back ending in a sweet, round arse, and generous curves calling out for attention from a man’s hands. In fact, he was beginning to find it disturbing how much he wanted to be the man—the only man—who would have the privilege of sampling her physical charms.

  He let out an impatient snort, mentally shaking off the image of a naked Evie in his bed. That was unlikely to happen—would never happen, if he had any brains—and he was here for a set purpose. That purpose was certainly not to be distracted by lurid thoughts of Evie. He’d already been forced to lie to her and had no business making things worse by salivating over her or by a
cting like a jealous fool with Beaumont. Yes, he’d tried to convince himself it was simply a part he played, but he was grimly aware of just how thin that excuse was starting to sound. While he could certainly get Evie to trust him as a friend and only as a friend, every time he was with her he wanted more. Much more.

  Focus, you idiot.

  Murmuring absently to his horses as he held them in check, he ran a practiced eye over the church building and the surrounding area.

  St. Margaret’s was tucked away on a small street off Monmouth, only a few blocks from Seven Dials. It was on the edge of the rookery—too close for Will’s comfort given how much time Evie spent here. Still, this street seemed safe enough with its narrow houses and two-story shops. The structures were shabby, to be sure, but seemed respectable enough, with a coffeehouse, a few old clothing stores, and a boarding house or two lining the short street. A few men loitered in front of the coffee shop, apparently in a genial argument as they smoked their pipes. A woman dressed in plain but neat garb hurried by, carrying a basket of produce.

  As for St. Margaret’s, it was a modest but tidy red-bricked affair with a slate roof, capable of holding no more than a hundred congregants, he judged. Larger, and surprisingly so, was the building attached to the back end of the church, the one into which Evie had disappeared. It consisted of two stories composed of lime-washed brick, with several window bays. A blue, four-paneled door in the center was topped by a patterned fanlight. Will guessed it had once been a warehouse, now converted to other uses, including as a church hall.

  The air of respectability surrounding the place reassured him too. The yard was swept clean, the windows were free of soot, and two large pots with red geraniums flanked the door, lending an unexpected splash of color. The flowers were almost certainly Evie’s idea because she’d always loved flowers, particularly geraniums. It would be just like her to impart so domestic and cheerful a note, even here in a back alley of St. Giles.

  The blue door opened and Evie strode out. An errant breeze swept through the yard, plastering her skirts to her body, and displaying both the outline of her legs and the sweetly rounded notch at the top of her thighs. Will forced his gaze up, trying to ignore the bolt of sensation to his groin.