Page 70 of The Wallflower Ruse

Lucy had learned how to swim in the slow-moving river at home but knew she could never prevail against the current of the Thames, much less combined with the outgoing tide. She tore off the hastily stitched gown and swam desperately for the embankment. Her gown was behind her now, caught on some debris, while Wharton was already yards ahead, floundering, then going under.

He didn’t resurface, and she struggled toward the embankment, grabbing for anything that might come to hand, scraping her fingers against stone and other debris, and grasped a dangling rope just before the current swept her past.

The French ship was gone. Guests milled about in the garden, their expressions confused in the light of the bonfire. She didn’t think they had seen her yet, but she couldn’t wait for them to leave. She had to get out of the river. The water was cold, so very cold, and she was practically naked. Her stays barely reached to her nipples, and nothing covered her legs but a flimsy shift that ended above her knees.

Restive was upriver, near where she and Wharton had fallen in. He cried out as her gown finally swept away and ran toward the water, tearing off his coat.

“Algy!” she yelled, waving frantically. “I’m here!”

“Thank God,” Restive said, hastening to lift her bodily from the water. “Stop struggling, Lucy. I’ve got you.”

“I’m half-naked,” she cried, shivering.

“I noticed,” Restive said with a grin. He put his arms around her. “Ah, Lucy, you are magnificent.”

“What I am is freezing!” she retorted, “and totally ruined now, thanks to—”

“Thank God,” he said again, holding her close and kissing her hard and long. Heat washed over her. When at last he let her go, she was shaking, and it wasn’t from the wet and cold.

She struggled, still dazed by that sudden, intense onslaught of desire.

And appalled at her complete loss of control.

Restive released her. “Lucy, I—” he began, but Davis loped up, dressed once again as a lad and carrying the shepherdess gown.

Lucinda greeted his arrival with relief. She didn’t think she could bear to hear Restive apologize for kissing her, to swear it was a mistake caused by relief, to promise never to do it again. How could she have been so stupid as to fall in love with him?

“Well done, Miss Belair,” Davis said. “You rid us of Wharton for good.”

“That was pure luck,” she said, reaching for the gown. “He was so busy accusing me of treason that he didn’t notice what was really going on.”

Davis tossed the shepherdess costume over her head and helped her into it. It didn’t fit, and the stuffed fabric that served as false breasts got in the way, but at least she was decently covered.

“Go tidy it all up,” Davis told Restive. “Mourn the unfortunate accident which caused Wharton’s demise. Claim to have shot the French spies. Fortin’s long gone, and Wharton will roll in his grave knowing that you got the glory. My only regret is that I didn’t get to kill him, but I’m a magnanimous sort of chap, so I’ll forgive Miss Belair.”

“Shut it, Davis,” Restive said.

Davis went on talking. “Escort the Prince back to Carlton House without telling him what an ass he is. Have fun.” He grinned. “Meanwhile, I’ll see that Miss Belair gets safely home.”

“Not yet,” Restive said. “Miss Belair and I need to talk.” He appropriated her arm and all but dragged her away.

“About what?” Lucinda snapped. “Stop manhandling me.”

“I beg your pardon, but I owe you an apology, and—”

“You owe me nothing,” she retorted. In fact, she would be the one to apologize, on her mother’s behalf, when he read that ghastly announcement in The Gazette.

“And I intend to make good and sure you are wearing your own clothing when you arrive home, not that rag of Davis’s. I’ll deliver you into the hands of a maid who will help you to dress. I wish I could take you home myself, but escorting the Prince now falls to me. Davis will take you home in due time. I shall call on you as soon as I can, to discuss—"

“That’s all very well,” she said, in a hurry to change the subject, “but what will happen to them?” She indicated the equerry, being held by two grim-looking footmen, the bewildered, weeping Lady Delworth, leaning on Mr. Pearce, and the fearfully cowering Mrs. Spence. Lady Tollister was nowhere to be seen. The Prince asked querulously what had happened to the fireworks. Someone had thrown a shawl over Monsieur Beaudry’s face. The other Harlequin, as Davis had said, had disappeared into the night.

“I imagine the equerry will be dismissed for incompetence,” Restive said as they hurried up the stairs to the terrace, “and Pearce and the female conspirators will be interrogated and then warned on pain of sudden, violent death to keep their mouths shut and behave from now on.”

“Whatever were they thinking to conspire with the French in the first place?”

Restive shrugged, holding the door open for her to enter the house. The ballroom was almost empty; everyone was still milling about outdoors. “Most likely they didn’t realize exactly whom they were conspiring with. Maybe they were told the plot was meant merely to embarrass or frighten the Prince of Wales, for it’s clear they expected to continue with their usual activities afterwards. It’s astonishing how gullible people can be.”

Lucinda started up the stairs to the bedchamber where she had left her clothes. “You needn’t accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”