Free Kasey Michaels by Escapade Page B

pitched forward to the ground. Now he belatedly raced forward to lend his assistance, helping the insulted earl climb onto the high seat of his phaeton.
    “Oh, I say, Filton,” an almost unhealthily thin man dressed in the latest fashions called out as he persevered in his attempts to keep Lester upright, which seemed to almost take more strength than the man possessed. “Aren’t you even going to ask how the lady is faring? That’s rather rude, don’t you think? Perhaps you should be offering to take the poor thing up and off to a doctor?”
    “Mind your own demmed business, Boothe,” Noel Kinsey spat, then grinned. “Careful now, Boothe—if she topples again, she’ll be the death of you.” And then the earl was off in a flick of reins and the snap of a whip, never to know how close he had come to disaster.
    Which was all the fault of one Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, and general royal pain in Callie Johnston’s unscratchable backside.

I shall be an autocrat: that’s my trade .
    And the good Lord will forgive me: that’s his.
    —Empress Catherine the Great
    Chapter Four
    “T ell me again.”
    Simon pulled at his left ear, a sign that he was both angry and bored. More angry than bored, as his mother very well knew from experience. Her smile widened as she jiggled in her chair like a young child being offered a treat and repeated her demand.
    “Mother, don’t push,” he warned, then shook his head in resignation as Bartholomew Boothe succumbed to the viscountess’s plea.
    “I’ve got it pretty much figured out, ma’am. It was a ploy, see,” Bartholomew began, then looked to Armand Gauthier. “That’s right, isn’t it, Armand? A ploy? Is that the right word?”
    Armand, who had been sitting at his ease in the Roxbury drawing room, nursing a snifter of brandy he’d warmed between his palms, smiled and nodded. “You’ve got it, Bones. A ploy. A device, a diversion, a gambit, a bit of mischief. A ruse. A scheme, perhaps even a stratagem—if I may give our Miss C that much credit without bringing a rain of curses down on my head from our friend here.”
    “And brilliant!” Imogene broke in after throwing back the single glass of sherry her overcautious son allowed her before dinner, and serious drinking, could begin. “So simple, so elegant in its own way: Abducting the man in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, with half of London watching and not knowing. The gel’s got backbone, I’ll hand her that, and the heart of a Trojan.”
    “While also possessing the brain and self-preservation instincts of a demented dormouse.” Simon rubbed a hand across his mouth, considering—not for the first time—the wisdom of bringing the brilliant Miss C to his home, and to his mother. “She could have been caught out as easily as she might have succeeded, you know, and even now be incarcerated, awaiting trial. And a swift hanging. The Crown doesn’t look kindly on those attempting to murder titled gentlemen. Or hasn’t that occurred to any of you?”
    “I thought about it,” Bartholomew admitted, frowning, then brightened again. “But she wasn’t caught. She nor her aunt—who is rather appealing, don’t you think? No, they weren’t suspected at all, not by any of us. Except by you, of course, Simon, which is why they’re both locked up in one of your guest chambers now that you’ve hauled them here against their will. Is that a hanging offense—hauling people into your house when they don’t want to be there? I think it might be. Yes. It might just be! And have you figured out yet what you’re going to do with them? I mean, you can’t keep them tied and jailed. Not forever, anyway. They have to eat, for one thing.”
    Armand rose and walked over to look down at Bartholomew, then grinned at Simon. “Isn’t he darling, old friend? He still thinks the stout one is a female. Should we have him fitted with spectacles, do you suppose, or should we allow him his illusion and