by Olivia Drake
His mistress. How he’d like to have Kate welcome him with a smile, to show an eager, bright-eyed interest in him as she had so long ago. He wondered if that impetuous girl still lurked inside the woman she’d become: prudish, disapproving, cautious. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to kiss her again, this time without anger. He wanted to coax her into bed and find the wildness in her.
As swiftly as the fantasy had arisen, he banished it, though the tension in his loins remained. He was bound by vow to protect Kate. He must never forget that. Besides, he didn’t need any distractions from his mission here.
Entering the library, he peered into every nook and cranny, spying a range of ancient curios from a porcelain Buddha to a bronze plaque of a man with the body of a horse. He searched a music room, a sitting room, and a ballroom. His frustration mounting, he went down passageways and corridors, checking in every chamber along the way. Although he saw other artifacts, there was little to support Damson’s reputation as a collector of ancient erotica. The most risqué object was a life-sized Roman statue of a near-naked gladiator in one of the staircase halls.
Reaching the top floor, Gabe tried several doorknobs, but to his aggravation, all were locked. These weren’t guest chambers, for those had been open. The expensive paintings and gold-striped wallpaper would suggest that Damson used this floor himself. Did he keep his most valuable relics in one of these rooms? The probability of that invigorated Gabe.
He needed a key. Quite likely, the housekeeper and Figgins had a set—and Damson himself.
Pondering various ways to achieve his goal, Gabe strode down the corridor to the nearest staircase. The plush crimson carpet muffled his footsteps. As he turned the corner, he almost collided with someone.
He caught her arm to steady her. “Mrs. Swindon. Forgive me.”
In the pale candlelight, the housekeeper’s eyes looked almost black and more than a little suspicious. She clutched a sheaf of papers to her voluptuous bosom. “Whitcombe. What are you doing up here?”
“Lost my way,” he said glibly. “Perhaps you could direct me to the back staircase. I was going to Lady Stokeford’s chamber.”
She looked him up and down, her earthy features taking on a bawdy appreciation. “If I may first leave these menus in the master’s study.” Moving past him, she walked to one of the locked doors and reached for the ring of keys that jingled from her waist.
Keys.
With studied casualness, Gabe went to her side. He held his candle close as if to aid her task. “There, that should help you see better.”
She gave him a predatory smile, making him notice the sparse moustache that garnished her upper lip. “How thoughtful of you. Are you always so attentive?”
“Women often say so.” He glanced down as if to ogle her bosom. Unfortunately, the key was half-hidden in her hand. “Allow me.”
He took the slender bit of metal from her fingers, then slowly tugged her and the attached key closer to the door.
“Mr. Whitcombe!” she said in a breathy squeal. “Why, I never!”
“I’m happy to be of service to you, madam.”
He inserted the iron key in the lock and turned it. The tumblers clicked, and as he released the key, he noted that it had a scrolled top with a small numeral 2 engraved in the metal.
He opened the door with a flourish, taking a swift look around the gloomy chamber. “I can see you’ll need my help in here, too.”
Pretending not to hear her sputtered objection, he walked inside, the candle held high to illuminate a spacious study dominated by an impressive marble desk on which sat an array of quills and a silver inkwell. Gabe’s attention veered to the walls, where tall glass cases displayed a profusion of shadowy objects.
His pulse surged. Damson’s private treasure trove.
Striding to the nearest case, he let the candle illuminate a Greek vase decorated by a series of copulating couples. Moving quickly down, he shone the flame over shelves that contained figurines of men and women in various sexual positions.
“Whitcombe! You’re not allowed in here.” Mrs. Swindon bustled to the desk and deposited the menus. “None of the servants can enter this chamber, except for myself and Mr. Figgins.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said, eyeing the stone figurine of a Hindu male in full arousal, and then one of a bare-breasted tribal native with a huge pregnant belly. Pretending surprise, Gabe whistled. “This is a corker of a display. Who’d think the quality would collect such naughty things?”
“Come along,” the housekeeper said, sounding almost frightened. “The master will be furious if he catches you in here.”
“He’s with his guests,” Gabe said, stepping to the next case to see an alabaster sculpture of a woman fondling her privates, her head thrown back in rapture. “Look at that. What do you suppose Damson does with all these statues?”
“That’s none of our concern.” Mrs. Swindon grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the passageway.
Gabe almost rapped out a command to desist, then remembered his place. He was a footman, dammit. He had no right to give orders to the housekeeper.
The key rattled as she relocked the door, and then tried the handle. As she picked up her gray skirt and started down the corridor, she glanced around as if fearing they’d been observed.
“There’s no one here but us.” Goaded by razor-sharp purpose, Gabe leaned down to whisper in Mrs. Swindon’s ear, “Let’s have another look, my little dove. It might inspire us.”
He could see the indecision in her, the lust in her greedy features. But she resisted. “Dinner will be over by now. The master might take a mind to bring his guests up here.”
“Does he do that often?”
“Yes.” She cocked her mobcapped head toward the staircase. “Egad! I hear voices.”
Indeed, a burst of hearty male laughter echoed from somewhere below them. The faint tramping of feet sounded hollow in the cavernous stairway hall.
“Make haste,” Mrs. Swindon said, prodding Gabe along the corridor. “You mustn’t be seen here.”
Gabe moved stiffly, his muscles tight with anger. He’d throttle Damson if he dared to expose Kate to that lewd display. Not even to find the goddess did he want her in that study.
“Surely he won’t bring all the guests up here,” Gabe said. “My mistress is an innocent lady.”
“He’s a gentleman, the master is,” Mrs. Swindon hissed. “And don’t you be questioning your betters.” With that, she touched the paneling and a cleverly concealed door swung open. “In here, now. Spit-spot.”
With one last glance back at the closed door of the study, he reluctantly followed her into the narrow shaft of a staircase. The candle flame cast wavering shadows over the unadorned stone walls. As he allowed the housekeeper to descend the steep steps ahead of him, he knew she’d expect a few comments on the unusual display. “That’s quite a collection your master owns,” he said over the tapping of their footsteps. “I would never have guessed his vices by looking at him.”
“It isn’t my place to question the master. I do my duties, that’s all.”
“Always dutiful? Confess now, you must have sneaked a closer look at all those statues.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a hint of that avaricious smile playing on her full lips. “And if I have, what would you think of me?”
“I’d think that like most folk, you enjoy taking a bit of a peek now and then.”
She gave him a coquettish scrutiny from his powdered wig down to his knee breeches and buckled shoes. “I’d like to take a peek at you, Whitcombe.”
Gad, she was undressing him with her eyes. “How about we return there very soon and inspect the room together?”
She shook her head. “Not while the master is in residence. And that’s that.”
Her decisive tone warned him not to press the issue. Biting off a curse, he tried another tactic. “Sir Charles must go away often to collect more statues. Does he always bring some back?” She
may have seen the goddess. Too bad he couldn’t ask her outright.
“Can’t say yea or nay. He surely doesn’t show me.”
“But perhaps there’s one or two in particular that stand out in your mind.”
She winked. “Now that you mention it, I’m partial to the naked men.”
“And jewels?” he persisted. “Most women like pretty baubles.”
“Why would you ask?” she said, peering suspiciously at him. “If you’re a thief...”
He laughed. “I meant a man’s jewels, of course.”
Mrs. Swindon’s face brightened as she surveyed his breeches. “Aye, those are my favorite sort.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the kitchen. Though the dim-lit room was vacant, he could hear several maids chattering in the adjacent scullery, accompanied by the clanging of pots and pans.
As he was casting about for another line of questioning, Mrs. Swindon stepped closer so that her pillowy bosom brushed his arm. “You’re a handsome devil, Whitcombe. May I ask your Christian name?”
He picked the first one that came to mind. “George.”
“George,” she murmured in a caressing tone. “How very lovely. You may call me Agnes.”
He’d call her a none-too-subtle hussy. “I doubt that would sit well with the rest of the staff.”
“But you can do so in the privacy of my chamber.” Crooking her finger, she beckoned to him. “Follow me, my virile footman. I’ve some sweets for you to sample.”
Gabe concealed his distaste behind a smile. Now what? A tryst might be the only way to get her to let loose of that damned ring of keys. But he wasn’t that desperate yet.
A jangling noise came from the board over the door. Distractedly, he frowned up at the array of bells, each one connected to a different room in the castle. With a jolt, he realized whose bell it was.
“It’s Miss Talisford’s chamber,” Mrs. Swindon said, her mouth settling into a sour line. “Why would she summon you at this late hour?”
To hear what he’d found out thus far. Eager to see Kate, he had the very devil of a time keeping his expression bland. “She probably wants me to carry a message to Lady Stokeford or her uncle.” He winked at the housekeeper. “She has an abominable sense of timing, though.”
“So ignore her,” Mrs. Swindon said, running her hands over his double-breasted coat. “Let her think you’ve already gone...to bed.”
“I can’t afford to lose my post.” With a supreme show of regret, he bowed. “But don’t be too disappointed, madam. We’ll meet again soon.”
Wending a path around the many hassocks and brass braziers, Kate paced the confines of the tower room. The round walls were draped with tapestries depicting veiled women in harems and fierce desert warriors on fine horses. With the tent-like gauze swathing the bed and the mosaic tile of the fireplace, she felt trapped in an Arabian fairy tale. But her stay here was no work of fiction where men were heroes.
Going to one of the windows, she leaned on the cold stone sill and peered out into the night. The darkened glass showed only the reflection of the fire on the hearth. From far below came the crashing of the surf. The storm had passed, but waves still churned against the rocky shore, a counterpoint to her agitated emotions.
By pretending to be a friend, Sir Charles had coerced Papa into signing that guardianship deed. Then he had murdered Papa and stolen the goddess. Now Sir Charles wanted her and Meg to live here, for what foul purpose, Kate didn’t want to imagine. The legal document made her all the more desperately determined to bring about the baron’s downfall. Her feverish thoughts turned to the meeting with Yasmin. She had to warn Gabriel that the Egyptian woman was here. Yasmin might recognize him and give away their plot.
But that wasn’t the entire cause of the turmoil inside Kate. Yasmin had enjoyed a tryst with Gabriel. That meant she must have been in Cairo at the time of Papa’s murder.
And Gabriel hadn’t bothered to mention that fact to Kate.
The omission had gnawed at her during the lengthy dinner. Sitting to the right of Sir Charles, she had smiled and conversed without remembering anything she’d said. She’d sampled the many rich dishes without tasting any of them. When the meal was finally concluded, Sir Charles had taken the men somewhere to drink brandy and smoke cigars. The ladies had retired to the drawing room, and Kate had made her escape.
She had come straight here and rung for Gabriel. Where was he?
By way of answer, there came a light rapping on the door, and then Gabriel stepped into the chamber. She was flustered anew by the change in his outward appearance. The crimson uniform emphasized the expanse of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, the powerful legs encased in knee breeches and white stockings.
No other man could look so splendid in livery. Or so arrogant.
As he walked with a bold stride across the Persian rug, his pirate’s gaze demanded her attention. She should resent his domineering male attitude, yet her insides dissolved into a swamp of yearning. How well she remembered the strength of his body pressed against hers. How dearly she wanted him to kiss her again, to drown her in passion.
How foolish of her to desire any man. Let alone one who had betrayed her trust.
Kate crossed her arms. “I hope you act more servile around other people,” she said coolly. “Your haughty manner quite ruins the disguise.”
“Devil take it. Being a servant is more difficult than I’d imagined. When this is all over, remind me to speak to Grandmama about raising the salaries at the Abbey.” Reaching up, he yanked off the powdered wig and tossed it onto a hassock. Then he combed his fingers through his hair, leaving the thick brown strands attractively rumpled. “However, you’ll be pleased to hear, I may have found the goddess.”
That news distracted Kate. “May have?”
“There’s a locked room upstairs,” he said, loosening his collar with an impatient tug. “It’s Damson’s private study. I was able to walk inside with Mrs. Swindon.”
“What did you see?”
“More decadence than you could imagine. Glass cases everywhere, crammed with artifacts. They must be worth a fortune.”
Eager in spite of herself, she took a step toward him. “What about the statue?”
He shook his head. “There wasn’t time to view more than a few things. I’ll have to procure a key and take a closer look later.” Walking to her, he caught her shoulders. “But I’m sure it’s there, Kate. It has to be.”
His jubilation was infectious, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Oh, Gabriel, I hope so. I hope you’re right. Now more than ever.”
His gaze went to her mouth, a look of male appreciation that made her tingle all over. “What do you mean, more than ever?”
The sobering reminder banished her good cheer. She took a breath to calm herself. “Sir Charles showed me a guardianship deed signed by Papa.”
“It’s a forgery,” Gabriel said flatly.
“It’s not. And even if it is, the signature looks exactly like Papa’s.” Agitated, she walked back and forth, her skirt brushing the hassocks. “He intends to challenge my uncle’s claim in court. If we don’t find the goddess, we’ll have no proof to incriminate Sir Charles. Meg and I may be forced to live here.”
Gabriel approached, settling his hands on her shoulders and bringing her to a halt. “We’ll find the statue,” he stated. “I promise you, Damson will never, ever have any power over you or Meg.”
His closeness as much as his words blanketed Kate in the comfort of security. Yet cold logic denied her any warmth. “I summoned you with other news. I had an interesting encounter with one of the houseguests.”
Gabriel’s face hardened. “If any man has made an indecent proposal to you—”
“No,” she broke in. “I’m referring to an Egyptian woman. A woman who claims to have known you very well.”
He went still. Those ocean-blue eyes narrowed slightly, his dark lashes guarding his thoughts. “Who?”
&n
bsp; So there were more than one? Reining in her ill humor, Kate said, “She calls herself Yasmin.”
Looking confounded, he cocked an eyebrow. “Yasmin is here?”
Struck deeply by his implied admission, Kate walked away and then spun around to face him. The muffled roar of the sea underscored her seething anger. “Yes, and as you can guess, I was very surprised to meet her. Especially since she was in Cairo at the same time as you and Papa.”
His face settled into an expression of closed vigilance. “Why would Yasmin speak of me to you?”
“Lady Stokeford is one of my chaperones. Yasmin recognized the name and correctly assumed that you and I had met.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She asked after you. In particular, if you had any lingering effects from your wounds.”
Crooking his arms, he flexed his back. “What did you tell her?”
“That she would have to ask her questions of you. Because obviously you don’t confide in me.”
His face tightening, he took a step toward her. “You didn’t say I was here, did you?”
“Of course not. Do you think me a dolt?”
Again, he laid his hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and heavy. “No, I think you’re a very bright young lady. I’ve long admired your”—he looked her up and down— “intelligence.”
Kate shook off his hand. She’d had enough of his calculated charm. “Don’t placate me. Yasmin is an associate of Papa’s murderer. Yet never once did you see fit to mention her to me.”
“There was no need.”
“Then you can vow that she had nothing whatsoever to do with Papa’s death?”
He hesitated, averting his eyes as if he were casting about for an appropriate lie.
Seizing on that moment of silence, Kate snapped, “So she was involved. Tell me, did she wield the knife that took Papa’s life?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” A muscle worked in his jaw. He gave her a glower like a sulky boy facing up to a transgression. “If you must know, Yasmin was with me that night. She was a decoy to divert me from the inn.”
