by Clee, Adele
The gentleman rubbed his chin. “And what would your thoughts be should you arrive at his grave to find fresh flowers, a cross fashioned from willow, a letter filled with poetic verse tied with a pretty pink ribbon and left in a decorative box?”
Having created such a vivid picture, evidently, Mr Trent spoke from personal experience and cared nothing for the condition of her husband’s final resting place.
Scarlett absently stroked Wycliff’s brow as she deliberated her answer. “Then I would presume whoever left them there cared a great deal for the person who had passed.”
“Not merely a kind parishioner or a dutiful neighbour?”
“I might say yes, had they only left flowers.”
Fascinated by this strange line of questioning, she thought to probe Mr Trent further, but the carriage slowed to a halt. A quick peek out of the window told her they had arrived at their destination.
“Should you ever have cause to seek my opinion on this matter again, Mr Trent, feel free to approach me at your convenience.”
The gentleman inclined his head. “I will remain in Bruton Street for a few days and will send word to you regarding Wycliff’s recovery. Cutler will see you home. Perhaps Wycliff might send for you tomorrow.”
Gracious Lord. Did he think to dismiss her so easily?
“Oh, I am not returning home, sir.” On the contrary, she refused to leave Wycliff’s side until confident he was well. The devil himself wouldn’t drag her away, let alone a man skilled in domination. “Feeling somewhat responsible for Mr Wycliff’s condition, I intend to nurse the patient back to full health.”
“He won’t want you here,” came the terse reply.
“Then he can tell me so himself in the morning.”
Mr Trent sat forward. “Wycliff never entertains women at home.”
She smiled. “I have no intention of asking him to recite poetry or dance a jig, Mr Trent. I seek only to bring comfort. Besides, while the doctor is in attendance, I should like a private word with you and Mr Cavanagh.”
Having spent their time in a supper box, they must surely be able to vouch for the whereabouts of certain suspects.
“A private word?” Mr Trent snapped. “On what matter?”
“On the matter of attempted murder.”
Chapter Eleven
Damian inhaled the amber notes of Scarlett’s perfume. He felt the intense vibration in the air that warned him of her presence long before the cold linen brushed his cheeks and brow. The ache in his arm failed to draw his attention away from the hunger pangs growling in his stomach. Had he not been so stubborn, had they taken supper in a booth, he would not be in this predicament.
Upon hearing the patter of footsteps move away from the bed, he opened his eyes.
The room was dark but for the lit lamp on the table in the corner and the fire blazing in the hearth. A day had passed, if not more. He knew because he had awakened hours before to find the sun’s rays streaming in through the gap in the curtains. And now night was upon them again.
Everything about this moment reminded him of his time spent in her lodging-house. The difference being this room was warm, not icy cold. The poster bed was large enough to sleep four people as opposed to the small cot fit for one.
Beneath half-closed lids, he watched Scarlett as she crossed the room to sit in the chair beside the table. She picked up a book, flicked to a particular page and began reading beneath the light of the lamp. Mere seconds passed before her attention waned. Exhaling a weary sigh, she placed the book back on the table, returned to the washstand and wrung out the linen cloth.
The desire to learn more about the woman beneath the disguise led him to close his eyes and feign sleep. His heart raced in anticipation when she stepped up to the bed, though he suspected she would wipe his brow, not straddle his naked body and end three years of mindless misery.
“Where are you, Wycliff?” she whispered, pushing her fingers gently through his hair, training the unruly locks off his brow. She caressed the strands as if they were silk. “Is it peaceful there? I imagine it is.”
When she wiped the cold cloth over his bare chest, not his brow, it took every effort to maintain his steady breathing. The muscles in his abdomen clenched when she placed her palm over his heart.
“Don’t leave me here alone in this godforsaken place.” The heartfelt words breezed over him, tugging at other muscles he did not know existed.
She began to caress him, the tips of her fingers gliding softly over every muscled contour, grazing his nipples, running circles in the hair on his chest. There was an innocence to the movements that made it the most erotic experience of his life.
It crossed his mind to deliver a line—a comment that if she delved lower, she might find something solid to grip—but that would destroy the beauty, shatter the magic.
A moan left his lips, a signal he was stirring from slumber. She snatched her hand away, and the loss hit deeper than any stab with a blade or ball from a pistol.
He opened his eyes, met her concerned gaze. “Scarlett.”
She inhaled deeply at his use of her given name. The word had left his mouth before he had time to hide behind his disguise.
“In calling for Scarlett, are you referring to the actress or the widow?” She tried to sound amused, but the quiver in her voice spoke of a different emotion.
“I am referring to you.” The woman who held him spellbound, with or without her mask.
Perhaps losing consciousness had affected his brain. Perhaps the kiss at Vauxhall had messed with his mind. But he knew one thing with sparkling clarity. He had delved into the widow’s mouth and tasted his angel.
“Are you still plagued by a fever?” She placed the back of her hand on his brow. “You do feel hot.”
“Every part of me is desperate to turn your comment into a lewd joke.” And yet he did not. “Instead I shall ask you the same thing I asked the first time you played nursemaid.”
“Three days,” she blurted as if she already knew his question. “You’ve slept for three days.”
“Three days!”
Good God. The coincidence left him a little in awe.
Had the Lord granted him a reprieve?
Had the Lord given him another chance to do what he should have done three years ago? Three was the number of the Trinity, and so there had to be an element of Divine intervention.
“Please tell me Trent and Cavanagh have not been keeping a bedside vigil.” The men loved gathering information to taunt him. Had he dreamed of his angel and whispered her name? Had he muttered lascivious comments about the widow?
“I sent them away as soon as I finished my interrogation.”
“And yet you stayed.” He had servants to tend to his ablutions, a doctor to administer medicine and change bandages. Indeed, he would be interested to know who stripped him naked.
“I told you I would care for you and I am not one to break an oath.”
“Did playing nursemaid remind you of the last time I lay bleeding in a bed?”
He would sell his soul—if he had one—to know what she’d been doing in his room while he lay helpless. Where had she slept? Where had she changed her clothes for she wore a simple green dress, not the exquisite gown he’d yanked from her shoulder so he might kiss her scar?
“This time I am the one to blame for your injury,” she said, avoiding his question. “You took a lead ball meant for me.”
“We don’t know that. I have enemies, too.”
He had ruined many a fool at the card table, though he never squandered the money as people presumed. Due to his investments in industry and shipping, hundreds of men had steady work while a few pompous prigs lost a little more than their monthly allowance.
She drew a chair up to the bed and sat down. “Cutler said the ball most likely came from a pocket pistol, shot from a distance of more than twenty feet. If we consider the fact it was dark, it is fair to assume the culprit didn’t care which one of us he hit.”
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nbsp; “Or fair to assume the shooter was Joshua Steele. The fellow cannot stop his hands from shaking.” Equally, he did not wish to discount the sister. Many people used timidity as a disguise. The chit had certainly shown her temper when conversing with her stepmother. “Did Trent or Cavanagh offer an opinion?”
“Lady Rathbone and her grandson argued during supper. Lord Rathbone stormed out of the booth first, but they both headed for the Grove.”
The Rathbones were not suspects so he could think of only one reason why she might mention them. “You think Lord Rathbone might want to kill the competition?”
Any fool could see the lord was desperate to bed her.
She shrugged. “Anything is possible. It would be rather naive of me to discount any suspects.”
“Even Mr Flannery?”
“Mr Flannery is not a suspect.”
He was near the top of Damian’s list.
“And what of the marquis?” he said with some reservation. Had his father hired someone to dispense with the widow, to further his desire to see Damian wed?
“While he remained in the booth, one or two from his party left before the bell for the cascade.”
“And the Steele siblings?”
“Never made an appearance.”
Was that because they were secretly stalking their prey, waiting for an opportunity to strike? Or had Steele scampered away like a terrified rabbit, fearing his sister might discover the truth?
“Mr Trent followed us as far as Lovers Walk,” she continued, “and then, assuming we required privacy, returned to the piazza. He saw no one else in the vicinity.”
“It seems you have been rather thorough in your questioning.” Pride filled his chest. How odd when he felt nothing but indifference for most people. “Though there is one topic you’ve yet to broach.”
“Oh. And what is that?”
“You’ve mentioned nothing about the incident before the gunshot.” The need to know her thoughts regarding that scorching kiss burned in his chest. The need to explore her mind and her pretty mouth proved overwhelming, too.
She lowered her gaze as a blush stained her cheeks.
“Well?” he prompted when she failed to reply. “You devoured my mouth with a passion one rarely sees in a woman.” The mere memory of the wild melding of mouths sent blood rushing to his cock. With nothing but a few sheets covering his modesty, he wondered when the actress would notice the curtain rising. “Did the sudden release of emotion have something to do with me pressing my lips to your scar?”
“You must be hungry,” she said, coming to her feet. “Shall I send for supper? I can assure you it won’t be broth.”
“Scarlett.” That got her attention. “Have you nothing to say about what occurred at Vauxhall?”
She paused. “Only that it does no good to complicate matters. Perhaps we should remember that this partnership stems from a need to repay a debt.”
“Perhaps.” After the way she’d thrust her tongue into his mouth, he could not continue as if nothing had happened. That kiss was like a spark to lust’s hay barn.
“You do not sound convinced.”
“As a scoundrel, I’m more inclined to suggest we strip off our clothes and sate the desire raging in our veins. I imagine we would find an affair mutually advantageous.” Exciting and pleasurably exhausting, too.
She did not seem shocked at his suggestion. “What would you have me do, Mr Wycliff, hike up my skirts and straddle you in your sickbed?”
He gave a half shrug. “It’s a start.”
She returned to the washstand and rinsed the cloth in the bowl. “As you prefer honesty, I shall tell you that my experiences of conjugal relations have left me cold to the prospect.”
“I beg to differ. A connection exists between us. I felt it three years ago, and I felt it again last night.”
It was always the same in her company, even when guilt and disdain for her circumstances roused the devil within. Perhaps once they had satisfied their craving—and it was a mutual attraction whether she chose to admit it or not—they might both find peace.
She walked back to the bed and offered him the damp linen square. “You should wipe your brow. I fear such talk will only raise your temperature.”
“My brow is not the part of my anatomy ready to combust.”
She cast a wary eye on the bedsheets. “Is there a school rakes attend to master salacious banter?”
“Certainly. I graduated with a distinction after the local tavern wench vouched for my skills in the practical task.”
A delightful laugh burst from her lips. “How is it you have an answer for everything? Tell me, Wycliff, are you ever left speechless?”
“On rare occasions.” And only with her.
Her kiss had robbed him of the use of his mental faculties. He’d struggled for words when gazing upon the scars crisscrossing her back. Dry mouth proved a problem when she lowered her hood in Mrs Crandell’s house, and he realised his angel lived.
“Oh, Mr Cavanagh said to remind you that you need to collect your winnings.”
“Winnings?”
“From White’s.”
“I make a point of only taking money I have earned.” It needn’t be through honourable means. Most people considered gambling fair sport. “I’ll not claim to have knowledge of your body when it’s a lie.”
She could make whatever claim she wanted. He would not degrade her by openly revealing details of an imagined affair.
“Not even for fifty thousand pounds?”
“Not even then.”
Fifty thousand?
Stone the crows!
The members of White’s had more money than brains. No wonder Joshua Steele turned from stepson to scoundrel. Then another thought occurred to him. A desperate man, one who hoped to win the funds and settle his debts, might be aggrieved to have lost out to a worthless bastard. So aggrieved the fellow might ease his frustration by firing a pocket pistol.
Perhaps the shooting at Vauxhall had nothing to do with the widow. Perhaps it had everything to do with her. Either way, they were making little progress and something needed to change.
After a moment spent staring at him curiously, she said, “I shall leave you to rest.” She returned to the side table in the corner of the room and retrieved her book.
As the only person able to read his mind, clearly she noticed his flagging equilibrium. “Where will you sleep tonight?”
She cast a semblance of a smile. “I have been sleeping in the room next to yours. Mr Trent insists you prefer privacy and so I am happy to return home now you’re through the worst.”
Trent was right. Damian shared nothing with no one. That way a man was not disappointed. And yet the need to keep the widow close overrode all else. He wanted her to intrude, to disturb his solitude.
“You being here adds a certain credibility to our story. And if you find the room too cold, the bed too lumpy, there is plenty of room in this one.” Indeed, he might cry out in the night, find some excuse to have her settle beside him beneath the bedsheets.
“I have managed so far,” she said. “After years spent in the cold, draughty halls of a seminary, I’m sure I shall cope sleeping in a plush bed with a mound of blankets.”
A picture formed in his mind of a young girl with ebony hair, living without kin and sleeping in morbid dormitories. Those who knew her now would assume she was the strong one. The one who took charge. The one who accepted her fate with the same confident disdain as the Scarlet Widow. But strength came from suffering. Aside from her scars, this woman had suffered more than most.
“Before you race from my bedchamber, tell me why Flannery failed to collect you from the seminary.”
She stood between the bed and the door, clutching her book to her chest as if it had the power to ward off the evil spirits who came to haunt her in the night. Ghouls named Loneliness and Despair. The ones who visited him, too, when he forgot to raise his defences.
“Mr Flannery could not collec
t me from the seminary in Bath because I had left a week earlier. No doubt it proved a shock when he arrived. The house mistress usually waits a week before writing to a parent or guardian.”
“No, I suppose one’s family pays to know their offspring are safe, not gallivanting about town.”
“During my time in various establishments, I only ever wanted one thing.” A sad sigh left her lips. “To go home. But despite many attempts, my requests were denied. I’d grown tired of wondering why.”
The powerlessness of childhood affected people in different ways. “Some parents believe education guarantees a long and successful life. That it matters above all else.”
“And yet I cannot help but think that was not the reason I was there.” She swallowed deeply and said, “My father struggled to love me. Perhaps I reminded him of my mother. Maybe he saw a child as a burden.”
The throbbing in Damian’s arm was replaced by a new and shocking sensation—an ache in his heart. Surprisingly, it had nothing to do with his own misfortune, and yet the similarities were undeniable. Were he not stark naked beneath the sheets, he might have climbed out of bed and pulled her into a comforting embrace.
“Whatever the reason, it is not your fault. From your vague description and your association with Mr Flannery, I assume your father owned a gaming establishment.”
She nodded. “He owned The Jewell.”
The Jewell?
The club catered to the upper echelons, to the wealthy who could afford to lose thousands, to the second sons who chose gaming as an occupation. Many aristocrats had lost their fortunes there until the club closed abruptly and news of the owner’s suicide spread. It explained why she resorted to living like a pauper in Covent Garden.
“Your father was Jack Jewell?” He would wait for her to broach the delicate subject of suicide.
“Indeed. Hence the reason he placed me in the seminaries under the name of Scarlett Hawthorne.”
Hawthorne? Yet another fake identity to add to the confusion.
“Then it is clear to me that he placed you there for your own safety.” Did she not say that she rarely remained in one place for longer than a year?
