Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison

by Annie Burrows

There would be mending to do tomorrow by the number of little rips she heard in their urgency, but she could not regret it. Once her gown was upon the floor and her stockings and garters tossed across the room, Charles seized her and fell back upon her bed, ignoring the rest.

  “God help me, I cannot wait,” he moaned.

  Her breasts swelled above her chemise and were pushed higher by her corset. She reached for the laces and Charles shook his head. “Now, damn it.” He lifted the hem of her chemise and pulled her on top of him.

  Oh, the perceptive man! He had sensed what she wanted. She straddled him and sank onto his erect shaft, dropping her head back at the sheer deliciousness of the sensation. She ground against him, finding the depth of his penetration to be wildly erotic. She’d have been content to remain there longer, grinding against him, but he finally gasped and gripped her hips, lifting her and letting her sink again, teaching her his rhythm.

  As she took to his guidance, he released her hips to skim his hands upward to her breasts and flick the taut peaks with his thumbnails. With both hands free, he worked a sensual magic on her, intensifying her arousal and sending her spiraling higher. She emitted an involuntary sound, half pain, half pleasure, as the quaking began inside her.

  Charles must have felt the first stirrings of her tremors because he thrust hard, his hips rising off the bed to impale her inescapably. “Charles! Oh, Charles. Oh, yes!”

  She could feel the power of his release inside her and collapsed on him, her loosened hair tumbling around them.

  “Georgie, ah, my sweet, sweet Georgie. Will I ever have enough of you?” Still joined, he rolled with her until he had the superior position. “That just dulled the urgency, Georgie. Now let’s get down to business.”

  He began to move inside her again, growing longer and thicker with alarming speed, her own arousal building apace. Resting his weight on his elbows, he brushed her hair away from her face and grinned.

  “You surprise me,” he whispered, still moving within her. “And I am not easy to surprise.”

  She smiled and stretched her arms above her head as she lifted her knees to encase his hips. “You make me feel beautiful, Charlie. And unafraid. And confident that you will not chastise me for my boldness.”

  His gaze never left hers. “I will never chastise you for that. I will thank God every night for it.”

  And before she could think better of it, she uttered the words she had guarded so long. “I love you, Charles Hunter. I always have.”

  “Ah, Georgie.” He sighed, and she imagined a hint of sadness in the words.

  He quickened his pace and she writhed beneath him, seeking to take all of him and to bind him to her for eternity but knowing it was just for tonight. Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow would likely see an end to all her foolish dreams.

  * * *

  The next morning Charles was barely aware of his surroundings as his coach stopped outside the Home Office and he stepped down. “Do not wait, Peters,” he called to his driver. “I will not need you again today.”

  As the coach pulled away, he was distracted by thoughts—memories, actually—of last night and of Georgiana. She’d been surprisingly eager and deeply sensual. He had not rung for dinner to be brought until sometime near midnight and then they’d fallen back into bed. He’d held her and they’d succumbed to the deep dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.

  And still, his every instinct told him that she was hiding something. Afraid of something. He wanted to reassure her and tell her that everything would come aright, but he very much feared it wouldn’t. If Foxworthy was released today, Georgiana would be arrested by tomorrow. And then it would be too late to save her.

  The laudanum bottle still weighted his greatcoat pocket. He’d forgotten about it again last night, and he could not throw it away in daylight. He might be seen and remarked upon, or the bottle could be retrieved by some observant boatman. He would have to find a safer way to dispose of it.

  From the right corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of motion. Instinct drove him to lunge right and turn. Something caught in the fabric of his jacket and ripped through. The slash of a knife bit into his skin and a searing pain slashed across his left rib cage. When he reached to catch the hand that held the knife, the wound opened wider and the pain nearly doubled him over. If he could not rally, he was a dead man. The sound of shouting and running feet reached him and, even as the man pulled away, a whiff of the sewer revealed his identity.

  “Gibbons!”

  His admission was a deep snarl. “Blast ye, Hunter! Ye’ve got more lives than a cat.” He crouched, his arms out to his sides as he measured for another attack. “Ye done this to spite me, didn’t ye, ye blighter?”

  Done what? What the—

  “I mighta let ye go, but now yer gonna have t’ die.”

  The wicked looking blade came up again and slashed outward to define an arc across what would have been Charles’s belly if he hadn’t ducked and slipped under Gibbons’s arm to come up behind him. He knew better than to get close enough for the man to make another cut. He already felt the wet flow of blood down his side.

  “You came looking for me, Gibbons. I’ve done nothing to you.”

  “Ye killed my brother.”

  “Is this about Artie? Damn, Gibbons! You shot me and killed Booth. I was home having a ball dug out of my shoulder. I couldn’t have killed him.”

  “’Twere one of yer brothers, then. Or Farrell. I’ll kill ye all.”

  “You’ll be dead first.”

  A wild gleam lit Gibbons’s eyes. “Yer blood will cover the street, Hunter. Count on it.”

  “Empty threats, Gibbons.”

  Gibbons’s filthy lip curled, his anger making him incautious.

  Charles rallied for another lunge and knocked Gibbons’s arm out of the way. But the knife was a part of him and he did not release it.

  Gibbons loomed over him, hatred in every line of his body. He was getting ready to slash when he glanced up and scowled, then broke into a run. Charles followed the moment Gibbons turned and made for an alleyway.

  Richardson rushed by him. “You’re hurt. Stay out of the way!”

  Hurt? Charles stopped long enough to feel his side, now stinging like fury, and when he looked up they were gone. A crowd had begun to gather and Wycliffe took his arm to drag him inside the building.

  “The bastard will not give up,” he muttered.

  Once they were in Wycliffe’s office, he shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat to examine the damage. His white shirt was stained with blood along his left side. He pulled the tattered remains from his waistband and bared the flesh. Not deep, but wide. The blood was already beginning to thicken to a sticky consistency.

  Wycliffe took the whiskey bottle from his desk drawer and poured some on his handkerchief. “Good God, Hunter. Are you trying to make Georgiana a widow already?”

  Charles winced as Wycliffe applied the handkerchief to his side. “I’ve been trying to kill the sod for months now. He’s slippery. Knows every hole and crib in Whitechapel. He’s been invisible for the past six months, and now he’s coming after me every time my back is turned. He must be desperate to have me dead.”

  Wycliffe called his clerk and told him to bring a shirt for Charles, then turned back to him. “We are getting closer to finding where he’s been holing up. We have it narrowed down to three blocks near Halfpenny Lane.”

  “You will let me know when you get to within one block?”

  “Our usual informants will not talk. They are afraid of Gibbons. They know he’ll come after them if he suspects they’ve betrayed him.”

  Charles inspected his side again. With the blood cleaned, he could see that the cut should have stitches but would heal without them. Bandages would suffice. He wondered how he would explain this to Georgiana. She’d be cer
tain her “curse” was responsible.

  Wycliffe wound gauze strips around him several times and secured the end by tucking it in the folds. His clerk returned with a clean shirt and Wycliffe tossed it to him. “Have Crosley return it to my house, will you?”

  Charles laughed. “Does this confirm the rumors that you live here?”

  Wycliffe grinned. “I’ve found it is always convenient to have a fresh change of clothes. I believe I might have a jacket that would fit you, though not a waistcoat.”

  Charles tucked the shirt into his breeches. “I’ll take the jacket and be grateful. What news have you?”

  Wycliffe scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “That’s Hathaway’s address. He’s rented a room there. The watch hasn’t seen him yet. And—” he sighed and shot Charles a worried look

  “—Foxworthy was released this morning with a warning to stay away from your wife. Charles, it won’t be long before she is arrested. Tonight or tomorrow morning, likely.”

  Charles folded the paper and put it in his waistcoat pocket. “How much time will it buy if I send Georgiana to the hunting lodge in Scotland?”

  “They’d be barely a day behind her. Go sit down, Hunter. I’ll see if I can hunt up Richardson.”

  Charles retreated down the corridor to his own office. He sat at his desk and sighed. Not even noon, and he’d almost been killed. He was hoping his day would get better when a sharp knock sounded at his door. “Come,” he called.

  The door opened a crack, and Tom Clark peeked in. “You got a minute, Hunter?”

  “Yes.” He stood to welcome the old Bow Street Runner.

  The man came in, shut the door behind him and pulled his soft cap off his head. “Got that information for you.”

  Charles gestured to the chair in front of his desk and they sat. Clark reached inside his jacket and removed several sheets of paper with ragged edges. “These are my notes on the Betman robbery.” He unfolded the papers and slid them across the desk to Charles.

  There were rough notes written in blurred and faded lead, and a few rough sketches. Clark had recalled the details clearly. Everything he’d told Charles was written on these pages, but the sketches were new. They’d never been entered into the official file. One of them detailed a brooch in the form of a Scottish thistle with the notation “solid gold, amethyst center.” A necklace with an elaborately swirled jeweled clasp that fastened in the front bore the inscription “solid gold, amethyst and diamond stones.” And earrings had the simple notation “pearls.”

  “May I keep this, Clark? Or have the clerk make a copy?”

  “You can keep it, sir. Put it in the file. They wouldn’t let me do that back then, since it wasn’t supposed to be a robbery. Weren’t interested in the truth after his lordship called them off.”

  Charles shook his head. “I am still amazed that Lord Betman would rather the villains got away than that justice be done for his daughter.”

  Clark squirmed in his chair and twisted his cap. “There were reasons, sir.”

  Charles leaned back and looked at the clock. A bit too early to offer the man a drink, but he needed to put Clark at ease to get the rest of the story, though he was beginning to suspect the truth. “Tea?” he asked.

  “Thank you, sir, but no. If there’s nothin’ else, I’d best be on my way.”

  Charles was sure Clark knew more, and certain, too, that he wanted to tell it. To unburden himself of the bad taste the case had left in his mouth. “Are you certain there’s nothing else, Clark?”

  His hesitation was enough of an admission.

  “If I don’t know it all, I may miss something.”

  “Don’t know how it could help anyone now.”

  “You can trust my discretion. I will not repeat anything you tell me.”

  The older man sank into his chair again and let out a massive sigh. “Aye, then. That girl. Lady Caroline. When we found her in that alley, she was tore up real bad. Blood everywhere. Gave a good fight, like I said. But what wasn’t in the report was that she was raped. Brutal. They’d ripped her unmentionables off and there was plenty of blood...down there, too. She’d been a virgin, I warrant.”

  Charles groaned. For the first time, he saw past Lady Caroline’s haughtiness to the events that had changed her forever. From the sweet young girl Carlington loved to the bitter woman Charles had met, she had endured the worst that could happen to a woman. And found the strength to survive. “Why did you not put that in the report?”

  “Didn’t seem right, somehow. She’d been hurt enough. Didn’t need me and Frank writin’ things down where anyone could read it. There’d be a worse scandal than there already was.”

  A sick feeling settled in the pit of Charles’s stomach. So much to think about. So much to unravel. He stood and reached into his ripped waistcoat pocket to remove a crown and flipped the coin to Clark. “Thank you. I appreciate your candor. If you should remember anything else, you know where to find me.”

  * * *

  Georgiana and the other ladies sat around a low table in the back dressing room at La Meilleure Robe while Gina, now her sister-in-law, poured tea. Georgiana realized with a bit of wonder that she was now somehow related to everyone in the room with the exception of Lady Annica and Grace Hawthorne.

  “Whatever happened to that woman who stood before us swearing never to marry again?” Lady Annica teased with a broad smile.

  “I...I...”

  “She hadn’t bargained on Charlie,” Sarah finished for her. “My brother can be quite persuasive.”

  Georgiana blushed, thinking of all the things he’d persuaded her to do last night. “More than I’d realized. Though, were I to be honest, I would have to admit that I have always had a tendresse for him.”

  “How sweet,” Grace said. “I do so love a story that ends happily.”

  A polite rap at the rear door of the dressing room drew their attention. “Entrez!” Lady Annica called.

  Mr. Renquist came in, his little notebook in his hand. “Ladies,” he said with a small bow.

  “Mr. Renquist, would you like a cup of tea?” Sarah asked.

  His lips quirked in a quick smile, but he shook his head. “I’ve got to catch up with some of the lads and see what else they might have found. But I have had some success on the matters we spoke of last time.”

  “Did you meet with Mr. Foxworthy?” Georgiana asked.

  “Aye, just after your meeting with him, apparently. Did you, indeed, marry Mr. Charles Hunter?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Foxworthy was upset when I told him.”

  “He called you several, um, unkind names, Mrs. Huff—er, Mrs. Hunter. Seems to think you married Hunter just to halt his petition as conservator.”

  She looked down into her teacup. “Of course not. Though I will admit, that was a happy result.”

  Mr. Renquist squirmed uneasily and looked away. “And how is Mr. Hunter?”

  “Still alive.” She gave him a dry smile. Was that little sigh he emitted one of relief?

  “Yes, well. I’ve had news of Foxworthy’s arrest.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “The murder of your husbands. I believe it is being said that he had motive for keeping you childless, and that his intent was always to become your conservator in order to wrest the Betman fortune from you, but he could not while Lady Caroline was alive. He did not expect you to become engaged so soon after your guardian’s death.”

  “But that is wonderful!” Gina exclaimed. “Then the mystery is solved. You are safe, Georgiana. Charles will be so pleased!”

  “I fear not,” Mr. Renquist interrupted. “It is being said that there is no proof. The case against Mr. Foxworthy is thin, at best. There are whispers in the Home Office that he will be released and you will be arrested next
, Mrs. Hunter.”

  She’d been expecting something of the sort. She took a tight rein on her emotions. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Renquist. I shall put my affairs in order. And Mr. York?”

  “He appears to have borrowed heavily in expectation of inheriting the bulk of his uncle’s estate. His creditors are nipping at his heels. I think, if you offer him a reasonable sum, he will take it.”

  “I shall have my solicitor draw up an offer,” she said. “I would like these details cleared up before...before I may not be able to attend to business.”

  “As for your Mr. Hathaway, he has not been seen recently. After a few meetings with several individuals, he has gone missing.”

  “Who did he meet with, Mr. Renquist?”

  “One of my men followed him to your solicitor’s office, the Home Office and the Cat’s Paw, a disreputable public house just off Petticoat Lane. I can only guess at his business.”

  “Please do,” she invited. She had her own suspicions, but she would like Mr. Renquist to confirm or deny them.

  “I suspect he may have gone to your solicitor to ask for hush money—that he would not discuss the intimate details of your home if he were paid to keep his silence. When that did not work, he likely went to the Home Office to offer evidence of some sort against you, and that is why we are hearing whispers of your possible arrest. As for the Cat’s Paw? That is anyone’s guess. My man did not recognize the person Mr. Hathaway met with, but said the man was of an unwholesome nature.”

  “Why am I not astonished?” she muttered, more to herself than to the others.

  Mr. Renquist looked ready to comment and then took a deep breath before continuing his report. “In regard to the man who accosted you in Vauxhall Gardens, Mrs. Hunter, I believe you have become the object of some very unsavory attention. I suspect that he and the man from the rookeries could be the same. If so, you are in grave danger.”

  “Does this man have a name, sir?”

  “Gibbons. Richard Gibbons. Known as Dick.”

  Of course. Had there ever been a doubt? She braced herself for the next question. “Can you tell me what his business is with me? Or anything else about him?”