Charlotte shook her head in despair. “Perhaps he thought his object would be in these last few crates. I’m not expecting any more, thank goodness; I haven’t the space for these.”
“Why do you not unpack them, then?” Lucia lifted a small statue from the open crate. “The house is so dull.”
“If I unpacked them, the house would look like a museum.” It would look like Italy, Charlotte silently corrected, and she was trying to leave Italy behind. The truth was, she didn’t want any of the things in those crates; she just hadn’t figured out what to do with them. She hadn’t expected Piero to leave them to her in the first place, but his will had contained a clause specifically directed at her, enjoining her to keep it all in remembrance of his affection for her. After that, she hadn’t been able to say no when the solicitor offered to ship everything to England for her. If Lucia hadn’t been with her, and the explanations difficult, Charlotte would have personally pushed every box overboard into the ocean on the voyage. Thieves were welcome to take any of it, but instead they simply broke in to make a mess, it appeared.
“Well, since there’s nothing to be done, I’m going to bed,” she said with a sigh. “I shall see you in the morning.”
“How you shall sleep, I cannot guess.” Lucia shuddered, hurrying out of the room behind her. Upstairs Charlotte stopped to checked on Susan, who was sleeping soundly but all curled into a ball, just as she had done as a small child. Charlotte’s heart felt heavy; she was trying so hard to be a proper guardian, and in less than a month she had allowed her niece to be taken in by a fortune hunter, and now to be terrorized by burglars in her own home. For the first time she considered braving London, for Susan’s sake. So far she had put it off, telling herself they would wait until Susan was old enough for a season, but perhaps she was wrong. She gently tucked the blanket around the sleeping girl, and retreated to her own room.
The fire had gone out, because the maids were too frightened to go about the house. Charlotte sighed, stirring the ashes with the poker and coaxing just enough heat to light the candle. She put it on the dressing table, and began removing her jewelry, pressing her fingers to the back of her neck where it ached. Then her eyes fell on her bed, and she froze in place.
Someone had been in her bed. The bedclothes were rumpled, and a depression was clearly visible in the duvet. The maid would never have left it that way. Charlotte’s skin crawled, and her breath came loud and harsh as she imagined a stranger in her bedroom, among her most personal possessions, in her bed. Shaking, she inched over to the bed and yanked back the covers by the corner, a scream poised in her throat. The duvet floated harmlessly to the carpet.
She jerked the pillows off, one by one. Nothing. She shook out the sheets and ran her hands under the mattress. Nothing.
Charlotte’s knees gave out and she collapsed into the pile of bedding. Relief and fear twisted in her belly. So far she had never seen any sign of the burglar upstairs, and the violation of her private haven was unexpected. She realized she had grown lax in her handling of the burglaries; since no one had been hurt and often there was little evidence of intrusion, she had almost come to accept them as harmless annoyances.
She got to her feet and began a systematic search of her room for anything at all out of the ordinary. At the end, she was sure the thief had gone through her clothing, although she couldn’t find anything missing. The maid hadn’t cleared away the laundry and mending before the uproar, and all her unmentionables were spread out atop the pile. Charlotte resolved to throw them all out first thing in the morning and buy new ones. She couldn’t bear to wear them after he had touched them.
The only thing missing, in fact, was the one thing that gave her hope. An emerald necklace was gone from her jewel case. Perhaps he was a petty thief after all, and had only gotten brave enough to come upstairs this time. Charlotte hoped this were the case, for she couldn’t stand the thought of an intruder roaming her house at his ease. Jewels he could have, for all she cared; they could be replaced, and if he had satisfied whatever urge drove him, perhaps this would be his last break-in.
She put her bed to rights, giving everything a tremendous shake as if to rid it of the intruder’s touch. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and when she did, it was to dream of the vengeance she would like to take on the man who had violated her privacy so vilely.
She hid her feelings from Susan the next morning. When her niece came down to breakfast, Charlotte smiled warmly, determined to go on as if there were no cause for concern. She would deal with the thief on her own. “Good morning, Susan.”
“Good morning, Aunt Charlotte.” Susan gave her an uncertain smile in reply. It was her first friendly greeting in days, and Charlotte felt a surge of delight. When she had gotten word of George’s death, along with the news that he had named her guardian of his only child, Charlotte had nursed a secret hope that Susan might come to be a dear friend, a mixture of the younger sister she’d always wanted and the daughter she’d never have. Susan had been only a child when Charlotte left England, but Charlotte had remembered her niece fondly in the years since.
“Shall we go shopping today? I have need of a few things.” Charlotte had ordered her maid to dispose of her undergarments that morning. She had only what she had worn the night before. “I’ve been thinking about the yellow muslin you liked,” she added, trying to build on the good feelings. “Perhaps we should look at it again.”
Susan looked up in surprise. “Really? You—you said it was too daring for a girl my age.”
“Well, I’m reconsidering. Shall we?” Susan nodded, her face brightening. Charlotte turned her attention to her breakfast with a lighter heart. Perhaps she had been too strict with Susan; the yellow dress was a little provincial for her taste, but Susan was old enough to begin choosing her own clothes and developing her own sense of style. The dress, and of course new shoes to go with it, possibly a new bonnet and some gloves ...
“Your pardon, madam.” The butler had come into the room. “Tom found this in the garden.” He held out a silver flask. Charlotte took it, her eyebrows rising in surprise. It was an expensive polished flask such as a gentleman would carry.
“Where, Dunstan?”
He cleared his throat softly. “In the honeysuckle, madam. Outside the music room.” Charlotte stared at it. It wasn’t hers, so it must belong to the burglar. The burglar, a gentleman?
There was a sharp clink of silver on china, and a gasp. Charlotte glanced up to see Susan, pale-faced and wide-eyed, staring at the flask in her hand. “Is that ... Is that where the intruder was?” she asked faintly.
Charlotte tucked the flask into her lap. “Don’t worry, dear. He shan’t be able to come back.” She nodded to the butler, and he bowed out of the room.
“Oh, no.” Her niece wet her lips. “May I see it?” Charlotte hesitated. “Please?” Susan looked quite distraught. Reluctantly, Charlotte handed her the flask. Susan snatched it from her hand, turning it over and letting out another strangled gasp. Then she wrapped her napkin around it and sprang to her feet. “May I be excused?” She edged toward the door.
Charlotte frowned. “I need the flask, Susan. I shall send around to the magistrate at once. He’ll want to see it and discover who owns it.”
“Oh, no!” Susan shook her head frantically, clutching the napkin-wrapped flask to her chest. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the intruder. It couldn’t!”
“Susan,” said Charlotte slowly. “Give it to me.” She put out her hand. Susan backed up, her breath rapid and loud.
“No, no ... I ... I think it may be mine, Papa gave me one once, such as this.”
“Then let me look at it.” Charlotte rose from the table and took the flask from Susan’s stiff but unresisting fingers. It still looked like an ordinary flask, Charlotte thought in puzzlement, turning it over. Why would Susan want to hide it from her?
She went still. An elegant script “D” was engraved on the side, along with a snarling dragon. The beast w
as almost worn away, but the plumes of fire spouting from his snout made it clear what he was. Charlotte raised her eyes to Susan’s. “Whose flask is this, Susan?”
Her niece blinked rapidly. “I told you, Papa gave me one.”
“Does this belong to Mr. Drake, by any chance?” Charlotte controlled her voice with great difficulty. Susan shook her head with a small whimper. “Then whose, Susan? It was not your father’s.”
Susan opened her mouth, then closed it, looking wretched. Charlotte was beyond caring. If that lowlife, that so-called gentleman had broken into her house and handled her most personal items, she would settle for nothing less than his head on a pike. How dare he molest her underwear?
“He wouldn’t break into our house, Aunt Charlotte,” pleaded Susan. “Mr. Drake is a gentleman!”
“After you went to bed, I discovered some of my jewels were missing. Mr. Drake is desperate for money.”
“He wouldn’t do this!” Susan cried.
“He would if he had given up on marrying you and your fortune.” Susan sucked in a gasp, and Charlotte regretted saying it so bluntly. Before she could retract it and try again, Susan flung open the door and ran from the room.
Charlotte examined the flask again, her fury mounting. Susan couldn’t believe her dear Mr. Drake was a thief, but of course that’s what every fortune hunter was, deep down. The infuriating man couldn’t even take a hint and leave town in disgrace like a proper coward. He had to stoop to petty thievery. Had he taken her necklace in retaliation?
She uncurled her fingers from the flask and set it on the table. She should go to the authorities with the flask and demand his arrest. She should march directly to his door and tell him what she thought of his craven sneaking around. She should invite him to return to the scene of his crime, and meet him with a pistol in her hand. She should not break into his rooms and vandalize his belongings while she retrieved her necklace.
But that’s what she did.
CHAPTER FOUR
It shocked Charlotte how easy it was to get into his rooms. A quick scramble up the overgrown apple tree, and she was in through an unlocked window. For a housebreaker, he was very lax about his own residence, she thought, dusting off her trousers.
The room she found herself in was a modest sitting room, obviously furnished by the landlady. Charlotte smirked at the thought of tall, masculine Stuart Drake relaxing in the flowery chintz chair, tatted cushions all around. He must be truly desperate to take such a frilly room.
He was desperate enough to break into my house, she reminded herself, then set to work. She intended to find her jewels, leave a snide little note in their place, and then, time permitting, wreak some havoc, just as he had done to her. Charlotte hoped she would have plenty of time to cut his entire wardrobe to shreds.
She was about halfway through her search when the sound of a key in the lock made the blood freeze in her veins. Praying it would only be a servant coming to turn down the bed, she flattened herself against the wall where the shadows were deepest. She held her breath as a man came into the room, his head bent as he tugged off his gloves.
She closed her eyes. Just her luck, Stuart Drake himself.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. There were rustles of cloth as he discarded his overcoat, and a quiet curse as he fumbled with the flint. The spark caught, and the candle glowed briefly before he moved in front of it, blocking most of the light. He paused, head tilting to one side, then went and closed the window she had left open. He stood there for a moment, contemplating it, then gave a little shrug and went to the fireplace.
Charlotte knew a moment of hideous indecision. How was she going to escape without him noticing? There was no way she could open the window and climb back down the tree without making noise. If he would just go into the other room she could slip out the door. He seemed to be home for the evening; whatever had happened to gambling, drinking, and whoring all night like a normal rake?
He had stirred up the fire by now and added a log. With a weary sigh, he sat on the edge of a chair, almost directly across from her, and rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment he stared pensively into the flames, shoulders slumped. Motionless, hardly daring to breathe, Charlotte felt a strange tug of sympathy at his despairing pose. Even though she knew him to be the worst kind of scoundrel, he looked like a man worn down with care and worry, utterly at the end of his rope. And so damnably handsome, in the flickering firelight.
She closed her eyes to keep such thoughts at bay. Handsome is as handsome does, she tried to tell herself. Think of all the terrible things he’s done. But instead, her mind recalled the feel of his hands, sliding over her shoulders; the sound of his voice, low and seductive in her ear; the weight of his body, pressing into hers ...
A loud snap broke her thoughts. Charlotte’s eyes flew open. He was on his feet again, prodding the log farther into the flames. It was beginning to light, and the room was no longer dark. He lit a lamp, and a bit more of Charlotte’s shadow cover fled. If he turned around, he would clearly see her.
He went into the other room, taking the lamp with him. She sagged against the wall, weak with relief, then quietly picked her way toward the door. Just as she reached for the knob, the room lit up again, and she glanced back without thinking.
“What the—?” She caught a glimpse of pure astonishment on his face before she lunged at the door in a panic. Charlotte seized the doorknob and even had it open a few inches before the door was slammed shut and she was thrown thrown against it.
“What the devil are you after?” he snarled, pushing his face up beside hers. “Who are you?” Pure fear squeezed her heart for a second; he didn’t sound or feel at all like a cowardly fop. Which of course he was. She made herself stay still, keeping her head down, biding her time. He grabbed her collar and one arm, pushing her across the room toward the fireplace. “Followed me home, did you?” he muttered. “I hope you’re feeling more talkative tonight.” He pushed her down into a chair, knocking off her hat.
Charlotte barely heard his swift breath of surprise as she shoved, setting him back on his heels before bolting for the door. He recovered from this surprise just as quickly, though, and caught her less than halfway across the room, tackling her to the rug, where her struggles were quickly proven useless.
“Well.” He sat back on his haunches and looked down at her. Charlotte glared back venomously. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
She tried to buck him off, without success. He was sitting on top of her, and had her wrists in an iron grip. “Let go of me!”
“I don’t think I will,” he said. “Not just yet, anyway. To what do I owe the honor of your visit? I would have let you in if you simply knocked on the door, you know; there was no need to sneak into my bedroom.”
“I don’t want to be in your bedroom,” she hissed. “You know why I’m here—I want my necklace back! I know you stole it.”
That wiped the smile off his face. “What makes you say that?”
She smirked, pleased to have rattled him. “You’re not as clever a thief as you think.” He seemed to consider this for a moment, his gaze narrow and calculating. “Let go of me, return my necklace, and perhaps, just perhaps, I shan’t call the authorities,” she added.
He focused on her again, and his grin returned, darker this time, wicked and sensual. “Oh, won’t you?” he murmured. “And I thought you’d come to apologize for being a nasty little gossip.”
Rage overpowered Charlotte. Writhing and snarling, she fought against his grip, his weight, his smile. She kicked and bucked and rolled, called him the foulest names she knew in every language she knew, and only ended up several minutes later spread flat on her back, arms above her head, beneath the considerable weight of one hateful, despicable, aroused man.
It was that last realization that finally ended her struggle. She could feel the hard length pressed against her belly, unprotected by layers of corset, petticoat, and gown. Thin drawers and breeches were all t
hat separated them, and Charlotte was horrified by the tight knot of heat deep in her belly at that thought. She fell still, breathing hard.
Stuart knew better than to think she was surrendering. Good Lord, the woman was a hellcat, scratching and spitting at him until the only way he could protect himself was to hold her down with his own body. And now he was enjoying himself. Just the feel of her beneath him was almost worth what she had cost him. Almost, but not quite.
“I find myself in a bit of a quandary,” he told her. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t respond. “I ought to summon the authorities and let them haul you away for housebreaking. It’s against the law, you see, and very dangerous.”
“You would know, having done it yourself!”
“However,” he continued, “I don’t really want to let you go yet. Not until I’ve repaid all you’ve done for me.”
“Get off me or I’ll cut your throat,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes glittered with fury, but she didn’t move. Too bad, Stuart thought; he’d rather liked her squirming. “Let me go this instant and I won’t call the authorities on you for breaking into my house.”
“Ah, but you aren’t quite in the position to be giving orders, are you?” he said sympathetically. “I seem to be on top, so to speak, and I rather like it that way.” He shifted his hips against hers, half to prove his point and half to satisfy the clamoring of his body, and a tiny, inarticulate sound escaped her before she cursed him again, more volubly than before.
“No doubt,” he said when she stopped. “But that doesn’t answer the question: what am I going to do with you?” He shifted his grip on her wrists, holding them with one hand. She struggled briefly, until it became clear that he could hold her just as well with one hand as with two. Gently he stroked the loose dark curls away from her face, laughing softly as she looked away. His fingers lingered on the curve of her cheek and the line of her throat. She had impossibly soft skin, and he leaned closer to inhale her scent, fainter than usual.
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