Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Icarus yawned, and stretched, and rolled over—and was confronted by a pillow that someone else had clearly slept on. He blinked. Memory washed over him. Letty Trentham. He’d asked her to sleep in his bed. It had been Letty Trentham who’d bent over him at dawn, Letty Trentham who’d whispered in his ear.

  You’re not dead, Icarus Reid. Do you hear me? You’re not dead.

  His warm, drowsy contentment congealed.

  Icarus sat up and flung back the bedclothes.

  He’d asked Letty Trentham to spend the night in his bed? What in God’s name had induced him to do that? It was unforgivable! Inexcusable!

  Icarus climbed out of bed, mortification cold in his belly. No brandy tonight, he told himself, jerking open the curtains. Not one mouthful. Not even one drop.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  November 26th, 1808

  Exeter, Devonshire

  They reached Exeter after darkness had fallen. Icarus directed the postilions to a hotel on Cathedral Close that had been recommended to him as a quiet and superior establishment. It was certainly superior, but it was also much larger than he’d anticipated. “Perhaps we should find somewhere more discreet.”

  “I’m wearing a veil,” Miss Trentham said. “No one will recognize me.”

  Icarus wasn’t so certain. He thought that anyone who knew Miss Trentham well would recognize her, veil or not. The austere elegance of her clothes was unmistakable, as was her cool poise.

  They didn’t dine until nearly eight o’clock. Icarus saw at a glance that Miss Trentham had spoken to the kitchen staff. Of the ten superb dishes arranged on the table, only the roasted chicken would present Houghton with difficulty. Icarus carved for them all, slicing the breast meat wafer thin. You should be able to cut that with a fork, he wanted to say, but set his tongue between his teeth. Houghton wouldn’t want to be fussed over.

  They lingered over the meal. Miss Trentham was Tish again. She’d been Tish every evening since Houghton had joined them. It was irrational to feel jealous, but he did. Icarus frowned down at his plate and stabbed a piece of baked salmon with his fork. I should be glad if they made a match of it.

  Miss Trentham was wearing a gown of soft lavender and a pretty shawl the color of dusty grapes. In the nearly four weeks he’d known her, she had yet to wear strong, bright colors. She seemed to prefer muted shades—sage green, dove gray, soft blue, lavender. They suited her pale skin and blonde-brown hair and sea-colored eyes.

  Icarus blinked, and looked more closely at Miss Trentham’s eyes. Tonight they were lavender-gray.

  She caught his glance and smiled a Tish-smile that made her look quite extraordinarily attractive—the curve of her cheeks, the curve of her lips, the smoky lavender of her eyes. “What do you plan for tomorrow?”

  “Uh . . .” Icarus blinked again, feeling momentarily off balance. He gathered his wits. “The receiving office, for Cuthbertson’s address, and then the sergeant and I are going shopping for clothes.”

  Miss Trentham grinned at Houghton, looking even more like Tish than before. “You have my sympathy, Sergeant.”

  Houghton pulled a humorous face, but his glance at Icarus was faintly discomfited. Why? But even as Icarus asked himself the question, he knew the answer: Because Houghton has no money.

  “I’ll advance you some of your salary,” Icarus told the sergeant, helping himself to another portion of veal pie. “More pie? Or would you like some more chicken?”

  He chewed his food stolidly, trying not to notice how attractive Miss Trentham was—such an intelligent, interesting face. No brandy tonight, he told himself. Not one single drop.

  Icarus repeated the words as he climbed into bed—No brandy, no brandy—but when he heaved out of his nightmare several hours later, it took all his effort just to breathe, all his willpower not to vomit. He accepted the quarter-glass Miss Trentham handed him without a second thought. By the time he’d drunk the brandy, the urge to vomit had gone. He swallowed the valerian and lay back on his pillows. Lazy warmth permeated his limbs. He watched Miss Trentham pick up Herodotus. She came to the bed and smiled down at him and stroked his hair back from his brow.

  Icarus smiled sleepily at her.

  Miss Trentham settled herself cross-legged on the bed beside him. She opened the book.

  Icarus held her hand and listened to the quiet rise and fall of her voice. His eyelids drooped lower and lower.

  After an eon, he realized that Miss Trentham had stopped reading. He turned his head, searching for her. Don’t go.

  She didn’t. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him.

  Icarus sighed with pleasure and kissed her back. Another eon drifted past, an eon of warm, languid kisses.

  “Would you like me to stay?” Miss Trentham whispered against his mouth.

  Icarus knew this was a question that should alarm him. Why? Cogs turned slowly in his brain. Memory grudgingly unfurled. He’d made a decision that morning: No brandy. No asking Miss Trentham to stay the night with him.

  It was too late to hold by his first decision; he wasn’t top-heavy, but he was definitely mellow, his wits slow, his inhibitions floating somewhere out of reach—and since when had a quarter of a glass of brandy been enough to do that to him? Since you were six weeks in bed with the fever, a little voice said in his head.

  “Would you like me to stay?”

  Icarus wrestled with his conscience, but his conscience was weak tonight, and all he could think of was how much he wanted her to stay.

  “Icarus? Yes, or no?”

  There were two answers he could truthfully give her. No, he didn’t want her to stay, because it was wrong and reprehensible and dangerous to her reputation. Yes, he wanted her to stay, because when she held him he felt safe and happy.

  Icarus settled on the truth that gave him what he craved, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it and even though he knew he’d regret it in the morning. “Yes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  November 27th, 1808

  Exeter, Devonshire

  Icarus slept the night in Miss Trentham’s arms, feeling warm and safe and happy. He roused briefly at dawn to hear her voice in his ear—You’re not dead, Icarus Reid—and then fell back into deep, dreamless sleep. He didn’t wake until Green opened the curtains. Icarus drowsily watched him lay out the shaving tackle and today’s clothes. A good lad, Green. Cheerful, hard-working, diligent in his duties. I shall recommend that Houghton take him. Houghton would treat the lad well.

  “What’s the time?”

  “Ten o’clock, sir.”

  Icarus pushed back the bedcovers and sat up, reluctant to leave the bed’s warmth and the sense of safety and happiness that lingered there. He rubbed his face and raked his hands through his hair. You’re not dead, Letty Trentham had said when she left him, and it was true that he felt like a man again, not a staggering corpse—but it was also true that he was dead. He’d been dead ever since he’d uttered those terrible, unpardonable words: It’s true. C’est vrai.

  Icarus lowered his hands, and clenched them together. He didn’t deserve Letty Trentham’s kindness or her kisses, and he certainly didn’t deserve to have her hold him while he slept.

  And she does not deserve to be used by me. She deserved a good man, someone decent and honorable who treated her with respect, who valued her not for her ability to hear lies but for herself, because she was strong and generous and compassionate, and altogether a remarkable woman.

  Icarus sat on the edge of the bed and felt ashamed of himself.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Icarus looked at Green. No. “No brandy tonight,” he said. “Only the valerian.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  * * *

  He and Houghton visited the postal receiving office, where they learned that Colonel Cuthbertson’s mail went to Okehampton, on the edge of Dartmoor some twenty miles from Exeter. Then, armed with a list provided by the hotel proprietor, Icarus took Houghton to a tailor, a boot maker
, a hatter, and a haberdasher’s, outfitting him from head to toe—stockings and drawers, breeches and pantaloons, shirts, nightshirts, waistcoats, tailcoats and a greatcoat, boots, shoes, hats and gloves, neckcloths. “What have we forgotten, Houghton?” he said, glancing around the haberdasher’s. A cornucopia of items met his gaze: bolts of fabric, ribbons and laces, muffs and fans and reticules, clocked stockings and plain stockings, handkerchiefs and gloves, parasols and umbrellas. “Handkerchiefs. And would you like an umbrella?”

  “No, sir.”

  Icarus glanced around again. His gaze alighted on a display of knitted coin purses. “Choose a coin purse, as well.”

  Outside on the street, Icarus examined the list. Only the leather goods shop remained. He pulled out his pocket watch, and glanced at the time. “We must get you a watch.”

  “Sir,” Houghton said desperately. “I don’t need all this!”

  Icarus slid the watch back into his waistcoat pocket. “You’re to be my representative, Houghton. You must dress the part.”

  “But I’m not a gentleman! I don’t speak right! All this—” Houghton’s gesture included more than just the haberdasher’s shop, “—is as much use as dressing a monkey in a man’s costume!”

  Icarus eyed him. Houghton’s face was flushed. This is important to him. Don’t brush it off. He felt carefully for his words. “Tell me, Sergeant . . . did you judge the men in your charge by who their parents were, or by their character?”

  Houghton’s gaze fell. “By their character,” he muttered.

  “And what made you respect an officer most? His birth, or his character?”

  Houghton pressed his lips together. “His character,” he admitted again.

  Icarus stepped closer, ignoring the passersby jostling them. He pitched his voice low: “It doesn’t matter who your parents were, or how you talk, Sergeant. What matters is who you are—and you’re a better man than most I’ve known. You’re not a monkey dressed in a costume, you’re not playing the part of a gentleman; in your character, you are a gentleman.”

  Houghton’s cheeks reddened. He glanced up, meeting Icarus’s eyes.

  Icarus clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s find that leather goods shop. You need luggage—and a pocketbook!”

  * * *

  The purchases made, they walked back to the hotel. Icarus ordered two post-chaises for twelve thirty the next day. An edgy sense of anticipation built in him. I’ll find Cuthbertson tomorrow.

  He could think of no reason for Cuthbertson to pass information to the French, but he had a feeling—a feeling close to certainty—that Cuthbertson had.

  Why? Why would he do such a thing?

  He found himself fidgeting during dinner. Miss Trentham had to suggest, twice, quite firmly, that he eat. After the meal, he played backgammon with Houghton, and lost both games. Cuthbertson, tomorrow.

  Up in his bedchamber, he noted that Green had remembered to remove the brandy. Not that it mattered tonight; he doubted he’d sleep. His head was full of Cuthbertson. Was he the traitor?

  Icarus blew out his candle and lay staring up at the dark ceiling. Cuthbertson.

  But he did fall asleep, and it wasn’t Cuthbertson he dreamed of, but a creek in Portugal, and when Letty Trentham woke him, he almost fell out of bed trying to hit her.

  Icarus struggled back to full consciousness. Deep shudders wracked him. His breath wheezed in his throat.

  “Where’s the brandy?”

  “Told Green I didn’ want it,” he said hoarsely.

  Miss Trentham put her hands on her hips. “Well, that was foolish, wasn’t it?”

  Yes. There was nothing he wanted more right now than some brandy.

  Icarus sat hunched on the edge of the bed, struggling to control his breathing, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, dimly aware of Miss Trentham opening cupboards, opening drawers. She finally found the brandy bottle in his portmanteau, underneath the high bed. Her search had produced no glass. Miss Trentham plucked the small, decorative vase from the mantelpiece, wiped out the dust with a corner of her shawl, and poured brandy into it.

  “Not too much,” Icarus said. “A few mouthfuls only.”

  Miss Trentham glanced at him, and stopped pouring, and when she gave him the vase he was relieved to see that there was barely a finger’s width of brandy in it.

  Icarus sipped while she straightened his bedding. He drank slowly, savoring each small mouthful. The brandy’s warmth crept through his body. Muscle by muscle, he felt himself relax. His breathing steadied, his shuddering stopped.

  “Would you like more?” Miss Trentham asked, when he’d finished.

  Yes. Icarus shook his head.

  Miss Trentham took the empty vase and placed it back on the mantelpiece. She measured out a teaspoon of valerian.

  Icarus swallowed it.

  Miss Trentham climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged beside him. She opened Herodotus, flicking through the pages, looking for the marker.

  “Letty,” Icarus said firmly. “Tonight you’re not going to sleep here.”

  Miss Trentham looked up from Herodotus.

  “It’s wrong,” Icarus said. “You must know that it’s wrong!”

  Her expression didn’t change in any way that he could put his finger on, except that it did change, infinitesimally, almost imperceptibly—and he wasn’t sure how to interpret that alteration. Contempt? Miss Trentham knew as well as he that everything they did at night was wrong. It was wrong that she entered his bedchamber. Wrong that she sat on his bed and read to him. Wrong that they kissed.

  And he’d allowed those things to happen because they comforted him. Icarus’s shame increased. “Perhaps you should leave now.”

  Miss Trentham looked down at the open book on her lap. She hadn’t seemed aloof before, but she suddenly seemed so now, as if she’d drawn into herself. “Is that what you want?”

  Icarus was unable to reply truthfully and honorably at the same time. He chose an indirect answer instead: “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Shouldn’t?” Miss Trentham’s mouth twisted wryly. “A friend of mine used to say that shouldn’t was a word that took the joy out of life.” Her lips lost their wry twist; her expression became sad. “She’s dead now, because she shouldn’t have put her horse at a fence it couldn’t jump.”

  Icarus thought he knew which friend she meant: Lucas Kemp’s twin sister. Someone for whom Miss Trentham had worn blacks for a full year. “I’m sorry.”

  Miss Trentham closed Herodotus and put the book to one side. “I wanted to ask you something tonight.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t like it. You’ll think it a question I shouldn’t ask.”

  “What?” Icarus said again, warily.

  Miss Trentham hesitated and bit her lip, and then she took a deep breath and lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely, and she so visibly gathered her courage and her resolution that Icarus knew he definitely didn’t want to hear what she was going to say.

  “Please will you let me kiss you the way Tom kissed Lucas?”

  Icarus recoiled against the pillows. “No!”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? There were so many reasons why not. A thousand reasons why not. “Because . . . because it would be contemptible of me to allow you to do that!”

  Her gaze was steady on his face. “Why would it be contemptible?”

  Icarus thought of Matlock kneeling at Lucas Kemp’s feet, and then he imagined Miss Trentham kneeling at his own feet, and his cock pulsed and his breath choked in his throat and for a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything more than shake his head vehemently.

  “Why would it be contemptible?”

  “Because it would! Because . . . because my behavior towards you has been—from the very outset!—unforgivable, and if I allowed you to do that, it would be more unforgivable than everything else put together!”

  Miss Trentham surveyed him, her gaze serious, and it felt as if sh
e could see inside him, could see his heart beating fast and agitatedly, could see the shameful images in his head.

  “From my point of view it wouldn’t be contemptible or unforgivable. I would consider it a . . . a gift. But if you feel yourself unequal to it, then of course you may refuse.”

  A gift? Icarus stared at her in utter disbelief. I am either drunk or dreaming. “You actually want to do it?”

  Her gaze lowered. She blushed. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to.”

  Icarus was rendered speechless with astonishment.

  Miss Trentham took one end of her shawl and began to pleat the border, directing her words to her fingers, not to him. “Tomorrow we’ll reach Okehampton and find Colonel Cuthbertson, and it will likely be he who betrayed you, and . . . and then I’ll go back to London and we’ll never see each other again.”

  Never see Letty Trentham again? It gave Icarus a funny feeling in his chest.

  “And I thought . . . while we still have the opportunity . . . perhaps we could do this?” Her blush deepened, and her fingers busily, nervously, pleated the shawl. “If you can bring yourself to allow it.”

  Icarus’s cock pulsed again. He clutched the bedclothes to his chest like a barrier. “Allow it? Of course I can’t allow it! It would be inexcusably selfish of me!”

  “Selfish?” Miss Trentham stopped pleating the shawl and glanced at him, a puzzled frown on her brow. “How would it be selfish of you?”

  Icarus looked away. Because if I allowed you to do that to me, I’d be using you as I’d use a whore, and of all the ways I’ve used you, that would be the worst.

  Miss Trentham waited several seconds, and asked her question again. “How would it be selfish of you?”