Catherine tucked a stray hair behind her ear and strode from the room, wishing for a looking glass and delighting in the earl’s uneven gait.
Eleven
“You had an urgent matter you wished to discuss, my lord?” Frederick Cochran eyed his companion with thinly veiled hatred. The man’s negligent facade masked a cunning mind and a merciless soul, not unlike Cochran’s, but Lord Latymer was a desperate man, one he would not underestimate, even while he exploited the source of the baron’s misery.
Summoning Cochran to this wretched gin shop in the middle of St. Giles, rather than communicating by messenger, spoke volumes of Latymer’s daring and of his desire to be quit of this situation. The authorities rarely entered the rookery, which made it an ideal location for a high-level fugitive to have a meeting. A bit of dirt on one’s face and a layer of tattered peasant’s clothing provided a believable cover in this den of despair.
“Lose the formal address,” Latymer commanded, accepting a mug from a scrawny barmaid but making no move to drink from it. “You have not reported in for several days, a condition not to my liking. What progress have you made?”
As always, when in the baron’s presence, a dark shadow drifted through Cochran’s consciousness like the silent, inevitable approach of death. “I paid the lovely widow a visit a few days ago and impressed upon her the importance of obtaining the earl’s list.” He recalled the widow’s initial confusion and then her dawning wariness. He’d achieved the right balance between conveying the severity of the situation and not completely losing her trust. Not everyone could have achieved such a delicate task. “If Somerton has compiled the list, I have no doubt the widow will deliver it before week’s end.”
“No doubt.” Latymer stared at him over his steepled fingers. “Tell me, on the small chance your abilities have missed their mark and the widow fails in her task, what is your plan?”
His neckcloth became too tight and the room too warm. “She’s an intelligent woman. I am confident she will do as she’s told.”
“Of course, you are.” The baron’s expression did not alter. “But what if she does not?”
The retribution Cochran had planned for the widow if she failed him glided through his mind in vivid detail. A familiar, exciting fever simmered beneath his skin, causing beads of sweat to form on his brow. He shifted in his seat, becoming more uncomfortable with each pulse of his heartbeat. “I assure you, sir. She is not without weaknesses.”
“Do not wait long,” Latymer said, rising. “Every second I don’t have that list is another second lost to your dream. Our destinies are entwined. You would do well to remember that fact.”
Cochran watched the baron stride from the overcrowded room, knocking into prostitutes and footpads and defending his person against pickpocket after pickpocket.
After a fair bit of digging, he now knew why Latymer wanted the list so badly. The French were of course involved, but the baron had a more personal reason for betraying his country—and his friend. Now Cochran had to figure out how to best exploit the situation, so that the French got what they wanted and so did he. As for Latymer, the man was nothing more than a bothersome extra step that could be struck from the process.
Even in his borrowed clothes and soot-covered face, Latymer could be picked out of this crowd by a discerning eye. Not Cochran, though. He melded with the filth and vermin inhabiting the warren of interconnected buildings and overcrowded houses. Here, no one paid attention to a child’s screams from the next chamber or a woman’s whimper in a nearby passage.
Because this was a godless lot, and the devil could roam here unheeded. Cochran smiled and grabbed Latymer’s untouched drink. He belted back the watered-down brew and then crooked his finger at the scrawny maid.
Twelve
August 13
For the hundredth time, Sebastian glanced at Catherine’s profile, wondering what machinations cluttered her brilliant mind while she put the finishing touches on The Plan. On their way back from meeting with the craftsmen—a journey completed in relative silence—they had returned to Bellamere so she could assign a workman to each of the repairs and make adjustments to her schedule.
Something about her eagerness to be of service gnawed at him, even knowing he was the one who had requested her assistance. Why was she here? What possible benefit could she derive from this partnership? She had to be aware of his reputation for ruthlessness—it preceded him everywhere he went. So what would lure her to his home? To spend days in his company? Hours coordinating his repairs?
Why would she risk the good opinion of Showbury’s residents by sharing his bed?
An image of Catherine spread out on his breakfast room table, her head tossed back with one leg locked around his waist, materialized with a clarity that astounded him. In that moment, she had been an angel and a temptress. And tight. So tight that he had nearly lost the few wits he had left.
“My lord?”
Sebastian shut his mind to the seductive image and focused his fevered eyes on Catherine. She sat at his mother’s writing desk, brought into his study by the servants a quarter hour ago, looking comfortable and intent. His gaze roamed over her oval-shaped face, pert nose, blond eyebrows, and her lightly fringed lashes that blended with the backdrop of her pale skin.
What was it about her that compelled him to want to be with her, when he knew they must part ways in a few short days? Having her nearby brought an unusual contentment to his life, something he did not fully comprehend and, at that particular moment, chose not to analyze.
“Yes,” he said finally. The word emerged harsh, uneven.
Her brown eyes searched his features without a hint of the yearning swirling in their depths that he’d witnessed this morning. “Did you make promises to anyone besides Mr. Hayton?”
“Not that I recall.” He dropped his gaze to his desk and shuffled papers around. “Why?”
She bent over The Plan again. “Just making sure I’m prioritizing everything correctly.”
“When might the men you hired begin the repairs?”
Her quill pen scratched across the paper. “We still need to speak with Mr. McCarthy. He’s a competent carpenter in need of work.”
“I’ve met him.”
The scratching stopped. “You have?”
“Yes, Saturday afternoon, when I attempted to catalog all the repairs myself.”
“Is that why we circumvented the McCarthy residence?”
He nodded. “You should add a gate repair to your list.”
She looked down at her chart, her lips thinned in disapproval. “You might have mentioned that a tad earlier.”
“But I only just now recalled the fact.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Any others you’re only now recollecting?”
She was adorable when annoyed. “Not that I recall.”
Pulling a clean piece of paper in front of her, she dipped her pen into the inkwell with a little more force than necessary. “Tomorrow, I will present an individual task list to each of the craftsmen. In the meantime, please do not feel as though you need to entertain me. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend.”
She had provided him with a perfect opportunity to escape the erotic images he failed to stop. But he remained rooted in his chair, yearning for her in torturous silence.
Did she not think about their time together in the breakfast room? Did she not grow wet with wanting, with imagining them joined again?
Paper crackled, and he looked down to find the report he’d been trying to read in ruins. He had hoped making love to her would soothe the hunger burning in his loins. But one loving wasn’t enough. His body felt more starved than ever, depleted of an essential element he could not long go without.
Standing, he strode toward her, keeping a tight rein on the conflicting emotions roiling inside him. He didn’t want to want her. A young widow wit
h a small child would come to expect more of him than he could give. Keeping his agents alive and England free from invasion was all he could manage. Getting involved with Catherine could put them all in danger.
So why wasn’t his body listening to the arguments of his mind?
Hearing his approach, she turned to look at him, and her eyes grew wide. Was her reaction due to his determined advancement, or had his mask slipped? Sebastian feared the latter, which did nothing to improve his disposition.
She rose and shimmied around her chair, as if that meager piece of furniture would provide adequate protection. He wanted to witness one glimmer of remembrance in those beautiful eyes, one sign she had not forgotten their passionate interlude this morning.
“M-my lord,” she said in a shaky voice. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“Hardly, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said. “You’ve barely said anything at all.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand. We discussed Mr. McCarthy at length.”
Sebastian pressed beyond the warning bells and physical blockades. “Ah, but I’m not talking about the Irishman. I refer to this morning.” He stopped a few feet in front of her, the chair between them. “You do remember this morning, don’t you?”
Trepidation flashed across her face. “Of course.”
“Do you not wish to discuss what happened?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not really.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“To what end, my lord?” she asked. “We indulged the demands of our bodies, a circumstance I hope we can repeat before you return to London. But to talk about what happened gives the event more significance than it truly carries.” She raised her chin. “Don’t you think?”
He could do little more than stare at her. Words, logic, arguments—they all failed him. Because she was right. He had delivered the same reminder countless times to mistresses who had placed too much meaning on their sexual encounters.
Being on the receiving end of such a reminder escalated his frustration, causing him to lash out. “Indeed, Mrs. Ashcroft.” He pushed the chair beneath the desk. “Perhaps I did not make my intentions clear enough.”
She clasped her empty hands in front of her. “Oh?”
He stepped closer. “Since you are receptive to furthering our morning activities, I propose an affaire.”
“Affaire?” After a moment, the confusion vanished and her features cleared of all expression. “Kind of you, my lord. But I have no need of your money.”
The muscles in his neck grew taut and a vein in his temple pounded. “I’m not suggesting that you become my mistress, but rather my lover.”
She thought about that for a second. “I see.”
Did she? To be sure, he pressed his point home. “A pleasurable interlude with a definite beginning and end, an association without expectation. The only exchange of payment would be the slaking of our mutual desire.”
A satisfactory flush blanketed her throat and covered her cheeks. She might be well versed in negotiating domestic affairs, but Sebastian was a master at more intimate arrangements.
“What of my reputation, my lord?” she asked. “Showbury is small and gossip travels quickly. What will become of my daughter and me when you leave?”
“There are a few options,” he said. “We do what we can to quell the rumors, or, if you prefer, we can find you and Sophie a nice place away from Showbury. Somewhere you can start fresh, free from unpleasant memories.”
“You have given this some thought.”
More than you will ever know. “Like you, I prefer to have a plan.”
“What if I don’t wish to leave our home? What then, my lord?”
“Then I find a way to persuade you, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
She took a small step back. “I do not think this is the right time—”
“When would?” he asked more sharply than he intended. “After we find Ashcroft’s killer? When you’re out of mourning? Once Sophie is older?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I don’t want my selfish act to hurt Sophie. She deserves better.”
“I will protect your daughter from any ill effects of our affaire,” he said. “You have my word. I’m offering you a few days of pleasure, something I believe we both need. Trust me to see to Sophie’s welfare.”
She turned toward the window and stared at something in the distance. Sebastian’s hands balled at his side, waiting for her answer. His pulse grew thick in his ears and sweat ran between his shoulder blades.
“Well then,” she said quietly, settling her gaze on his. “The business of when the affaire is to begin has already been decided, so the only question remaining is when will it end?”
Never. The answer shot through his head with blinding speed, surprising him with its savagery. Ever since he’d witnessed the secretive smile she’d sent Danforth that morning, he’d been hounded by an animalistic need to possess her, along with an overpowering desire to thrash Danforth.
The viscount’s talent for charming vital information from the mistresses and wives of powerful men had been quite useful over the years. But the thought of Danforth employing those skills on Catherine had stirred a primitive need in Sebastian to rip the young rogue’s head off.
“I plan on returning to London by the middle of the following week,” he said. “Does that suit for an end date?”
An odd mixture of relief and exasperation crossed her face. Sebastian found himself wondering about the reasons for both.
“Yes, my lord,” she said. “Quite definitive.”
Unable to resist the temptation of their close proximity, he placed his fingers on her cheek and smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Now that we have the business side of our arrangement decided, I propose a sampling of the pleasurable side.”
She nodded, sucking in her bottom lip. When it reappeared moist and red from her ministrations, Sebastian’s control snapped. He covered her mouth, drawing her lower lip between his teeth to savor its texture, toy with its softness. Tease and test its plumpness.
Desire streamed through his veins, sleek and hot. He wanted her again. A sampling was not enough. “Never enough.”
“Pardon?” she asked.
Sebastian stilled.
“What’s not enough?”
Unable to free himself of the haze of hunger numbing his mind, his unblinking gaze remained fixed on her swollen mouth. Had he verbalized his thoughts? Had he been so far gone in the sensation of her kiss as to reveal his hidden desires?
“My lord?”
Sebastian swallowed back an unusual stab of agitation and retreated a step. The new position gave him a better vantage point to view her. Somewhere along the way, her quintessentially English features had become so stunning that they haunted his dreams and plagued his waking hours. Even more so with the evidence of his possession glistening on her lips.
To remove the sting of his withdrawal, he lifted her hand and kissed the delicate blue veins running along the inside of her wrist. “Forgive the intrusion. I know you are most eager to get the repairs under way, which cannot happen until the men have their task list.” He released her and gripped his hands behind his back. “Are you free for dinner?”
She checked the timepiece hanging around her neck. “I’m afraid not. Mr. Foster will be here any moment.”
Every muscle in Sebastian’s body locked in place. “The vicar is coming here?”
“Yes,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. We are to check on Mrs. Taylor before dinner. Knowing we would have a long day, I suggested that he collect me from here.”
“So that’s why you walked over today.”
“Yes.”
“Always planning, aren’t you, Mrs. Ashcroft?” When she said nothing, he asked, “Why must you accompany the vicar to check on Mrs. Taylor
?”
She cast him a perplexed look. “Because he asked me to and we have things to discuss.”
Things to discuss. He did not care for the sound of that, especially after the vicar’s comments about marriage. “Did you tell him that we have work to do?”
“I don’t understand, my lord,” she said. “We have done all that we can do here today.”
Sebastian’s jaw hardened. He moved to the window, needing a moment to grapple with the sensations pounding through his veins. Where had this need to throttle every man who came within an arm’s length of her come from?
He did not want her spending time with the good vicar when she could be having dinner with him. Did she not feel the same yearning that nearly overwhelmed him every second they were in the same room?
He had to regain control of his body. She was nothing more than a diversion. Sweet and charming. So different from the pampered ladies of the ton.
The memory of Catherine splayed out on the breakfast room table resurfaced, and he amended his assessment. Seductive and tempting. Beautiful and thrilling.
His cock stirred and his stomach clenched. He wanted her. In his bed, with her golden tresses fanning over her body like an angel’s cape, while she gazed up at him with desire-filled eyes.
He bit back a curse. Control, Somerton!
“My lord?” she called softly. “Was there something you needed me to do before I left?”
Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to recall Ashcroft’s lifeless body lying in the middle of a dark alley, his clothes soaked with blood and discarded human waste. The awful scene had the desired effect. His erection withered in record time, leaving him with the sour mood of an unfulfilled man.
“I assume I’ll have your undivided attention tomorrow, Mrs. Ashcroft?”
Her spine straightened. “Of course.”
“No midweek jaunts through the countryside while I’m here dealing with the repairs?”
“What is this about, my lord?”
“We had an agreement, madam.”
Checkmate, My Lord Page 14
