She found that she was shaking. Tiredness and frustration racked her. “I think,” she said, “that when we get out of here it would be best if we never see each other again.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Garrick agreed, and he sounded weary to the soul. He was sitting with his back to her and he made no move to turn or draw closer.
There was quiet once more. Merryn felt horribly bereft, so lonely when the only other human being trapped with her was a man she could not approach for comfort, either mentally or physically. She wanted to rationalize her feelings away, to find an explanation for the instinct that had told her she could trust Garrick. Yet there was none.
“I expect,” she said, “that our current attraction is merely a product of our situation. We are imprisoned here together and it is frightening and perfectly understandable that we should seek reassurance in one another. Besides, the beer fumes are making us both light-headed. It is a transient thing…” Her voice trailed off unhappily. If she did not believe her excuses she was sure that Garrick would not, either.
“By all means,” Garrick said, “think of it in those terms if it makes you feel better. I refuse to accept that I am only attracted to you because I am drunk.”
Silence again. The darkness fizzed with emotion—bitter, brittle anger, despair and longing.
“What can we do?” Merryn said helplessly.
“Nothing,” Garrick said. She heard him sigh. “I am going to sleep. My head hurts.” His voice sounded slurred. Now he really did sound drunk.
“You can’t go to sleep!” Merryn said sharply. “Wake up!” She was remembering another of Professor Brande’s lectures that she had attended the previous year, this time on medicine.
“The effects of a blow to the head may be delayed but they may also be fatal… If the patient sleeps he may not awaken…”
Panic grabbed her by the throat. She reached out for Garrick and gripped his shoulder hard.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she said again, and she could hear the raw anxiety edge her own voice. She grabbed his arm, shook him. “It could be dangerous. Did you sustain a blow to the head when the roof fell?”
“I don’t remember…” Garrick sounded as though he was drifting away from her. “Don’t worry about me,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Merryn snapped. “It’s purely selfish. I don’t want to be left here on my own, that is all. I find after all that some company, even yours, is preferable to none.”
Garrick did not respond. Merryn shook him again and heard him groan. “Leave me in peace,” he said. “I’m a Duke and I can go to sleep if I like.”
“You’re gabbling,” Merryn said coldly. She felt scared. She wondered if she should slap his face. Except she could not see where it was. “Did you not hear me?” she demanded. “If you fall asleep you may never wake up.”
“That should suit you very well,” Garrick muttered. “An eye for an eye, or whatever.” He gave a sigh. She could tell that he was settling down to sleep.
Merryn scooped up a double handful of the sticky, warm, brackish beer and threw it in his general direction. She followed it with a second measure. There was a splash, a movement and then some very colorful swearing.
“What the devil—” At least he sounded wide-awake now. Merryn found that she was smiling. “That’s better,” she said.
“I’m glad that you think so.” He sounded very grumpy. “Who would have guessed you could be such a shrew?”
“You should be thanking me,” Merryn said. “You might have died.”
“I almost did die—of beer inhalation.” But he sounded himself again. Merryn’s heart skipped a tiny beat.
There was a pause. She could feel his hesitation. Then he took her hand. She almost jumped at the physical contact.
“Thank you,” he said.
The tears pricked her eyelids, foolish, weak tears she did not understand.
His thumb moved softly over her palm. “We will get out of here,” he said. His voice had gentled and once again it tugged at her emotions. “I swear we will.”
“Will anyone miss you if you do not return home?” Merryn asked. It had not occurred to her before, but surely someone, somewhere would raise an alarm?
“I doubt it,” Garrick said. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going to be.”
So no one cared where he was or what he did. Merryn thought it sounded very lonely.
“But people will surely miss you,” Garrick added.
“Yes.” Merryn felt a clutch of apprehension mingled with hope. “Joanna will worry when I do not return to Tavistock Street,” she said. The guilt pricked her. “I was supposed to be working for Tom this evening but I told Joanna that I was attending a concert with a friend,” she said. “She may not realize that anything was wrong for a few hours and even then she will have no idea as to where I might be.”
“But if Bradshaw knows,” Garrick said, “he may contact your sister to ensure that you are safe.”
“Yes…” Merryn said. “It is possible but I think it unlikely. Tom believes me to be at a meeting of the Royal Humane Society tonight. He would hardly expect me to be in the rookeries off the Tottenham Court Road.” She raised a hand to her aching head. Suddenly everything seemed intolerably complicated. It seemed very unlikely that Tom would go to Joanna and Alex, but if he did then her secret life would unravel faster than a ball of thread. On the other hand, if he did not realize that something was wrong, and she and Garrick could not find a way out, they might be trapped for days. The panic fluttered again but the warmth of Garrick’s hand in hers helped her to quell it this time. She felt stronger with him near. She did not like the thought but she had to accept that it was true.
“How well do you know Bradshaw?” Garrick asked.
“Well enough,” Merryn said. “He’s not my lover,” she added then wondered why on earth she had seen the need to mention it.
Garrick laughed. “I know that. You told me that you had never been kissed before.” He had half turned toward her. “I think that I would have known it anyway,” he added slowly. “When I kissed you at the ball you looked as though you had discovered a wonderful new pastime, one you had never indulged in before but would love to explore further.”
“Oh!” Merryn whipped her hand from his and pressed both her palms to her burning cheeks. That had been exactly what she had felt. She had not realized, though, that she was quite so transparent.
“I did like it,” she admitted after a moment. “I enjoy new experiences and it was intellectually fascinating.”
She heard Garrick laugh. “Indeed! I have never before considered kissing an intellectual pastime. In what way was it…ah…intellectually fascinating?”
“Because I had no previous knowledge of it,” Merryn said, “and I found it interesting to analyze my responses—”
“Analyze your responses? You mean you had time to think?” Garrick sounded slightly taken aback. “Was it better than reading a book?” he asked. “Or some other comparative academic activity?”
“That,” Merryn said, “would depend upon the book. It was better than reading Clarissa, which I found turgid, but not quite as good as reading Mansfield Park, which I enjoyed a very great deal.”
“Mansfield Park.” Garrick sounded amused. “I hope it was an exceptionally good read.”
“Outstanding,” Merryn agreed.
Garrick took her hand again and this time pressed his lips to the palm. “Whereas kissing me is merely…satisfactory? Interesting?”
“Very interesting,” Merryn amended. Her heart thumped. Her skin was prickling. She could feel Garrick’s stubble rough against the softness of her hand, chasing shivers along her nerves. For a second she felt as though she was trembling on the edge of something unbearably sweet; she wanted him to take her in his arms again, to kiss her until every other thought was banished and she was eager under his touch; she wanted to tumble headlong into whatever hot, blissful tempt
ation waited for her.
She pulled her hand away, only to curl her fingers protectively over as though trapping the kiss.
She heard Garrick sigh. “I’m glad we straightened that out,” he murmured. The teasing note in his voice faded. “I think that you should get some sleep, Lady Merryn,” he said. “It will be for the best. And in the morning we will find a way out.”
Merryn knew he was right. She could forget the past for a few minutes perhaps and allow herself to luxuriate in the pleasure of talking to a man whose mind seemed so delightfully in tune with her own. She could even allow herself the seduction of his kisses, a different but equally tempting sort of pleasure. But then memory would taunt her, making her stomach lurch with misery and self-reproach, and she knew that there could be no future for them. It was impossible. She should not want it.
“You always call me Lady Merryn when you want to put some distance between us,” she said slowly.
“I do,” Garrick agreed. She waited but he made no attempt to narrow that distance or to touch her again. After a moment Merryn settled herself down on as dry a bit of the floor as she could find, wrapped her pelisse around her and willed herself to sleep.
WHEN TOM BRADSHAW arrived at the house in Tavistock Street it was the early hours of the morning and he discovered that Lady Grant was hosting a dinner. The dining room blazed with light and it spilled out across the terrace and the gardens. Tom, lurking in the shadows, could see that Merryn was not among the assembled guests. That did not surprise him. He knew exactly where she was. And whom she was with.
As soon as Tom had heard about Garrick Farne’s strange, quixotic gift to the Fenner sisters he had set Heighton to watch on Merryn and report back to him. Garrick, Tom thought, had been quite exceptionally clever in buying off the Fenner family. He had grave doubts now that Merryn would follow through on her intention to ruin Garrick because it was not in her interests to do so anymore. Tom understood all about self-interest. It was his prime inspiration. So he could hardly blame Merryn for throwing in her lot with Farne. But it did mean that he no longer trusted her and he could no longer use her.
Heighton had followed Merryn the entire afternoon. He had tailed both Merryn and Garrick to the rookeries of the Tottenham Court Road and had witnessed the beer flood. Barely stopping to sample a swift pint, he had made his way back to report to Tom.
So now Tom was in a very powerful position. He was prepared to tell Lady Grant and Lady Darent what had happened to their little sister—at a price. He was even considering revealing to them that Merryn had been working for him for two years, and then charging a higher price still for his silence, for Merryn would be utterly ruined if the truth came out. Tom was ruthless in discarding those for whom he had no further use and Merryn had served her purpose. Now she could make him some money.
He knocked discreetly at the door and asked the butler if he might speak with Lady Darent. He had thought of approaching Joanna, but there was always the danger that he might find himself confronting Alex Grant instead. That would be a very different business from blackmailing a woman of Lady Darent’s apparent sensibilities. The butler gave him a supercilious look and Tom was almost certain he was going to refuse, but a hefty bribe helped the situation enormously and he was shown into the library. Nor did Tess Darent keep him waiting. It was barely two minutes later that he heard her step in the doorway and her voice.
“You asked to speak with me?”
Tom, who had been admiring the picturesque display of china that Lady Grant had arranged in a window alcove, turned abruptly. For a moment he thought he was seeing things, for in the light of the candles the woman standing in front of him looked like Merryn, sounded like Merryn and yet she most definitely was not Merryn. His instincts told him that even before the light shifted again and he saw that the superficial likeness was deceptive. This woman was taller than Merryn was, darker, lushly curved where Merryn was more angular. Tom realized vaguely that he had never considered Merryn beautiful, never really thought about her in such feminine terms because she had always insisted on being treated as an equal, like a man. This woman, in contrast, was lavishly, deliciously female. Tom swallowed hard.
The woman came forward into the light. “How do you do?” She extended a hand to him. “I am Teresa Darent.”
Tom automatically took her hand in his. Hers was warm and soft and it seemed to flutter within his grasp. He felt short of breath and oddly out of countenance. So this was the widowed Lady Darent, whom the ton called the much-married marchioness. This was the woman who was barely twenty-eight but had buried four husbands already, whom rumor said wore them out by her insatiable demands in the marriage bed. Suddenly Tom’s mouth felt as dry as cinders.
There was nothing predatory about Tess Darent. When he had heard the stories of her, Tom had imagined she would be one of those fast widows who indulged each and every one of their appetites whether it was for gambling, men or every other vice. He had thought of her as an older, wilder, more ravenous version of Harriet Knight. Now he saw her—touched her—he realized that her appeal was the opposite. She was entrancingly, fatally innocent. Every last man she met would want to protect and cherish her, Tom thought. She was irresistible, from the dimples that dented her cheeks when she smiled to the way in which she looked on a man as though he were the only creature on earth. She was smiling at him now and dimpling at him as well, as though he were a god, the most fascinating man she had ever met. Tom, who had thought he was immune to feminine wiles, could feel himself slipping and sliding somewhere very hot and tempting indeed. The combination of Tess’s winning charm and lusciously rounded body made Tom feel that his collar—and other items of clothing—were simply too tight.
“And you are?” Tess prompted him, and Tom realized that he had been staring. Probably his mouth had been hanging open, too. He knew he was making an almighty hash of this and if he was not careful Tess Darent would remember him in future as no more than an inarticulate oaf she had found loitering in the library. He tried to pull himself together.
“How do you do, Lady Darent,” he said. “I am Tom Bradshaw.” Smooth he was not. He groaned inwardly. This was not going quite according to plan.
But Tess was still smiling. Her gaze traveled over him, assessing, thoughtful, in no way a fool.
“How may I help you?” she asked. A small frown puckered her brow. “You must forgive me, Mr. Bradshaw—” she hesitated “—but I am not accustomed to meeting with mysterious gentlemen.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” Tom said before he could stop himself.
Tess’s lips twitched. He saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Indeed?” she said. She put her head on one side, studying him. “So you are not a gentleman. Who then are you?”
This, Tom thought, was his cue to reveal his identity and that he had information on Merryn’s whereabouts that he was prepared to sell to her. Lady Darent would be horrified of course, shocked and distraught, but she would see the sense in agreeing to his terms in order to buy his silence. But he could feel himself struggling. Normally he had no qualms about introducing people to a few painful facts. But with Tess Darent it seemed wilfully cruel, like breaking a butterfly. He shrugged inwardly and squared his shoulders. He could do this.
“I have come about your sister, Lady Merryn,” he said. “I have information as to her whereabouts. And other information that you may wish to…buy…from me.”
He waited for the vapors, screams or swooning, but Tess Darent stood absolutely still. He was not even certain that she had understood him. He had heard gossip that she might in fact be a little short on intellect. Here was the proof, surely, in her blank expression. Then she spoke.
“How do you know Merryn, Mr. Bradshaw?” Her tone was impassive.
“She works for me,” Tom said. “So you see…” He paused, smiled winningly. “I know a lot about her. I could tell people…a lot about her.”
“I see,” Tess said. She moved slightly, resting her hands on the top of t
he library table as though she suddenly needed to draw strength and support. Well, Tom thought, his news would have come as a shock. No doubt she was appalled, frightened and uncertain what to do next.
“So,” Tess said, “let me understand you clearly, Mr. Bradshaw. Merryn works for you. You know her present whereabouts, and you wish to discuss exchanging that information for hard cash.”
She did not sound shocked. She did not even sound upset. Lady Darent, Tom thought admiringly, revising his opinion, was nowhere near as stupid as people said she was.
“That’s right,” he said. “You might wish to consider how much my silence is worth.”
“One bullet, I would think,” Tess Darent said briskly. She stepped back from the library table and Tom saw that she had a tiny pearl-handled pistol in her hand. She used it to gesture him to a chair.
“I don’t like blackmailers, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said very sweetly, “so I suggest you reconsider.” She paused, head on one side, the pistol rock-steady in her hand. “I wonder which part of your anatomy you value the most?” she pondered. “I think I can guess.” Her gaze fell to his crotch. She took aim.
“Wait!” Tom said. He burst out into a sweat.
Tess paused. “Speak, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said. She smiled at him. “I am listening.”
CHAPTER TEN
AT SOME POINT Merryn woke, feeling cold and stiff. One of her arms was numb where she had been lying on it and when she shifted it hurt so excruciatingly that she could not help but cry out. The darkness was absolute and the night was silent. She felt as though she had woken alone in hell, the beer fumes pressing down on her like a blanket, smothering the life out of her.
A second later, Garrick was beside her, crossing the space between them, reaching for her.
“Are you hurt?” His hands were already moving over her, checking for any injury. She willed herself to accept his touch as impersonally as he offered it but somewhere deep inside she was shaking in response.
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