SARAH woke to find herself still in Vane’s embrace, their heads on the same pillow, limbs entwined. He’d kept her up most of the night, wrung the last drop of pleasure from both their bodies, until they couldn’t move anymore.
If she were a different woman, if she were not barren, she might wonder if the beginnings of new life might grow in her womb at this very moment. She might dream of a boy with Vane’s stark male beauty or a girl with green eyes. Of a love so perfect and pure and strong that nothing, no mistake or loss or betrayal, could ever shake it.
Not for her. Not to be.
She pushed that thought aside, unwilling to mar the beauty of this moment, lying with him in sated contentment. Her limbs felt heavy, her throat parched, her insides raw. She gazed at his face and experienced such an overwhelming rush of tenderness, her eyes moistened. Could she bear to go on this way? The more she gave, the more he demanded, and the more he demanded, the more she wanted to give.
That was the Devil of it. She didn’t know how or when her emotions had become so inextricably linked with the cravings and pleasures of the flesh, but last night she’d had no more will to guard her heart than she’d possessed to deny him her body. This was a dangerous state of affairs.
He stirred and slowly opened his eyes. She blushed, then smiled faintly at the absurdity of her shyness. His eyes crinkled in response. Wordlessly, gently, he stroked her bare shoulder, watching his hand wander over her skin.
“No training this morning?” she murmured.
“Mmm, the best kind. Good morning, Lady Vane.” Inhaling deeply through his nose, he plunged a hand through her hair to hold her nape and closed in for a kiss. The kiss flared into something passionate and profound, and Sarah became afraid at what her kiss told him and what his seemed to be asking of her.
I love you, I love you, say you love me.
If she never had to speak the words, she might be safe, she thought dazedly, as he rolled with her, nuzzling and touching and sending her into a wild spin of delight. In this moment, she wanted to give him everything. More, she wanted to be all that he desired, all that he deserved.
She gasped when he entered her, pressing deeper and deeper until they were fully joined. Vane’s big body covered hers, a heavy weight, but so welcome, so utterly perfect. She wanted him to crush her until their flesh melded, so they’d never be apart. Her inner muscles clamped around him as he pulsed inside her, as if to hold him there. He moaned as she gripped him, his breathing hot and harsh in her ear. She never wanted this time to end.
Dangerous, these fulsome emotions, yet she couldn’t block them out. They warmed her and lit her within, like the morning sunshine that poured through the windows and glistened over Vane’s sweat-damped skin.
A low thrum of intense pleasure tightened every nerve ending in her body. Gathering himself, Vane broke the rhythm with one deep, decisive thrust, then her climax rushed over her in a thousand sparkling champagne bubbles of joy.
As he moved faster inside her, Sarah skated her hands—those naked, damaged hands—up his arms and over his powerful shoulders. Vane thrust and thrust, building rapture upon rapture until she thought she’d die of such extravagant bliss.
Whispering his name, she dug her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down to her. And she kissed him with all the passion inside her naked, damaged heart.
VANE stood at the window in his library and watched as a carriage drew up outside his house. He’d never passed so much idle time staring out windows as he had since this whole business began.
She’d been perfectly accommodating, his complicated wife. Her passion was real, he didn’t doubt it, but . . . He frowned, turning it over in his mind. Something was missing. Something vital. Intangible. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
It wasn’t even the words of love that had never been spoken between them. It was something else. Some part of her that she withheld from him, even at the height of passion. He wanted to reach inside her and touch that shadowy, mysterious place. Not just touch it. He wanted to explore, to discover, to know.
He smiled a little and shook his head. Two months ago, he would never have dreamed he’d have Sarah in his bed every night. He’d never imagined a passion so terrifying, so all-consuming. He had everything he’d never dared to hope for. He shouldn’t tempt Fate. He shouldn’t ask for more.
Outside, one of the footmen hurried out with an umbrella to shield the passenger of the carriage from the downpour, so Vane didn’t get a look at the man’s face.
In moments, the door opened and the visitor was announced.
Rockfort. Now, there was an interesting development.
Brinsley’s former crony was puffing with exertion, his schoolboy cheeks burning twin spots of pink. “Vane!” he said, lowering his bulk into a deep leather chair. “I’ve come on that matter of yours. Utmost importance.”
The documents. Thank God.
Vane forced himself not to pounce. “What matter was that?”
“Those papers you asked about.” Rockfort took out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow, matting damp brown curls to his forehead. “I’ve found ’em.”
“Have you, indeed?” Vane wondered in that case why Rockfort would admit as much. Surely, he’d wanted them for himself, presumably to carry on the blackmail where Brinsley had left off. “Do you have them with you?”
“No! No, no, no, that’s the thing! Y’see, it’s Hedge, Cole’s valet. He has the papers. Threatened me with blackmail. Me! Well, I don’t know where he thinks I’ll get the funds from. Scarcely plump in the pocket, am I?”
Vane had no idea. “Surely you don’t expect me to frank you.”
“Lord, no! Though if you could see your way clear—” At the lowering look on Vane’s face, Rockfort broke off with a cough. “Never mind that. Thought I’d come to you about it, since we have a common interest. Thought you might use some manner of persuasion to see we get these papers back.”
“I see.” And he did see. Rockfort still thought he could put those sensitive documents to use, but he wanted Vane to be his instrument in securing their return. He wondered what sort of dirty trick Rockfort had in mind to make sure he, and not Vane, gained possession of the rest of the material.
Well, Vane would certainly negotiate with the valet but not with Rockfort in tow. “Do you have Hedge’s direction?”
“I don’t know where he lives. He wants to meet tomorrow at Brown’s.”
“I see. We will both keep the appointment.” Meanwhile, Vane would pay the valet a visit. There had to have been an address where Sarah had sent Brinsley’s personal effects. He supposed the papers had been among them, though he’d searched thoroughly, as had a number of others. Perhaps Brinsley had entrusted the papers to his valet before he died? Possible, but it seemed unlikely.
“Do you know how the man came to have these precious documents?”
Rockfort shook his head. “But he knew enough about my, er, circumstances to convince me he’s telling the truth.”
So Rockfort looked for those papers on his own account. It seemed no one had been safe from Cole’s malice. “I thought Brinsley Cole was your friend.”
“So did I.” Rockfort snorted. “Live and learn, eh?”
Vane grunted, while his mind worked. “I’ll go with you to Brown’s tomorrow. By then I should have made inquiries about this Hedge.”
Vane barely waited for Rockfort’s carriage to pull away before he called for his own conveyance and questioned Rivers about where Sarah had sent Brinsley’s effects.
Armed with the direction, he set off for Hedge’s address.
The boardinghouse where Hedge lived was a respectable one with a curious, comfortable-looking landlady. Vane did his best to appear benign as he greeted the proprietor and inquired the way to his quarry.
Two flights up, he rapped a peremptory summons on the door. It opened, to reveal Hedge himself, dressed to go out. The irritated look on the valet’s face faded a little when Vane stepped over
the threshold toward him, forcing him to retreat.
Hedge took off his hat, but whether it was as a mark of deference or because he realized he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, Vane couldn’t tell.
Kicking the door shut behind him, Vane looked around. He ignored the short, indignant protest from his companion and passed beyond him, taking a seat in an easy chair by the grate.
The place was sparsely furnished and kept with almost military neatness. Vane glanced at Cole’s former valet. He was wiry enough, with a hard look behind his unremarkable features. Perhaps he’d been a soldier at one time.
Vane smiled, stripping off his gloves, but his smile was not calculated to set the fellow at ease. “I am fortunate to find you at home, Hedge,” he said. “Have you been unable to secure employment since your master’s death? Or could it be that you’ve found alternative means of securing income?”
Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Hedge betray knowledge or fear. “Not at all, sir. I came into a small legacy shortly after Mr. Cole died, which allows me to pick and choose where I go next. I haven’t found the right place yet.”
“Ah.”
Vane let the silence lengthen until the man shifted his stance a little. Then he said, “You must wonder why I am here. It concerns some papers you, ah . . . found? Yes, found is probably the right word. Papers that belonged to your late employer.”
“Papers?” The valet’s brow furrowed.
“Save your histrionic talents for someone who appreciates them, Hedge. I know you have them. I’ve just seen Mr. Rockfort. No doubt there are a dozen more unfortunates you’ve set dancing to your tune. I want the documents. All of them, please.”
Vane disliked using his rank to intimidate, but in this case it seemed expedient. “No doubt you know who I am. If that is so, then you know my reputation. I can ruin you, Hedge. In fact, I have so little tolerance for the kind of parasite that feeds off other people’s fear, I’m minded to haul you up to the nearest magistrate and damn the consequences.”
He paused, noting the flare of alarm that crossed the valet’s face. “But that would be irresponsible, wouldn’t it, with so many peoples’ reputations at stake? So I’ll give you a deal. Hand over the documents and no more will be said.”
In his soft, gravelly voice, the valet replied, “Don’t know what papers you mean, my lord. Was there one in particular you were looking for?”
Vane restrained himself from knocking the cur’s teeth down his throat. In fact, he was looking for one paper in particular—that damned bank draft—but he couldn’t afford to let Hedge know that. Still, if the valet had the paper in question, he’d know already, wouldn’t he?
A calculating gleam entered Hedge’s eye at Vane’s hesitation. He licked his lips. “You’ll understand, that if I do have such documents in my possession, I can’t just give them away. Worth thousands, they are, in the right hands.”
Rising, Vane spoke softly. “You play a dangerous game, my friend. No doubt your late unlamented master thought the same. And look what happened to him.”
Hedge’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”
“Oh, you’re just catching on, are you? Bit slow on the uptake for a blackmailer. Looking forward to a bullet through your chest?”
Finally, he’d managed to ruffle Hedge’s composure. He shook his head, edging to the door. “You are threatening me! You . . . you murdered Mr. Cole.”
“Don’t be more of a fool than you can help, man. If I had a motive to kill him—and I didn’t—do you think I’d have done it before I’d made him tell me where those papers are?”
The valet truly had the wind up now. Vane made a quick decision and reached inside his coat for his pocketbook. “Twenty pounds for the lot. If the document I’m looking for is there, I’ll give you fifty. That’s my final offer. Take it, or I’ll tear this room to shreds.” He smiled grimly. “And then I’ll start on you.”
Ten minutes later and twenty pounds lighter, Vane made his way down the stairs of the boardinghouse, cursing as he went.
ALONE in his library, Vane picked up the bundle of documents with a grimace of distaste. He needed to decide what was to be done with them.
In one bundle were some fairly innocuous missives from family and friends. Vane scanned these without interest and set the pile aside. The second collection of papers had his eyebrows climbing higher as one shocking revelation followed another. Some of the letters were written in veiled terms, no names mentioned. He was sufficiently acquainted with the circumstances to recognize the Earl of Straghan as the author of one of these. What he read made him blow out an unsteady breath.
He glanced again at the date. So that was how Brinsley had forced Sarah’s father into agreeing to their marriage. He saw it all now, the reason the earl hadn’t interfered, had perhaps even encouraged the match. The reason the countess hadn’t overridden him, though God knew, she must have wanted to.
Had the earl killed Brinsley? Vane frowned. It didn’t smell right. Lord Straghan might be accounted a ruthless schemer in matters of politics but he would never have committed so obvious and gruesome a murder, nor left his daughter to survive the aftermath as best she might. Surely not. But if given a choice between having his secret made public and Brinsley’s elimination, perhaps . . .
Vane tapped the letter against his fingertips, his gaze losing focus as he thought.
In his circle, one tended to know, or at least suspect, which gentlemen preferred their own kind. He accepted it was none of his business—he knew and held in high regard a number of gentlemen he suspected were of that persuasion. As long as there was no scandal, homosexual men might do as they pleased without repercussions or reprisal.
But if their sexual proclivities were to come out in the open, that was quite a different story. The cruelty, the sheer hypocrisy of those rules made Vane sick to his stomach, but they were frighteningly real. A man could be hanged for the crime of buggery. Even if the earl weren’t prosecuted, the scandal would ruin him and his family, too.
Vane shook his head. The earl must have been mad to put his sentiments toward this other man in writing. But who was ever sane when it came to love?
Brinsley had placed the earl in an impossible position. Vane felt a deep compassion for the man who had lived with the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head for over ten years. But he couldn’t forget that the earl had sacrificed his daughter to save himself. Straghan had refused to lie on his daughter’s behalf to support her alibi. A true show of moral fiber? Or had he feared being drawn into the murder investigation and what it might ultimately reveal?
Did Sarah suspect the truth? He was almost certain she did not. He was equally certain it was not his place to tell her.
Vane pocketed the letter, extracted the document that had concerned Rockfort so greatly—a letter about some swindle he’d planned which had never come to fruition and interested Vane not at all—refolded the letter, and sealed it. Then he ordered a footman to deliver it to Rockfort’s chambers with his compliments.
He’d solved one part of the mystery surrounding Brinsley Cole’s death.
But he still hadn’t found that bank draft.
SARAH walked in the park each morning, well before the fashionable hour. She went heavily veiled in case some early rising member of her acquaintance happened to be about.
Nannies were out in force, herding their broods along, helping small hands feed the ducks or fly kites, scolding for venturing too close to the water or playing in the mud.
As she sat on a bench to watch them, a bittersweet ache filled Sarah’s heart. The thought of finding Tom sustained her, but it tantalized her, too. She longed for a child with such ferocity that sometimes she didn’t know what to do with herself. It was an almost physical yearning, a crying emptiness inside. Did other childless women feel this way? She didn’t know.
A small girl in a cherry pelisse over a froth of petticoats tottered a few steps over the grass, holding out her arms to her nanny, gurgli
ng with delight. Sarah laughed, too, then stopped as both nanny and child turned to stare at her.
Flushing at her mawkish intrusion into that little scene, Sarah ducked her head and hurried away.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she turned toward home. Wasn’t she done with weeping over what couldn’t be fixed? Hadn’t she sobbed out her heartache years ago? But now, thinking of how much she wanted to give Vane a child, how much she wanted her own baby to love, her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. She bit her lip to stem the threatening flow of tears and quickened her pace.
Once she arrived home, she ripped her hat off and her gloves and fled blindly upstairs, through the sitting room and into the privacy of her bedchamber. Crumpling into an armchair by the window, she finally gave in to her grief.
A door clicked and her head jerked up. Vane emerged from his dressing room, the epitome of manly grace. Bewildered, she glanced about her and realized it was to his bedchamber she’d flown, not hers.
“Sarah? What is it?” He strode toward her, his hand outstretched.
She shot out of her chair, gulped and sniffed and dashed a hand across her eyes. “Oh, oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to come here.”
He said nothing, simply took her in his arms. At first, she stiffened slightly. She was an utter, sniveling mess! But he rubbed her back in gentle circles, as if he didn’t mind at all that she was incoherent, red-nosed, and ugly with crying. His warmth and solid strength was so comforting, she nearly started sobbing all over again.
Vane murmured reassurances to her in a soft, soothing tone and soon, the tension began to drain from her limbs. She sank into him, put her arms around his waist, and hugged his big body. The steady beat of his heart calmed her until the weight that had crushed her lungs seemed to lift.
“I shall ruin your beautiful coat.” She sniffed and drew back a little, smoothing the damp lapel with her fingertips.
“This old thing?” The deep rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest. “I never liked it anyway.”
Wicked Little Game Page 22
