“She could have paid someone else,” Nat pointed out. “Or it could be the work of Miss Lister and her brother together, perhaps.”
“No!” Miles almost shouted. He grabbed his coat, which was steaming gently by the fire, and shrugged it on. “I am going back to Spring House,” he said abruptly. “I will see you both later.”
There was a short silence after he had gone out. Then Dexter raised his brows at Nat Waterhouse and Nat smiled.
“I saw his face when he realized that Miss Lister was injured,” Nat said. “He’s in a devil of a mess.”
“He certainly is,” Dexter agreed, pouring more coffee.
CELIA VICKERY WAS TAKEN aback to recognize the gentleman who held open the door of the Fortune’s Folly Post Office for her with such exemplary courtesy.
“Mr. Gaines,” she said, “I did not expect to see you this morning. So few people venture out when it is snowing. Silly of them, of course, for what harm can a few flakes do, but even so…”
She was chattering. She was aware of it. She, who was known for a glacial froideur when confronting the opposite sex, she who could reduce young men to stammers and then pitiful silence, was stuttering herself. Remembering the ball the previous night and the way in which she had importuned Frank Gaines for four dances, she felt an uncharacteristic mortification wash over her. He must imagine that she had taken too much rum punch-or that she was so desperate to engage the interest of a man that she would throw herself at his head. And now for him to find her here! Had he arrived a minute sooner she would still have been in the process of dispatching her parcel and that would have been very hard to explain. Had he seen the address, he might guess…
“Lady Celia.” Gaines bowed. “May I escort you anywhere? The Pump Rooms, perhaps?”
“Gracious, no!” Celia exclaimed. “I am not so feeble as to require spa water to bolster my constitution.”
“I am sure you are not,” Frank Gaines said, falling into step beside her. She became aware once again of how very tall and powerfully built he was. His broad shoulders practically blocked out the light. “In that case,” he said, “I wonder whether I might beg a word with you, Lady Celia? In private?”
Celia looked at him. He looked directly back. Her heart missed a beat. The trouble with lawyers like Frank Gaines, she thought, was that they were very shrewd. Gaines would, she was sure, have been digging into Miles’s past to discover anything that might be to his discredit and might ruin the match with Alice Lister. It was his job, after all. But the danger was that in the process he would discover other secrets…
“Of course,” she murmured, “although I am not sure what you could possibly wish to say to me.”
“We shall leave that for a moment, if we may,” Frank Gaines said blandly. His bright, perceptive gaze seemed to see through her and see all the things she was hiding.
Oh dear, Celia thought helplessly. He knows.
“It is too inclement to sit outside today,” Gaines continued. “Would you be so good as to join me in a cup of tea at the spa?”
“Very well,” Celia said, bowing to the inevitable.
In very short order she found herself installed on a charming wrought-iron bench in the tiled tearooms. Gaines seated himself beside her and summoned a maid with no more than a slight inclination of his head. When the girl had taken their order he turned to Celia, a thoughtful look in his eyes. She was very aware of the way in which his hand rested along the back of the seat, almost, but not quite, touching her shoulder.
“You know, don’t you!” she burst out, wishing that she did not sound quite so gauche but somehow feeling that fifteen years of town bronze had deserted her in an instant.
“Yes,” Gaines said slowly. “I do.”
“I had to do it.” Celia met his eyes. “We need the money and Mama has no idea how to economize. Not really. Oh, she thinks she is frightfully good at saving a little here and there but there is never enough to meet the bills and so…” Her voice trailed away. “I know no one could possibly approve-”
“Approve?” Gaines said. There was a spark of laughter deep in his gray eyes. “I should rather think not, Lady Celia. You are a bishop’s daughter.”
Celia spread her hands appealingly. “But don’t you see that I had no choice? I had to think of something for which I had a talent-”
“And you came up with this?” There was unflattering surprise in Frank Gaines’s tone and it stiffened Celia’s spine.
“Yes,” she snapped. “I did. You may think it surprising, Mr. Gaines, but I assure you I am very good at it!”
“I do not doubt that.” Frank Gaines sounded unruffled. “My inquiries show me that you make a good income, but what puzzles me…” He paused, a slight frown on his brow as he looked at her. Celia’s heart was beating very fast. She did not quite understand why it was important to have this man’s respect, and yet it had been from the first. She had met so many men over the long years of the London Season. She was not a heiress, nor was she especially good-looking, and she had always had decided opinions, so she had never found a particular gentleman who was her match, and perversely it would have to be Frank Gaines who had engaged her regard. She sighed in exasperation. She and her brother Miles, both so determined not to love…They had more in common than Miles had ever realized.
“What puzzles you…” she prompted, as Frank Gaines seemed in no hurry to expand on his thoughts but merely sat pinning her in that observant gray gaze, like a butterfly spread wide beneath his inquiring eyes.
“Is where you get your ideas from,” Gaines said. “I have read some of your work, Lady Celia. Indeed, I went specially to purchase your books when I discovered your secret. They were very-” a smile curved his lips “-very engrossing indeed.”
“I have some experience,” Celia snapped, blushing, “and I have observation and imagination.”
“Indeed, you must have.”
The tea arrived. Neither of them seemed inclined to drink any of it. There was a silence between them. Celia fidgeted with her spoon and with her gloves and with the edge of her cloak. Eventually she looked up to see that Gaines was still watching her with that unfathomable look. He seemed to have moved infinitesimally closer to her along the bench. His hand was touching her shoulder now in the lightest and most casual of gestures.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she snapped, “I need to know if you are going to tell anyone!”
Gaines stretched a little. He looked like a lazy cat, all sleek muscle and with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“I see no reason why I should,” he said slowly. “After all, it is not relevant to the inquiries I am making on behalf of Miss Lister.”
Celia felt weak with relief. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“But,” Gaines continued, “I confess I would like something in return.”
Celia’s gaze snapped up to his and saw the amusement in his face. Her heart started to thud again, long slow beats that made her whole body quiver.
“Are you seeking to blackmail me?” she demanded.
“Of course not.” His voice was soothing. “Nothing could be further from my mind. I merely thought that I might…help you? Provide some inspiration, perhaps?”
Celia swallowed convulsively. “I do not believe I need to trouble you on that.”
His hand brushed her sleeve. Celia shivered. “It would be no trouble.”
Celia sat there, frozen, her tea cooling on the table in front of her. Could she do it? She was astonished to realize quite how tempted she was. To learn, to explore…She bit her lip. Frank Gaines said nothing to either persuade her or hurry her, but there was something in his bright gaze that captured her and made her heart race.
“Very well,” she whispered, feeling the excitement make her blood sing even as she marveled at her own audacity, “but where can we do it? No one must guess…”
He shifted a little. “Trust me. I know somewhere.” He rose to his feet and proffered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
> Celia stared at him. “Now?”
“Why not?” He smiled at her. “You did not want that tea, did you?”
“No, I…” Celia paused, light-headed at the speed at which everything had happened. “Very well,” she repeated. She took his arm. Her fingers shook slightly as they rested on his sleeve. He covered them with his hand in a gesture that half reassured, half disturbed her.
“You are nervous?”
“Of course.”
He laughed. “Surely you need not be. As you have said, you have some experience and I hope to add greatly to your store.” He raised her hand to his lips. “My very dear Lady Celia…Or perhaps I should call you Celia, since we are to become so much better acquainted?”
She did not correct him. They went out into the snow and soon the whirling flakes had covered their tracks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
M ILES WAS IN A THOROUGHLY bad mood by the time he returned to Spring House that evening. When he had called earlier in the day it was to be told that Alice was sleeping and so he had had several hours in which to cool his heels and mull over whether or not Nat and Dexter could possibly be right in their suggestion that Alice herself had procured a marksman to kill him. He knew that no one had a better motive. He knew that he should probably confront Alice about it. He knew he did not want to believe it. The thought pained him so much that he could hardly bear it and he did not understand why.
He knew he deserved it.
He had seen plenty of blackmailers come to an unpleasant end as a result of their crimes, and he had never had an ounce of sympathy for them.
He knocked impatiently on the door of Spring House just as dusk was falling. The snow clouds had gone and the night was crisp and cold, with a sickle moon rising in the deep blue of the evening sky. When Marigold answered the door he hurried inside.
“Is Miss Lister awake?” he demanded.
The maid bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Miss Lister is not in the house, my lord. She said that she needed fresh air and would take a turn in the gardens-”
“What?” Miles had been in the act of divesting himself of his coat but now he froze. Surely Alice could not have been foolish enough to go out alone?
Or confident enough that she was safe, a voice whispered in his mind, because she knew she was not the murderer’s target…
Swearing, Miles dragged his coat on again, ran out the door and down the front steps two at a time. In the gardens, Marigold had said. And darkness was falling, which would provide perfect cover for an assassin…
The old walled garden was empty. So was the parterre, its neat box hedges swathed in a blanket of pristine snow. A blackbird sped from his path with a startled squawk. He scanned the lawns but they were empty, too, turning misty in the twilight. And then he saw a figure walking under the gnarled branches of the orchard and let his breath out on a sigh that was half relief, half fury. He ran.
“What the hell are you doing out here on your own?”
Alice turned toward him and Miles felt fierce emotion slam through his gut. He looked at her. Her face was white and set, the rich gold of her hair seeming to accentuate her pallor. Everything that she had been through that day had evidently exhausted her, for her blue eyes looked so tired and strained that he had a sudden, violent urge to wrap her up and hold her close to give her a comfort that was for once entirely unselfish and not remotely sexual.
The feeling floored him. He knew he was losing his detachment and he had no idea how it could have happened. Earlier on, when he had been trying to rationalize why he had felt so disturbed when Alice was shot, he had told himself that he would dread losing her simply because she was the only one who stood between him and the debtor’s prison. If something happened to Alice he could hardly wed her mother instead. Not even he would stoop to courting Mrs. Lister in order to marry a fortune. He had some standards. So it was, literally, a matter of survival-his survival-that he should protect Alice, guard her and keep her safe.
Yet such glib excuses hardly explained the depth of his feelings. Suddenly it was no longer all about him and what Alice could give to him but seemed to be about her instead. He wanted to comfort and reassure her, care for her and cherish her. And suddenly he knew with a deep conviction that Alice would never seek to hurt him. Dexter’s and Nat’s suggestions were completely wrong. He had no evidence to support the belief, other than his feelings, but his faith in her was absolute.
It shook him to the core.
It was inexplicable. It was alarming.
It was wrong.
He simply could not feel like this. His emotional reaction could only be a rather odd manifestation of his frustration at being denied Alice’s bed. Everything came down to physical lust in the end. It had to. And he had to find a way to regain control.
“I had a headache,” Alice said. “I needed some fresh air.” She smiled at him. She even looked pleased to see him, which only served to irritate Miles more when he was so angry with her for putting herself at risk.
“So you thought to come out here alone when there is a madman running around with a rifle,” Miles said cuttingly. “What an astoundingly bad idea, Miss Lister!”
Alice paused, one hand resting against the trunk of one of the apple trees. A small frown dented her brow. “You are angry with me,” she said.
Miles tried to get a grip on his feelings. “I am trying to protect you,” he said, “and you are making it difficult for me.” He took her arm in a tight grip. “I am taking you back inside.”
Alice’s face set in stubborn lines. “I came out here because I wished for some solitude.”
“And now you are going back.”
Alice gave a sharp sigh. “You are overbearing.” She shot him a look of irritation. “Mama tells me that you wish to stay here at Spring House in order to protect me. I cannot allow it. It is quite unnecessary.”
“To the contrary,” Miles said. “It is absolutely necessary and you do not have any choice, Miss Lister.”
Alice shook her head. “Always you push for more, do you not, Lord Vickery?” she said. She sounded bitter. “And always I am compelled to agree.”
“It is the nature of the game between us,” Miles said, unsmiling.
“It isn’t a game!” Alice snapped. “And this whole thing is so foolish! I have been thinking, and there is no one who could possibly want to kill me! The only people who would benefit from my death would be Mama and Lowell, and neither of them-” She stopped abruptly, seeing the look on Miles’s face. He knew she had read it, that she understood it. Her face went blank with shock. “You think that Lowell might want to harm me,” she whispered. “You do, don’t you?”
Miles sighed. “Not necessarily,” he said, “but we must consider all possibilities, Miss Lister.”
“No,” Alice said. “No!” She stopped walking and snapped a twig from one of the trees, breaking it agitatedly between her fingers. “You have seen how protective he is of me,” she said. “Mama and Lizzie said he was distraught when he first heard the news.” She made a little gesture of desperation. “Surely you cannot believe that he would hurt me? My own brother?”
Miles said nothing. He understood how difficult it was for people to accept sometimes that those they loved could hurt them. And he did not really suspect Lowell Lister of wishing Alice dead. Lowell might want him dead, which was an entirely reasonable desire, he thought wryly, but he doubted Lowell would hurt Alice.
“There is another possibility,” he said. “We also need to consider that it might have been Tom Fortune.”
“Tom?” Alice said. She looked taken aback. “But why would he hurt me?”
“I don’t know,” Miles said. “Perhaps Miss Cole told you something significant that he was afraid you might pass on to me?”
They had reached the garden door now and Miles stood back to allow Alice to precede him into the house. She walked slowly down the corridor into the hall, drawing off her gloves as she went. Her head was bent and he could not see her expre
ssion.
“I can think of nothing else that Lydia said to me,” she said, after a moment. Miles helped her off with her coat, allowing his hands to linger on her shoulders as he turned her around.
“You are sure?” he pressed, and saw the pink color stain her cheekbones. “You look very guilty,” he added smoothly. “What secrets are you keeping from me?”
Alice blushed all the hotter. It made Miles want to touch her, to see if her skin felt as warm and silken as it looked.
“Nothing!” she said. “It is nothing to do with this matter-”
“Tell me,” Miles said.
She shot him a look from under her lashes. “It is none of your business.”
“I am your affianced husband,” Miles said. “It is all my business.” He took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his gaze. “Tell me,” he said again.
Alice looked cross. “Oh, very well. I suppose that if you were to fulfill Lady Membury’s conditions and we actually do marry then you will surely find out the truth anyway-”
“Are you trying to tell me that you are not a virgin, Miss Lister?” Miles said. He thought of the open and artless way in which she had responded to his lovemaking. Had he been mistaken in thinking her innocent? And if she were not did he have any grounds whatsoever for objecting? He had scarcely behaved like a saint. With his reputation he would seem an utter hypocrite were he to cut up rough about his wife’s lack of virtue. Except, of course, that society had the most appalling double standards on the subject, and he might be unconventional but he was not sure that he was unconventional enough to deal with it…
“Lord Vickery!” Alice’s pale face was totally suffused with color now. “What is that to the purpose?” she inquired, sounding like an outraged archduchess. “Would it matter to you if I were not?”
“No,” Miles said, still trying desperately to dispel the vision of Alice rolling in a haystack with some well-set-up young farmhand. Then he realized he was lying. “Yes, it would,” he said.
The Scandals Of An Innocent Page 18
