“Just a little joke, Missy.” He nudged her shoulder. “As you darn well know.”
“Cousin Minerva’s ship should be arriving any day now and she’s counting on this position.” He was right, though. What was she going to do if Minerva’s ship arrived tomorrow?
“You’ve a soft heart, Missy, that’s what you’ve got. It’s gonna get ye in trouble one of these days,” he cautioned. “’Sides, she sure is taking her time about getting here.”
“Not that it can possibly be her fault. She’s not the one at the helm.” Exasperated, she added, “You don’t need to worry. That man is in no condition to ravish any one.”
“Humph!”
“Speaking of which, I had better go prepare something for him to eat later. The sooner he is better, the sooner he can leave.”
“We need a cook almost more than a companion!” he complained, before shuffling off to the kitchen.
Following along behind him, she shook her head affectionately. He always had to have the last word.
* * *
Reed was exhausted by the doctor’s visit, he watched his wife lean down to tuck in the covers around him.
“A thousand pardons, madam, but I can’t seem to remember your name?” How lowering to have to ask his own wife her name.
She looked about to refuse to answer, then, thought better of it. “Talia.”
Talia. A little unusual. Italian. Ah… he remembered! He paused, hoping more thoughts would present themselves to his injured brain. But nothing came. He repeated her name in his mind.
Again, no bells of recognition chimed. It awakened no memories, good or bad. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. At least, she didn’t seem too upset at his not knowing it.
“Are we in London for the Season?”
She paused uncertainly. “As to that, sir, I regret I cannot tell you.”
Stunned, he exclaimed, “Why the devil not?”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Graham cautioned me not to provide you with information about yourself.”
“But surely it will help me start remembering who I am.” He sounded like a grouchy child pleading with his mother for a treat, but he needed someone to tell him more about who he was!
“You heard him. Without realizing it, you might substitute my memories for yours and never recover your own.” She straightened the covers again, though they’d seemed fine to him.
“What if I never remember anything?”
“I’m afraid I have no good answer to that.” She spread her hands palm up indicating she didn’t know what else to say, but he read sympathy in her eyes. She backed up, darting him a quick look that told him she was afraid he might reach for her… which had, in fact, occurred to him.
He sighed with frustration. She knew her man, he thought wryly.
“Luckily, at the moment, you have no fever.”
Fever? Why would a bump on the head give him a fever?
She walked toward the door. “Perhaps you’d like something to eat?”
He shook his head. His stomach already felt queasy enough, without adding food to the mix.
“You truly recall nothing?” She blurted out the question. No doubt she was having trouble believing it. He sympathized, because he himself was having a hard enough time believing it and he was the one with the blank slate.
“Literally nothing.” He closed his eyes. This losing one’s mind was a wearying business. His eyes felt heavy and he wanted nothing more than to turn over and–
“You should get some sleep.”
His eyes snapped open. She was leaving him!
She didn’t look at him, “Perhaps, by the time you awake, your memory will have returned.” The door closed quietly behind her.
He had the strangest sense she was not wishing for that nearly as much as he was.
* * *
“Looks inhabited.” Jace Mallory clipped in a quiet voice. He glanced at the nursemaid and two children making their way along the sidewalk on the other side of the peaceful, house-lined street. The little boy was trying to run ahead and the woman was holding his hand tighter than he wanted, trying to force him to keep pace with them.
“Quiet, though.” Max Blythe was peering at the townhouse that was their target, being a little more obvious than he should. Jace’s warning elbow in the side had Max grinning but he quickly turned his head forward. His dandyish appearance might give the illusion he was nothing but a dandy, but Jace knew there were few men he’d trust more to stand beside him in battle.
Max’s carefully groomed exterior and insouciant air hid a well-trained soldier who was lethal with a knife. Beware the man who mistook him for easy prey.
“Problem is we don’t know if he’s in there. That has to be our first priority.” Jace was uneasy. It was unlike Reed to give no sign of life. Particularly when they were on the threshold of culminating the most important, not to say the most dangerous and final piece of a long and difficult investigation they’d been working on for almost two years now.
Reed should have arrived back from Egypt well before this. Then, the night before last, when some of the Spares met up at Sylvester’s — their usual tippling spot — Kit pulled Jace aside and told him about the role several of the Brotherhood had played in getting Reed safely to London. Kit had been dismayed to hear that Jace and Max hadn’t heard from Reed yet. Said he had been in such a rush to get those documents back, it was damn odd they’d had no word from him.
And now, another day had passed and still no news of him.
“Since we dare not knock on either front or back doors, lest we be seen by the Vanisher or his Horde, what do we plan to do?” Max asked. He cast another furtive look at Reed’s house. “Seems odd that we haven’t seen a single servant about the place.”
“We’ll have to watch the house and bide our time to see how best to approach this.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Max said. “But there’s no cover on this street.”
Jace glanced around. “Let’s hope we can find a room or house to lease with a view of his home. Until then, we can station ourselves near that large tree over there.” He nodded in the direction of a huge plane tree surrounded by a clump of shrubs, diagonally across and down the street, just inside the entrance to the park.
“Not the best street for us to go undetected, is it?” Max scrutinized the area.
Jace agreed. Inwardly, he cursed Reed’s choice of neighborhood. This was a quiet, back street. Quieter still because the Season hadn’t begun yet, and they were going to stick out like sore thumbs, if he was unable to find a place to rent. There was little activity on this street. Probably why Reed had chosen it. Perfect place for him to paint in London.
“Right. But what we want is for Reed to know we’re here. It’s the Vanisher and gang we’re hoping won’t find us or him. The good thing is that, if they do, they will be just as noticeable.” Jace looked around for signs of any one watching them. “I’ll begin looking for a house to rent.” He looked toward the end of the street where a wooden cart hawking hot gingerbread was located near the entrance to the park. The area was so tranquil, the vendor was napping on his little wooden stool, not even watching for potential customers. “At least we’ll be able to find something to eat.”
“Want me to take the first watch?” Max’s offer held a trace of reluctance and Jace recalled Max had arranged an assignation with a widow he was hoping to convince to become his mistress. They’d been in Egypt much longer than expected and his previous one had given up on him and found a new patron.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll take first watch.” He increased his pace now that they had a plan. “If you hang around for another hour, I’ll just go home and pick up a few things.”
“Going to bring along the Bear?” Max asked in amusement.
Jace raised a sardonic eyebrow. So he was attached to the big mongrel. Why Max should find it so funny, Jace didn’t know. Probably because he didn’t seem the kind of man who’d be devoted to his pet. “No. Too conspicuous.
”
Max burst out laughing. “Can’t imagine why you’d think that!”
Jace grinned back. “But I have to make sure he’s taken care of while I’m here. Also, I want to bring something to eat and drink.”
“You think we’re going to be here awhile?”
Jace continued walking past Reed’s house, his hands in his pockets, looking like he was merely out for a stroll. “We’ll give him a day or two, but if he hasn’t delivered those documents by then, we have to find a way to get into that house. We can’t just sit around waiting for the Vanisher to find him first!”
* * *
Was he ever going to wake up again? Standing in front of her easel in the studio, Tally dipped her brush into the paint on her palette and placed a dot of cerulean at the inner corner of the eye. What if she had given him too much laudanum and killed him?
She hated to pester Foster to verify that their uninvited guest was still breathing, but it didn’t seem normal that he’d sleep so soundly all day long. And she didn’t dare go see him again. She’d already been several times and Foster was not pleased about it. He was certain the man had been breaking in to kill her and didn’t want her giving him a second chance!
Not content with shooting the man, she might now have finished him off with the laudanum!
On the other hand, if he awoke and had his memory back, he should be thankful she hadn’t let Foster throw him in the coal cellar or out in the street.
What was she going to do if he never recovered his memory? She hadn’t a clue how to go about finding out who he was. Surely, when he didn’t come home, someone would be looking for him?
Hearing St. Marylebone’s bells chiming for evensong, she put down her brush. Her hands ached from holding her palette and brush for too long. Her light was fading and she was having trouble concentrating on her painting. She moved to her work table and spent some time cleaning her brushes and then draped a cover over the canvas and made her way downstairs.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much since breakfast. Her cramped hands were the price she was paying for spending the entire day up in the studio. She knew it wasn’t smart, but once started, she became so engrossed she couldn’t stop until she had more than just an outline. And it had been the only way to distract herself from fretting over their uninvited guest!
“It’s about time. You’ve had nothing to eat all day.”
She gave a startled cry and almost missed a stair. “Do you think frightening me to death is going to resolve our problems?”
“Hmmm… never thought of that,” Foster mused in his mordant fashion. “Mebbe I’ll save that for another time.”
“Oh you…” She rubbed her sore hands as they walked toward the kitchen. “Something smells good.”
“Even a rotten turnip would smell good when yer stomach is as empty as yours must be.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, then went to see what was in the pot on the stove. “Ugh!” She grimaced at him and he shrugged his shoulders. She was heartily sick of broth. Bread, broth and cheese. These were their main staples since arriving in London, a fortnight ago.
Nevertheless, she ate them without dwelling too much on what she was eating. Her childhood had prepared her for this. “Anything new?” she said.
“If you’re asking if our captive has awakened again, the answer is no.”
“I think we should try to wake him.” She finished her bread. “Surely he has slept long enough?” She swallowed. “What if…?”
“Ye didn’t give him too much. He’s just sleeping to fix his brain, like the doctor said.”
Foster always seemed to know what was worrying her.
“That was one hell of a knock he got on his head,” he added, “But if it will make you feel any better, I’ll go up and see if I can rouse him. Then, mebbe a bit of broth might do the man some good.”
* * *
Tally pushed the half-opened door with her shoulder and held the tray of broth, bread and tea in her hands. She had her head down and eyes on the soup to ensure no spills. Just as well, or she might have dropped the tray at the sight of the empty bed. By the time she noticed, she again had both hands on the tray.
Her head spun around the room looking for the intruder. Although she didn’t want to treat the man like a prisoner, the way that Foster did, she wasn’t about to lose sight of the fact that he’d entered their home unannounced and uninvited.
Once again, she looked behind the door. There he was. He must lead a dangerous life to think of hiding behind the door whenever he heard a sound.
Of course, he led a perilous existence! If climbing through a window into someone else’s home wasn’t precarious, she didn’t know what was.
“What are you doing there? You shouldn’t be out of bed yet,” she scolded. “But if you do get up, at least, sit in the armchair.” No need to make him think of her as his nanny by insisting he remain in bed. “I’ve brought you some chicken broth to build up your strength. You must be hungry.”
“Hmm… I didn’t think I was, but the smell is making my stomach growl.”
Her heart skipped a few beats. He looked rumpled and drowsy, yet no less of a threat to her senses. How did he do that? She was certain she looked a veritable frump when she awoke.
“Good. Shall I set it up here on this little table or would you like to have it in bed?” As she asked, she put the tray down on a side table and shook her hands to get the circulation running.
“I’d like to say at the table, but the truth is I’m feeling a little dizzy and was holding onto the wall to stay upright.”
“Here, let me help you.” She went to him. He slung his arm over her shoulders and she put her arm around his waist, leaning in to lend him some support. He was a lot taller than she was, so it was a bit awkward. They limped across the room to the bed, where she expected him to sit once she moved away. Instead, he turned her to face him. “Hello, wife.” He leaned down as if it were the most natural thing in the world and planted a kiss on her lips.
Shocked, she stood motionless, not even thinking of backing up. His lips were soft and gentle on hers. She’d always wondered what being kissed would feel like. Now she knew.
Liked it!
Felt like saying, ‘More. Please.’
She recalled her sisters discussing the merits of one man’s kiss over another’s. What had they said? One gentleman’s kiss was too tight-lipped. Another’s too sloppy.
Reed’s kiss hadn’t been either. The warm, soft texture of his lips was pleasing. Very pleasing.
Were most men’s kisses very pleasing? Did one have to sample to know?
Deciding to get value for her shock, she lifted her hand to curve around his neck and drew him closer. This time she initiated the kiss. But she didn’t have to do more than place her lips against his, before he wrapped his arms around her and gave himself up to kissing her in earnest.
Help! She was getting a little more than she had bargained for. Don’t be alarmed, she told herself. He’s ill, so he can’t really overpower you if you push him hard or call for Foster.
Then they’d hang Foster for shooting a man!
She eased back and pressed lightly against his chest. Hmmm… she longed to smooth her hands across that wide expanse. His chest was far better than those of any of the foppish models her sculptor brothers paid to sit for them.
She leaned in a little closer. He slid his lips away from hers and followed a sensitive chord down the side of her neck before stopping. He set his forehead against hers and his multi-hued eyes gazed into hers. He crossed his to indicate he was dazzled by their kiss.
She surprised herself by laughing aloud. She didn’t often do that. Not often enough. It felt good and she found she quite liked a man who was able to laugh at himself.
“Come on.” She pushed him gently to sit down on the bed. He looked worn out. “I’ll feed you. You look ready to fall asleep.”
“Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why am I
so sleepy?”
She sat down on the bed beside him and fed him a few spoonfuls. She coaxed him to eat a small chunk of bread. He was struggling to stay awake. Finally, he just let himself drop backwards onto the mattress. She put the bowl and spoon down and stood to lift the covers over him.
“My mind doesn’t remember you, Brown Eyes,” he murmured, half-asleep, “but my heart pounds every time you’re near.” He slanted a lazy half-smile. “Clearly, it recognizes its mate.”
Her heart was doing a fair bit of thumping of its own as she shut the door to his room and walked slowly to the stairs. What was his heart going to do when it discovered that not only were they not mates, they’d never even met before! And, worse, she was the one who had shot him!
* * *
The man standing upstairs in Antoine Moreau’s studio was startled by the loud knock at the front door. His nerves jangled.
Who could that be? Antoine! Non, impossible! Don’t be ridiculous! Of course it can’t be! He moved quietly to the window. Guilt did strange things to a man. Even had him jumping to impossible conclusions.
He was thankful that, earlier, he’d opened the shutter and window a crack to let out the stale air, redolent with the strong odor of oil paints and turpentine. Now, he was able to peer down and see the very young servant boy who knocked a second and third time before running back to the awaiting hackney.
He tried to catch a glimpse of who was talking to the boy, but the carriage curtains were too well drawn. Then he heard a distinctly female voice complain, “Why didn’t he leave a note telling us when he was going to return?”
Who was this woman and what did she want with Antoine? She must be the one he’d been told was coming by, almost daily, looking for the painter. He’d risked coming here today to see who was being such a persistent fly in the ointment but she wasn’t showing herself.
He heard resignation in her voice. “Another wasted trip. Come on then, Joseph, we’ll try again another day.” He watched the young boy hop, with great agility, onto the back of the carriage and then the hackney moved off.
“La maudite!” he cursed her aloud. He’d hoped keeping the studio closed would discourage any one from paying a call. Damn her insistence! What was so urgent? He’d even given his men orders to scare her off. If they’d done their jobs properly, she should have been too frightened to come back here.
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 5
