by Candace Camp
“Ah.” James nodded, his eyes glinting silver in the lamplight. “Now I understand.”
“I am glad to hear it. I wish I did.”
“The only reason you don’t understand is because you don’t want to. You’re not reluctant because you don’t want her. You’re afraid you will like it too much.”
Graeme narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be a fool.”
“I’m not the fool here. Grow up, Graeme. Stop mooning about like some adolescent Romeo. You aren’t married to Laura; you’re married to Abigail. Living with the woman you love is not one of your choices. If you intend to have an heir, it must be with your wife. What do you plan to do? Make the sacrifices you have made, put in the effort it took to bring your estate back into prosperity, all to leave it to Randall bloody Parr or some other man’s child? Spend the remainder of your days in short, meaningless affairs with women for whom you care nothing?”
“That’s what you do,” Graeme shot back.
James let out a dry bark of laughter. “And is that what you want?” He settled back in his chair, with a long, level look at Graeme. “Do you really want to become me?”
chapter 9
Two days passed without any word from Graeme, and Abby was beginning to think she had gambled everything and lost. At first her spirits had been buoyed by Graeme’s kisses. She had never felt anything like the sensations that poured through her at his kiss, his touch. It was enough to make her blush even to think about it. Surely his reaction meant that he desired her, too, however little he might like her.
After all, she didn’t require affection from him; she had done perfectly well for years without it. Her goal was to have a baby, not a love affair. What she needed was Graeme’s cooperation—and to that end, whatever lust she aroused in him was her ally.
But as the hours, then days, went by, doubt pushed its way in. Perhaps his passion had been nothing but anger. It seemed strange that fury alone could make a man grab her and kiss her so hungrily, but she was inexperienced in that regard. What few kisses she had received had been stolen in haste by some opportunist who hoped to lure her into adultery. None of them had tempted her in the slightest. She was, Abby suspected, the only married woman who was as untutored as a maiden.
She would see him again. But what if he merely looked at her coldly—or, even worse, with disgust? He already thought her wicked. Perhaps her fervent response to his kisses had lowered his opinion of her even more.
Abigail found it difficult to enjoy the ballet tonight. She left early, pleading a headache, and returned to her hotel. She walked from the lift down the corridor to her room, so lost in thought that she did not even glance down the dark intersecting hall as she walked past it.
A hand lashed out and grabbed her arm, jerking her into the shadows of the side corridor. His arm went around her waist, pulling her back against him, and he clamped his other hand over her mouth.
“Don’t scream. I’m not here to hurt you.” Abby kicked out behind her, connecting with his shin. “Ow! Stop it! I just want to talk to you. Why didn’t you come alone like I told you?”
It was the man who had sent her the letters. Abigail went still.
“If I take my hand away, you mustn’t scream.” He sounded shaky, she thought, as if he, too, was frightened. “I just want to talk,” he repeated. “Understand?”
She nodded emphatically, and he moved his hand so that it still hovered in front of her mouth, ready to stop any attempt to cry out.
“I didn’t know he was there,” Abby told him in a low voice, matching his tone. “He followed me.”
“Montclair?”
“Yes. I came alone as you asked. He tricked me. Please, tell me what you wanted to then.”
“It’ll cost you.”
She nodded, feeling on firmer ground now. “I presumed so. How much do you want?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“Five hundred! Are you mad? That is a great deal of money.”
“What I know is worth a great deal,” he responded. “And this time make sure Montclair isn’t with you. You don’t want him to hear this.”
“Why not? Really, you cannot expect me to simply hand over that much money without any idea what I’m paying for.”
“Don’t you think it’s worth it to find out about his father’s embezzling money? And Thurston Price’s involvement in it?”
Abigail froze. “What? What are you talking about?”
“No, that’s all you’ll get until you pay me. Bring the money tomorrow night to the Crimson Pirate.”
“The Crimson Pirate?”
“It’s a tavern. Any hack will know where it is. I’ll meet you outside it. Same time—nine o’clock.”
“No. Wait. That’s impossible.”
“You better make it possible.”
“I can’t. I haven’t that large a sum of money simply lying about my room. I have to make arrangements at the bank. It will take a couple of days, and they will be closed Sunday, of course. I cannot possibly have it before Monday evening.” In fact, Abby was certain she would be able to withdraw the sum the next morning, but she had to take control of this issue. She could not let him dictate all the terms. It was always better to give oneself time to think, and besides, she wasn’t about to change her plans for tomorrow night.
He hesitated before giving in. “Very well, Monday night, then. The Crimson Pirate. Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You better.” He released her, pushing her at the same time so that she stumbled forward and had to catch herself against the wall.
Abigail whipped around, but he was already almost to the end of the corridor. All she could see was the back of a medium-size man in a hat, and then he was gone down the stairs at the end. She stood there, one hand against the wall, struggling to bring her whirling thoughts back into order.
Graeme’s father? Embezzling money? The idea was mind-boggling. She had met the man only a few times and in the most formal of circumstances, but he had seemed like an older version of Graeme—handsome, polite, and honorable. Still, she supposed that desperation over losing his family fortune could have driven him to commit a crime.
It was, sadly, far easier to believe that her own father had been involved. She had never heard of Thurston Price doing anything that was outright illegal, but his legal activities often skirted the edges of the law—and definitely went over that line morally. He would be careful to keep himself out of trouble, but he would be unlikely to show the same concern for Graeme’s father.
Frowning, Abby continued to her room and unlocked the door, her fingers shaky on the key. Did Graeme know about his father’s embezzlement? She doubted it. She imagined his father would have gone to great efforts to hide the secret from his loved ones.
She planned to do the same. Graeme was so proud, so concerned about his family’s name, so dutiful and honorable that she feared it would devastate him to learn that his father had stolen money. And, selfishly, she couldn’t bear for him to discover that her father had had anything to do with it. Graeme already despised Thurston and was apt to tar her with the same brush. It made her quail to think how Graeme would feel about her if he found out her father had led Lord Reginald to do something dishonorable.
Abigail began to pace. David Prescott might know the truth; he had worked for her father at the time. She wished she could ask him about the matter, but she couldn’t take that risk. It was likely David was unaware of the embezzlement—her father was not a man to share his plans—which meant she would only reveal Reginald’s misdeeds to David. The two men already disliked each other. David was the last person Graeme would want privy to a scandalous family secret.
Abby thought back to her encounter. She had been too frightened at the time to pay attention, but looking back on it now, she realized that she had learned some details about the man. For one thing, he was not any taller than she was. His voice had been right behind her ear. The glimpse she had had of him as he ran away h
ad confirmed that he was not large.
He had not spoken in the rounded, crystal-clear tones of the upper crust, but his speech had indicated an educated man. He had worn a suit and hat much like Graeme or David or other gentlemen wore, marking him as one who if he worked did so with his wits, not his hands.
A clerk or lawyer or teacher or journalist. He could be an enterprising reporter who had somehow dug up the facts. Or a clerk who worked in the business from which the money had been embezzled. An attorney who dealt with that business or with Reginald . . . although it seemed a little absurd to think of one of those dignified fellows in a robe and wig going about blackmailing people.
Unfortunately, the information she had managed to glean didn’t really help her. Even if she could figure out the man’s identity, it wouldn’t stop him from telling everyone what Graeme’s father—and hers—had done. She could not allow that to happen.
Obviously he wanted money in payment for not revealing the damning information. She could provide that. It likely would be only the first of many more demands. But she would find some way to deal with that later. Tomorrow she would be visiting the bank.
Graeme offered his arm politely to his grandmother and started up the wide stone steps to the theater. He was certain the evening would prove to be a tremendous bore. He was not in the mood for a farce. His life already provided enough of that.
He wondered if Abigail would be here this evening. It would be annoying and distracting, making it even harder to keep his mind on the play. He glanced around the lobby. It was filled with the usual crowd, women in glittering jewels and elegant gowns, men in starkly formal black-and-white. Everyone came to the theater more to be seen than to watch the performance.
There was no sign of Abigail. Which was, of course, a relief. It should be a relief.
He glanced up the stairs, and his breath caught in his throat. Abigail stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching the lobby below. Topazes gleamed at her throat and ears. She wore a golden-brown dress, and a gold wrap of the sheerest material lay across her bare arms, shimmering on the skin beneath. The skirt was made from some crinkly material that twisted cunningly to the side and was caught by the bustle, so that she looked as if she were encased in meringue.
Graeme started toward the stairs, only belatedly remembering that his grandmother was with him. Fortunately, she made no objection. Abigail watched them ascend, her mouth curved up in a smile. Graeme’s pulse hammered in his ears.
“Montclair. Lady Montclair,” Abigail greeted them.
His grandmother nodded regally. “I’m so glad you were able to join us.”
“What?” Graeme, in the midst of making his bow, was brought up short. He glanced toward his grandmother, then back at Abigail.
“It was so kind of you to invite me,” Abigail replied to his grandmother. She turned her expressive green eyes to Graeme. “I hope you do not mind.”
“Mind? No, of course not.” His stomach felt as if he’d just taken a step off a cliff. Two hours or more of being enclosed with Abigail in a tiny theater box, watching her, breathing in her bewitching perfume, only inches from touching her. “My pleasure.” That, at least, was not a lie. He did not add that it would be a nerve-racking pleasure.
He escorted the two ladies to the box and was irritated to find that several gentlemen of his acquaintance intercepted them, obviously angling for an introduction. He introduced them each time somewhat tersely. “You know the dowager countess, of course. And Lady Montclair, my wife.”
“Goodness,” Abigail commented as the fourth such man walked away. “You seem to know everyone here.”
“A great many more than I care to.”
She cast a laughing glance up at him, and he had the uneasy feeling she suspected exactly why he was disgruntled.
“Arthur Dexter is scarcely anyone with whom you’d want to advance an acquaintance,” his grandmother told Abigail firmly. “Jumped-up little mushroom. His grandfather was in trade.”
“Shocking,” Abigail agreed with such a twinkle in her eye that Graeme had to hide a smile.
The countess sent her a sharp look. “In general his mother’s line is respectable, but there was always something a bit off about her uncle.”
“Scarcely Arthur’s fault, surely,” Graeme put in.
Lady Eugenia shrugged. “I suppose not, though I must say it gives him little reason to put on such airs.”
“Perhaps he is proud of what he has accomplished rather than his family,” Abigail offered.
“What a very American thing to say.”
Graeme suppressed a groan. It was shaping up to be a long evening. In addition to his own turmoil, he would have to intercede between the two women. What had possessed his grandmother to invite Abigail? He cast about for something to stave off a battle between his companions, but to his surprise Abigail merely laughed.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” she agreed. “It’s difficult for some people to transcend their upbringing.”
“Precisely.” His grandmother nodded. Graeme wasn’t sure whether she had caught the subtle message in Abigail’s words. He suspected not; Lady Eugenia did not deal in subtleties.
He glanced over at Abigail. She returned his gaze with a wide-eyed blandness that convinced him she had intended the little dig at his grandmother’s prejudices. Again he found himself wanting to smile.
Why did it have to be so bloody easy to like this woman? He knew she was manipulating him, trying to bend him to her will. Just as her father had. She interspersed her threats with charm and allure, but the result was the same. She meant to control him. However reasonable James had made the matter sound last night, Graeme knew that the seemingly easy path Abigail offered was a quagmire.
He had intended to seat his grandmother between him and Abigail, but Lady Eugenia ignored his maneuvering and sat down at the end of the row, forcing Graeme to take his place between the two women. He resigned himself to an evening spent deflecting their sniping at one another.
They took it up immediately, of course. “I am looking forward to Mr. Wilde’s play. I have seen it in New York,” Abigail began pleasantly.
“Ah, well, you will find this superior,” the countess replied. “Americans have difficulty, I’ve found, comprehending the niceties of British society.”
“Yes, we tend to place more importance on substance than appearance.”
“Hopefully this evening will be enjoyable even though you have seen it before.” Graeme jumped into the breach before the dowager countess could respond. “Fortunately Mr. Wilde’s words are worth repetition.”
“Indeed.” Abigail cast him a knowing glance, but fell in with his conversational deflection. “Have you seen this actor before? I’ve heard he is excellent.”
They continued the conversation in this manner, lurching from stilted pleasantries to hidden (and sometimes not so hidden) barbs, with Graeme struggling to maneuver a safe path between. Graeme wondered more and more why his grandmother had invited Abigail. Lady Eugenia was acting rather high-handed even by her standards. It put him in the position of having to defend Abigail—though, in truth, she did not seem to need any help.
It was a relief when the curtain went up. Of course, the dim quiet brought a problem of its own, for now his mind was free to wander wherever it wanted—and where it wanted was Abigail. There was the constant temptation of her perfume and the white swell of her bosom above her dress, the soft upsweep of her hair, so heavy and insubstantially pinned it seemed likely to tumble down at any moment.
Graeme thought of the other night, Abigail’s hair falling down all over her shoulders. He remembered the passion that had pulsed in him, mingling with anger and frustration into an explosive mix. He must apologize for that kiss, for the way he had handled her with such familiarity and so little gentleness. Impossible to do so, of course, with his grandmother sitting beside them. And if he didn’t stop thinking about it soon, he would be in a sorry state, indeed.
Eventually the eve
ning passed. Graeme got through the intermission by rushing out to procure refreshments for them. Of course, when he returned, it seemed half the crowd was in his box. It made it easier, for Abigail’s attention was taken up by others, but somehow that irritated him, as well. The play crept by, though he followed it in the most disjointed fashion, having to pull his attention back time and again to the stage.
At last it was over, and Graeme sprang to his feet in relief. But when he escorted the ladies outside, he learned that Abigail intended to take a hansom cab home. Predictably Lady Eugenia reacted with horror to the idea, and Graeme had to agree with his grandmother.
“Go home unescorted? No, I cannot allow it. You must ride with us,” he told her.
“I will be perfectly safe,” Abigail assured him. “I have trespassed on your good nature long enough already.”
The polite social bickering continued until finally he won out, and Graeme handed Abigail up into the carriage after the dowager countess. He politely took the backward-facing seat opposite the women, frankly grateful that courtesy allowed him to thus separate himself from their conversation. With the sound of the carriage wheels on the pavement and the various noises from outside, he could hear only snatches of their discussion. At least it seemed amiable enough, as the dowager countess dissected the ingénue’s performance, with Abigail spiritedly insisting that the blame lay more on the older actress who repeatedly upstaged her.
Watching Abigail laugh at something Lady Eugenia said and his grandmother manage a tiny smile in response, he had to marvel at Abigail’s ability to hold her own. Many women, including his own mother—perhaps he should say especially his own mother—wilted under the dowager countess’s sharp tongue.
When they reached the hotel, Graeme stepped out to give Abigail his hand in descending, then offered her his arm.
“You don’t have to escort me inside,” she told him, though she took the proffered arm. “I am quite safe here, I believe. Your doorman, after all, would rush to defend your wife.”
“He’s not my—” He gritted his teeth. “I will see you to your door.”
