A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  Chapter Thirteen

  After hearing garbled tales about rampaging mobs, Lord Neville slammed into the vicarage and didn’t notably calm even after Genevieve downplayed the drama. He insisted upon bearding the vicar in his library.

  Genevieve followed, although as a mere woman, her opinion wasn’t sought. Her aunt stayed outside, but Mr. Evans joined them. Genevieve waited for Lord Neville to object to his presence, but perhaps even his lordship quailed from such presumption in another man’s abode.

  Genevieve stood near the hearth. This chilly afternoon, she appreciated the fire. Or perhaps the cold stemmed from awareness that the criminal fraternity had invaded her home. For a second time.

  Could Mr. Evans be right? Was today’s outrage his lordship’s doing? Or, as seemed more plausible, was it like the last break-in, all up to Mr. Evans?

  While she accepted Mr. Evans’s story about being with Sedgemoor, he could easily pay someone to rob the vicarage. The thieves had rifled her study, although yet again, nothing was missing. Luckily the jewel was safe in her petticoat.

  When Mr. Evans had caught her in the woods, she’d come so close to revealing that she’d identified him as her burglar. The accusation had trembled on her lips. Until she’d remembered the buffer he created between her and her blackmailing suitor. Right now, she didn’t know whom to trust. Her strongest instinct was to trust nobody, stay silent, and watch for some clue to the truth.

  “I cannot be easy with the vicarage unprotected.” Lord Neville held forth from the center of the library as if he owned the house. “You and Genevieve must move into Youngton Hall until these thugs are apprehended.”

  Mr. Evans remained a silent observer. Sirius sat at his side, seeming to follow each argument.

  “What about my parishioners?” the vicar asked in a quavering voice from where he sat—crouched really, like an animal at bay—behind his untidy desk. After the first break-in, he’d been nervy, but today’s broad-daylight opportunism left him befuddled and frightened.

  His lordship dismissed the vicar’s question with a swipe of one hand. “If you’re needed, they can send a message. I’ll bring you over for Sunday services.”

  “I’m not sure.” Her father was hardly an active shepherd to his congregation and usually he’d leap to partake of aristocratic bounty. But after today’s events, Genevieve knew that abandoning his home for a strange place, even so luxurious a strange place as Youngton Hall, would unsettle him. “It’s my duty to stay if thieves infest the neighborhood.”

  Lord Neville sighed with ill-concealed impatience and his hand clenched on the silver gargoyle on top of his cane. Genevieve was familiar with the piece, an elaborate copy of a carving in Lincoln Cathedral. She’d never liked it. The grotesque seemed steeped in malevolence. “Then send Genevieve to me.”

  She drew breath to refuse. Since his proposal, Lord Neville had treated her with resentment, punctuated with smothering solicitude. At least he hadn’t renewed his blackmail threat since she’d called his bluff—except she had a discomfiting presentiment that he merely bided his time. She preferred his pique over his care, especially as his care became most overt in Mr. Evans’s vicinity.

  “That’s hardly proper, my lord,” her father bleated. “Your visits to Little Derrick raise no questions because you’re here for scholarly purposes. But for Genevieve to stay in your house? As a man of God, I can’t condone it, however innocent your motives.”

  Genevieve wasn’t so sure about the innocent motives. To her irritation, she couldn’t disregard Mr. Evans’s insinuations about his lordship.

  Lord Neville’s smile dripped superiority. “You mistake me, Dr. Barrett. Your daughter’s reputation is precious to me too. I would of course offer Mrs. Warren hospitality.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Papa.” Genevieve hated that Lord Neville discussed her as if she wasn’t present. His bombastic manner only made her grateful that she’d never contemplated marrying him—or any man.

  Lord Neville was adamant. “Genevieve, prudence insists—”

  “Miss Barrett has a right to decide whether she stays or goes, my lord,” Mr. Evans said in the light, pleasant voice that indicated he was determined on his opinion prevailing.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Evans,” his lordship snarled. Since Genevieve had refused his proposal, he’d foregone even minimal politeness to Mr. Evans.

  “On the contrary, I take this outrage very personally indeed.” As always, Mr. Evans gave no indication by tone or expression that he resented the other man’s rudeness. As always, his coolness made Lord Neville look like a hectoring bully.

  “Perhaps I should stay until the danger passes.” His lordship subjected Mr. Evans to a narrow-eyed glare.

  Her bugbear reclined against the mantel with an exaggerated languor that would make Genevieve laugh if she wasn’t so on edge. “Lud, the place will be more crowded than Tattersall’s on auction day.”

  “My lord, we have no chamber befitting your dignity.” Genevieve glowered at Mr. Evans. He overdid the useless flower of fashion act. Especially when she knew that his beautifully cut coat concealed muscles that wouldn’t shame a stevedore. This morning, she’d fought like a demon when he’d caught her and he’d hardly broken a sweat. “We know to be on guard. Between Williams, my father, and Mr. Evans, we should be safe.”

  Except she had a nasty feeling that Mr. Evans was the fox in this particular henhouse.

  Lord Neville’s mouth turned down. “A geriatric retainer, an unworldly scholar, and a namby-pamby fop. Pardon me if I consider arrangements inadequate.”

  Genevieve saw the fop’s barely contained smirk. Her father struggled to his feet with a sudden display of spirit. “I may be an unworldly scholar, my lord, but I protect my own.”

  Lord Neville must have realized that he’d overstepped the mark. He bowed to the vicar, so briefly it was almost insulting, and again to Genevieve. “My counsel falls upon deaf ears. All I can say is that my offer of sanctuary remains.”

  “Will you stay to dinner, your lordship?” the vicar asked.

  Lord Neville still sulked over his failure to get her to Youngton Hall. “Not tonight.”

  “Capital, my lord,” Mr. Evans said with purposely grating cheerfulness. “A man your age should beware the evening chill.”

  Genevieve watched Lord Neville stifle a blistering response to this blatant piece of cheek. Only because she observed Mr. Evans so closely did she note the satisfied glint in his eyes. Of course he was satisfied—he’d managed to banish Lord Neville for the evening. Yet again she thought what a manipulative devil he was.

  “I take my leave, then,” Lord Neville said grudgingly.

  “Good evening, my lord.” The vicar remained unaware, Genevieve knew, of the dark currents swirling through the room. Currents of resentment and jealousy and mistrust. “Genevieve, perhaps you should see his lordship out?”

  Protest would upset her father further. Since he’d learned that she’d refused Lord Neville’s proposal, the rift between them had deepened, but still she flinched from adding to his distress.

  Mr. Evans stepped forward. “Let me show his lordship out.”

  Ten minutes ago, she’d wanted to strangle him. How nonsensical now to want to hug him for saving her from a cozy chat with Lord Neville.

  “I have something particular to say to Genevieve,” Lord Neville said.

  “What’s all this fuss? I can’t abide all this fuss,” her father complained. “Genevieve, go with Lord Neville. I want Mr. Evans with me. He’s such a comfort.”

  Reluctantly Genevieve nodded and moved toward the door. A glance back at Mr. Evans restored her failing courage. Something in his stance told her that he’d rush to her rescue if she stayed outside too long.

  Since when had she started relying on Mr. Evans to save her?

  As she’d expected, his lordship resumed the argument once they were alone. “I insist you come to Youngton Hall for your own protection.”

  “The thieves
haven’t been violent.” She stepped as far back as the narrow space allowed. Since his lordship’s clumsy attempt at blackmail and his boorish proposal, she could hardly endure his company.

  “Yet.” He paused. “You’re a stubborn chit.”

  She shrugged, unmoved by the criticism. “I’m a self-willed woman. I have no wish to submit to a man’s guidance.”

  It was a pointed reminder of what an unsuitable wife she’d make for a man of his station, not just in birth but behavior. The mulish angle of his jaw indicated that he disregarded her statement. “You can be schooled, my dear.”

  “Like an unruly horse?”

  Her mocking response raised no amusement. She’d long ago remarked that Lord Neville lacked a sense of humor. Mr. Evans possessed a highly developed sense of humor. A quality she dearly wished she didn’t find so attractive.

  Lord Neville frowned. “Send Evans away. He means no good.”

  That was, she suspected, the truth. “My father likes Mr. Evans.”

  Lord Neville shook his head in disgust. “Your father lives in his own world. If he didn’t, he’d keep a better eye on you.”

  Indignation soured her stomach, but she struggled to retain at least a patina of politeness. However she disliked Lord Neville, he had a hold over this family. “My lord, you broach subjects that, for all your generosity and care, aren’t your concern.”

  He didn’t retreat. He never did. He was always convinced that he was right. Like most males, she thought acidly. She wondered whether Mr. Evans hid a bully beneath his eye-catching exterior.

  “Given your father’s gullibility, I consider myself in place of a parent. A young man unrelated to you under the same roof injures your reputation. To the pure all things are pure, so I’m sure you’re unaware of the gossip.”

  Her cheeks heated with vexation. And a touch of shame. After all, if anyone had stumbled into the woods several nights ago, they would have found plenty to talk about. “If you consider yourself my father, my lord, I’m surprised that you offered marriage.”

  “You take me too literally.”

  “Do I?” She straightened. This promised to become a pointless quarrel. “The house is bursting at the seams with chaperones. My aunt, my father, the servants can all testify that Mr. Evans and I have shared nothing improper.”

  Lord Neville had the grace to look slightly abashed. “My uneasiness is over Evans’s behavior. After all, what do you know of him?”

  That at the very least he was a liar. “I know that he’s the Duke of Sedgemoor’s friend. I know that he’s unfailingly kind to my father and aunt. I know that he rushed after the thieves without thought to his safety this morning.”

  Now that she defended Mr. Evans, she realized that the rogue possessed more admirable qualities than just his sense of humor. Qualities that appealed considerably more than Lord Neville’s arrogance. Mr. Evans was intelligent and spoke to her as if she was too. He liked animals. He was surprisingly interesting. He kissed like a dream.

  Oh, no, don’t think about that.

  Lord Neville exhaled through his teeth. “There’s no point talking to you. You’re blind to your interests. I fear that man has bewitched you.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She forced herself to sound conciliatory, even as her heart rebelled. “You know that I’m a contrary creature and your opposition only makes me defend Mr. Evans.”

  It was a warning, should Lord Neville take it. But he remained deaf to the message. “You’ve run wild far too long.” He paused, as if realizing that criticism was unlikely to curry favor. His voice softened. “At least give me the Harmsworth Jewel for safekeeping.”

  She frowned. “Nobody outside my closest associates knows I have it.”

  “The criminal classes have sources honest folk cannot imagine.”

  “They haven’t found it yet. The jewel’s safe.” The only way anyone could steal it was to knock her over the head and toss her skirts into the air. Thieves could search the vicarage until they were blue in the face.

  “Are you certain? Where is it?”

  Curse Mr. Evans and his aspersions. Curse Lord Neville for acting the cad. A week ago, a couple of days ago, she’d have confided in him. Now she found herself lying. “There’s a secret niche in my study. The only time the jewel leaves its hiding place is when I’m working on it.”

  “You can work at Youngton Hall.”

  Her voice hardened. “I’d rather stay with my father and aunt.” And Mr. Evans, although she didn’t say that.

  She didn’t need to. Lord Neville read her thought. His eyes flared with temper and his tone turned frigid. “As you wish. Until you consent to be my wife, I have no authority over you.”

  Only with difficulty did she stop herself from retorting that she’d never grant him that particular honor. “I must let the kitchen know you won’t be at dinner.”

  She saw Lord Neville consider changing his mind, but she stepped back and offered her hand before he spoke. She welcomed a night without Lord Neville’s smothering presence. It was odd—she suspected Mr. Evans’s motives, yet if she had to be locked in a small room with either man, she wouldn’t choose Lord Neville. Which said little for the intellect upon which she prided herself.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  He took her hand in his fleshy palm. For one blind moment, she became suffocatingly aware of his size and power. For years, he’d been a distant figure, one of her father’s associates. Since his proposal, he’d developed an unpleasant physical reality that set her nerves jangling.

  “I can still assert my authority.”

  It was as close as he’d come to blackmail. She stiffened and tried unsuccessfully to pull free. “I won’t bend to threats,” she said coldly.

  “We’ll see.” He bowed and for the first time, kissed the back of her hand. “Good evening, Genevieve.”

  He turned to go. The urge to wipe her hand against her skirts was overwhelming. If ever she’d considered marrying Lord Neville, her reaction to his touch promised a lifetime of misery if she did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite the robberies, the intrigue surrounding the Harmsworth Jewel, and the looming scandal over her authorship, Genevieve refused to alter her routine. That would assign the forces massing against her too much power. On the morning after the break-in, she set out on parish duties. The villagers were accustomed to the vicar’s daughter catering to their daily needs while Dr. Barrett remained in scholarly isolation.

  It took her nearly an hour to realize that she had a shadow. As usual, Sirius gave the game away. She emerged from discussing church flowers at Miss Brown’s cottage to a greeting from the dog.

  “Hello, Sirius.” She stepped into the street and patted him. She wasn’t sure what she thought about the nefarious Mr. Evans, but she couldn’t argue that he had a very nice dog. She grabbed Sirius’s collar. Taking him home wouldn’t disrupt her morning. “You shouldn’t be wandering the village.”

  Sirius focused upon her, as if questioning her decision to haul him away. The cause for his bewilderment was soon clear. Glancing over his head, she saw a tall, lean man sauntering toward her.

  Dear Lord, could she never escape Mr. Evans? She knew how the local foxes felt in hunting season. Irritation pricked her skin as she unwillingly noted the swing in his stride and the glinting eyes below his stylish beaver hat. He was dressed for Mayfair, not Little Derrick.

  Releasing Sirius, she straightened without smiling. “Aren’t you engaged with my father? Something about Edward IV?”

  His lips twitched. “There are so many blasted Edwards. Almost as bad as the Henrys. How is a fellow to keep track of these deuced dead chaps?”

  His appearance of intellectual laziness didn’t gull her. “What are you doing here?” she asked in an uncompromising tone.

  She’d never encountered him in the village before. Usually she could count on some peace when he worked with her father each morning. Apparently not this particular morning, curse him. Her grip
tightened on the basket of provisions for the parish poor.

  He shrugged. “I wanted some fresh air.”

  “Of course you did,” she responded sarcastically, marching toward the next parishioner on her list, Mrs. Meacham with her arthritis and poor eyesight.

  He fell into step beside her. “Let me take that.”

  She considered objecting, then decided that if he wanted to lug the heavy basket, it was the least he could do in return for hounding her. “Here.”

  Another twitch of those lips. To think yesterday she’d extolled his sense of humor. He had no right to mock her. At least she wasn’t a thief. “Shouldn’t you be hobnobbing with the duke instead of slumming it in Little Derrick?”

  He cast her a thoughtful glance. “You know, Miss Barrett, this is a public road and I’m perfectly free to use it without your permission.”

  “Except you’re following me.”

  He laughed softly. “A chance meeting.”

  “And I’m a Dutchman.” Now she’d reached Mrs. Meacham’s house, she extended her hand for the basket. “I’ll see you at the vicarage.”

  He looked up at the half-timbered façade. “Ah, dear Mrs. Meacham. I believe she received a letter from her son in the navy yesterday. She’ll need someone to read it for her.”

  Genevieve gaped in astonishment. She had no idea that he’d infiltrated the village. Just what was he up to now? “How do you know that?”

  “My crystal ball?”

  “Don’t be absurd. And please go away.”

  He still looked cheerful. Of course he was cheerful. She’d long ago realized that needling her was his favorite pastime. When he wasn’t climbing through ladies’ windows. “I promised I’d visit this morning.”

  She glared at him, ignoring the way that Miss Smith simpered at handsome Mr. Evans from across the road. Charlotte Smith was welcome to him. Lying weasel he was. “When did you meet Mrs. Meacham? She never leaves her house.”