Richard stiffened and stared down his friend. He spoke the thought that had crept into his mind so many nights when he’d lain awake longing for Genevieve down the hall, impossibly far away. “I could stay here. Why not?”
Cam groaned with disbelief. “Why not? A million reasons why not. You’ve taken leave of your sanity.”
Stubbornly Richard turned to the duke. “What million reasons? Name them. Name one.”
Again Cam sighed. “Let’s start with the fact that you’re not Christopher Evans, landowner from Shropshire. You’re Sir Richard Harmsworth and sure to be exposed as such. Sooner rather than later. You’ve been lucky so far that nobody has recognized you.” He made another irritated sound. “You have a real life outside this backwater. You have friends and family and responsibilities to your estates. What is your mother to think if you disappear off the face of the earth?”
The mention of his mother conjured a black mist behind Richard’s eyes. Cam, it seemed, liked living dangerously. He might yet get that fist in the mouth. “My mother has her own life.”
Cam didn’t back down. “Which doesn’t mean she’ll accept you vanishing like the morning dew. You could end up the subject of a criminal inquiry.”
“Tosh. Nobody—especially Augusta Harmsworth—cares if I leave London.”
“When I was at White’s last week, your absence was a hot topic. You surely can’t expect to disappear from the civilized world without people wondering where the hell you’ve gone—and why. There are even bets in the book about your whereabouts.”
“Anything I can make money on?” Jonas asked with a flash of the dark amusement so essential to his nature. “After all, I’ve got inside information on the elusive baronet.”
Irritated, Cam turned to him. “Dear God, I don’t know. There are a hundred theories as to where this dunderhead is skulking. He’s joined the army. He’s run off with an opera dancer. He’s decamped for the Continent because he murdered his tailor.”
“Sykes died?” Richard asked in shock. He was genuinely fond of his tailor, which was more than he could say for the frivolous clodpolls wagering on his location.
“Not as far as I know. But the general consensus is that only a sartorial mishap is likely to rouse Richard Harmsworth to murder.”
“Ha ha,” Richard said flatly. “And to think I looked forward to a pleasant evening with my oldest friends.”
Cam’s voice lowered to urgency. “Richard, this masquerade can’t continue forever.”
Defiance surged. “I like Little Derrick. They’re good people, better people than I’ve met hanging around society, pretending that nobody sneered at me. No one here gives a rat’s arse about the fall of my cravat or the cut of my coat. Damn it, they like Christopher Evans. I like Christopher Evans. I never had much truck with Richard Harmsworth. He was a dashed scurvy fellow.”
Cam’s expression softened, but his tone remained uncompromising. “That’s as may be. But you can’t spend your life hiding under an alias in deepest Oxfordshire. You know you can’t.”
“No, I don’t know,” Richard said stubbornly. “Does this mean you intend to expose me as an imposter?”
“Of course I won’t.” Cam sighed again and turned to Jonas. “Can you talk some sense into him?”
Jonas shrugged, then surprisingly smiled with a spark of devilry. “You know, I’d pay good money to set eyes on Genevieve Barrett. She must be one exceptional woman.”
Chapter Twenty-One
From the chaise longue, Genevieve surveyed her glittering surroundings. The Duke of Sedgemoor had invited his neighbors to dine and the guests gathered to begin the evening. So far, all she’d had to do was smile, but still she felt out of her depth.
His Grace’s drawing room at Leighton Court probably couldn’t compare to the accommodations in his larger houses. But to a girl from a humble vicarage, the gilt and white room with its ormolu mirrors was breathtaking. No wonder her father had returned from his first visit babbling with excitement.
She sipped her champagne, wryly amused that the expensive wine almost seemed part of everyday life. Whatever else she thought of Christopher, he’d broadened her horizons. Recalling the afternoon when he’d ignited those horizons into a thousand blazing suns, she shifted on her chair.
She hated him. Or at least she tried very hard to hate him. But nothing banished her heated recollections of that day on the river. She loathed the way that, despite knowing he was a liar and a thief, her body didn’t despise him at all. Her body wanted him to do it all again.
Do more.
She sought distraction by contemplating Sedgemoor’s guests. From her place before the open French doors—summer made one last, brief return—she could see everyone.
They were a disparate bunch. Sedgemoor was immaculately dressed in black and white and she required no special intuition to recognize a man of uncommon power. She’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was how handsome he was, in a chilly, too immaculate way. Which was probably unfair. He’d greeted her with apparent pleasure.
He spoke with polite interest to Lord Neville and her father. More accurately, the duke listened to the vicar’s views upon the princes. If Sedgemoor was lucky, he might escape the intricacies of York and Lancaster before pudding.
Her gaze settled next upon Christopher. He lounged against the wall opposite, a sulky expression on his handsome face. Since returning from Oxford, she’d rebuffed his every approach. She couldn’t bear more deceit. Worse, she couldn’t trust herself to resist him.
Earlier he’d walked over to see the duke and Lord and Lady Hillbrook, who she gathered were old friends. He too was in black, stark tailoring only emphasizing his manifold attractions. He wore his fine clothing with an elegance that put even Sedgemoor in the shade.
Apart from the duke, the only people she didn’t know were the Hillbrooks. Even in Little Derrick, she’d heard about Jonas Merrick. The papers had covered his arrest for murdering his cousin, then the miraculous change in his fortunes when he’d been declared both legitimate and a viscount. Appalling scars marked his saturnine features. Just looking at them made Genevieve wince with compassion. The bond of affection he shared with his wife Sidonie was palpable, even to a stranger.
The Hadley-Childe sisters, two spinsters from a manor in the next village, completed the party. Both looked overawed in such grand company.
“Everyone tells me how clever you are.” Lady Hillbrook sat beside Genevieve. “I was rather daunted to meet you.”
Genevieve smiled at the lovely dark-haired woman. “That can’t be true.”
“Believe me, it is.” Compared to Lady Hillbrook’s stylishness, Genevieve felt a dowd in her cream satin at least four seasons old. Even fresh from the village seamstress, it hadn’t been the first stare. “When Jonas returned to Barstowe Hall yesterday and told me about Little Derrick’s female prodigy, I was intrigued. Intimidated but intrigued.”
“I’m not that frightening,” Genevieve responded with a laugh.
The viscountess tipped her chin toward where Christopher chatted with Genevieve’s aunt. “That gentleman appears ill at ease in your company.”
Genevieve made herself look at Christopher again, although it hurt less to pretend he wasn’t there. As if sensing her attention, he turned his head until his dark blue eyes stared into hers. Ridiculous, but she felt as though he crossed the room and hauled her into his arms and kissed her. Heat flooded her.
She scowled at him and he glanced away, but not before she caught a flash of what looked like pain. As if she could make that false wretch experience any real compunction.
“Mr. Evans?” She prayed that her airy tone sounded more convincing to Lady Hillbrook than to her.
The woman’s gaze was unaccountably intent. “Is that his name? I missed it in the introductions.”
Genevieve frowned. “I thought you knew him.”
The viscountess appeared discomfited, before she lifted her glass to hide her expression. “Why would you t
hink that?”
“He mentioned that old friends were staying at Leighton Court. I must be mistaken.” Although Christopher’s familiarity with Lord Hillbrook indicated long acquaintance.
“My husband has many business contacts.”
That must be the explanation. If Christopher and his lordship were friends at all. Bother the man. He made her suspicious of everyone. “For some inexplicable reason, he’s boarding with my father to brush up on medieval history.”
The lady looked startled. “I thought you were an enthusiast.”
Genevieve smiled wryly. “I am. But I’ve never fathomed why such a man should eschew the social whirl for scholarship.”
It was perfectly clear, seeing Christopher in this aristocratic setting, that he was at home in the highest echelons. Genevieve struggled not to remember how at ease he’d been with Mrs. Garson and George and everyone in the village. She’d always known that he and Sedgemoor were friends. Which still struck her as odd. If Christopher was a sneak thief, how had he inveigled his way into the circle surrounding England’s most powerful nobleman? If he pursued some scheme against Sedgemoor, he took massive risks. Sedgemoor would make a dangerous enemy.
“Perhaps there’s more to him than you credit.”
“I doubt it.” She flushed, realizing she betrayed herself to a stranger. “Have you been to this part of the country before?”
Lady Hillbrook shook her head, gracefully accepting the abrupt change of subject. “No. But Jonas and His Grace are such friends, we simply had to call when we were nearby in Wiltshire. I hope my daughter Consuela settles and we can see something of the area.”
Thank goodness, the mention of Consuela saved Genevieve from further discussion of Christopher. But as she listened to a devoted mother’s anecdotes, the back of her neck prickled. Sharply she turned to catch Christopher out. And found Lord Neville glowering at her.
Despite the warm night and the fact that she was as safe in the duke’s drawing room as in the Tower of London, she shivered. She turned back to Lady Hillbrook, while unease soured the champagne on her lips.
To Genevieve’s disgust, Christopher was placed beside her at dinner, with Lord Hillbrook on her right. At the foot of the gleaming mahogany table, Lady Hillbrook played hostess.
Genevieve awaited some expression of triumph at his successful maneuvering, but Christopher’s expression was truculent as he slid into his chair. She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him.
“Now you’ll have to talk to me,” he murmured, swirling the hock in his glass.
“I could concentrate on my food,” she hissed back. “It can’t be nearly as tasteless as you are.”
Christopher’s lips compressed. His voice reverted to the lazy drawl that she hated. “Rest easy, dear lady. Sedgemoor supplies an excellent table. Why, even the humble pie is delicious.”
“Very funny,” she said flatly.
“I’m accounted a deuced witty fellow. You’ll be in stitches before the night’s out.”
“I’m sure.”
“Or you could stop treating me like I carry some contagious disease and tell me what bee’s got into your bonnet.” His tone lowered. She cursed the way the soft baritone brushed like velvet over her skin. “What is it, Genevieve? What made you go from purring to snarling within an instant?”
She was a coward to avoid challenging him with her suspicions, but she couldn’t trust her unruly emotions. The prospect of screaming like a fishwife, or, even worse, bawling like a motherless calf because he’d let her down twisted her stomach with nausea.
Furious at how susceptible she still was, she didn’t have to manufacture a chilly response. “Don’t pretend ignorance.”
He sighed and it was a sign of his disturbance that he made no attempt to mask his irritation with charm. “Isn’t that like a woman? You expect a man to be a mind reader, then condemn the fellow to perpetual exile when his simple masculine brain can’t track his way through the labyrinth of your thinking.”
She stared at him balefully. “Try very hard, Mr. Evans.”
He winced at the way she bit out the formal address.
Lord Hillbrook turned to her. Humiliation burned her cheeks. Christopher seemed to have forgotten that they weren’t alone.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Miss Barrett.”
“Thank you,” she responded to the social nicety, then realized that his black eyes studied her with a concentration belying his bland comment. Now she was more accustomed to his scars, she saw past them to features vivid with intelligence and sensuality.
“I’d heard you were remarkable.”
Surprise made her speak more frankly than she should. “That’s very flattering, but I can’t imagine how. His Grace only met me tonight.”
A smile tugged at Lord Hillbrook’s mouth. Did she imagine his gaze flickered past her to Christopher? From the corner of her eye, she saw her Nemesis staring into his wine as if it contained hemlock. And as if he had a mind to drink it.
She bit her lip and told herself she didn’t care. She turned back to Lord Hillbrook, although she was so upset, she could barely focus.
“General report. We were all agog to see you. Now that we have, can I say we’re not disappointed?”
This was an exceedingly odd conversation with a stranger. Before she could answer, Christopher spoke from behind her left shoulder. “Stow it, Jonas. Miss Barrett won’t play your damned games.”
Lord Hillbrook’s heavy black eyebrows arched at the rudeness. “Are you in a position to speak for the lady?”
Genevieve shot Christopher a fulminating glance. “No, he’s not.” She muffled her voice to a whisper, although Lord Hillbrook was too close to miss what she said. “What on earth is wrong with you? You’re behaving like a lunatic.”
“Driven mad by a pair of silver eyes,” Christopher muttered, taking a reckless gulp of wine before signaling to a footman for a refill. Genevieve frowned, wondering how much he’d had to drink.
“Then go mad quietly,” she snapped and deliberately turned her back. She began what became an absorbing discussion about Lord Hillbrook’s extensive collection of antiquities.
The dinner party was conducted upon informal lines, with conversation passing up and down the table and across it. The Hadley-Childe ladies remained on best behavior, but it soon became clear that Sedgemoor, Hillbrook, and Christopher knew each other too well to stand on ceremony, and that Lady Hillbrook was perfectly capable of holding her own.
Genevieve had dreaded the evening. She’d worried about dealing with Christopher, and that the duke would be insufferably patronizing. But while Sedgemoor’s remarks were more circumspect than those of his friends, his dry wit supplied a fascinating counterpoint. To her surprise when Lady Hillbrook rose, signaling for the ladies to withdraw, Genevieve was sorry to leave the men to their port. And thanks largely to Lord Hillbrook, she hadn’t boxed Christopher’s ears.
She’d always imagined people of fashion would be shallow and self-centered, but brilliance spiced the wit. There was nothing contemptible in the Hillbrooks or the Duke of Sedgemoor. In this company, even her father appeared to advantage. Only Lord Neville remained outside the charmed circle, his swarthy features set in disdain. The thought might be ungenerous, but Genevieve interpreted his displeasure as pique. Here he wasn’t everyone’s social superior as he was at the vicarage.
Even Christopher had abandoned his megrims and played an essential role in the lightning interactions. His ease in this great company didn’t mollify her anger. Instead, it spurred curiosity. Why did a man who bandied quips with dukes lurk in her shabby back bedroom?
Worse, he made her feel like a country mouse. At the vicarage, surrounded by books, she could pretend that they were equals. Here, she couldn’t help thinking that his pursuit conveyed a hint of King Cophetua and the beggar maid. That wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Christopher had been right about the excellent dinner, but the idea of playing peasant to his prince curdled the poulet à la
perse in her stomach.
Who was Christopher Evans? There was more to the relationship between these three men than she gleaned from observation. Once the duke had vouched for Christopher, nobody but Genevieve had questioned his background. Did Sedgemoor covet the Harmsworth Jewel too? It began to seem like the whole world schemed to steal it. She wondered if she should reveal the shocking truth about the heirloom, whether it preempted her academic coup or not.
“I must speak to you,” Christopher said urgently as she stood.
“No, you mustn’t,” she said, back where she’d been when the meal started, quarreling with Christopher Evans.
“Please, Genevieve.” He reached for her hand, then curtailed the movement.
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Evans,” she said icily. “In fact, the most agreeable thing you could do is to leave in the morning.”
He went white and for one reverberant moment, he didn’t look like the careless, handsome man she knew, but like someone capable of genuine feeling. “You don’t mean that.”
She glared. “I do.”
If he left, she’d no longer feel confused and restless and unhappy. She’d return to the woman she’d been, busy, productive, purposeful. Not this desperate, yearning creature he’d created. Since that day in Oxford crammed with joy and betrayal, she could hardly bear to live with herself.
She watched him struggle to form some argument before a surreptitious glance around the table confirmed that their fraught discussion attracted general interest. She made a fool of herself. It was the last straw. She stalked from the room, back straight, head high and heart aching with misery.
After lingering behind the departing guests to finish a brandy he didn’t want, Richard trudged toward the entrance hall. It was well past midnight. The evening had been such a success that it ended considerably later than the usual country entertainment. Everyone except Genevieve, Fairbrother, and Lucy Warren congregated near the door.
A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin) Page 18
