‘Would you wish her to, sir?’
‘No. Of course not. If it were my choice, she would not see Endsted, again, under any circumstances. And I would make damn sure that he never got to see what I saw tonight. The man is an utter prig. I doubt he’d have known what to do with her, in any case.’
‘Unlike you, sir, Endsted would have sat there like a lecher, staring at her charms while making it clear that he disapproved of her behaviour. And then he would have insulted her by sending her away. She would have gone home, with head hung low and near tears, convinced that she was in some way morally repellent or deformed in body. I am sure she will think twice in the future before exposing to the gentleman in question any sign of interest or vulnerability that might lead to further ridicule.’
Tony ignored the dark look that Patrick was giving him, to drive the point home. ‘You’re saying I should go to her, then. Apologise.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Because there is nothing that will make amends better than appearing on her doorstep after half a bottle of brandy, and trying to say the things in your heart that you cannot manage to say when you are sober.’
‘Damn it, Patrick. Other men’s valets will at least lie to them when they have made fools of themselves.’
‘If it is any consolation, sir, Lord Endsted’s valet often has cause to lie to his master on that score. We have discussed it.’
Tony held up a hand. ‘Let us hear no more of Viscount Endsted. My night is quite grim enough, without thinking of him, or knowing that valets trade stories when they are gathered together. It chills the blood. Instead, tell me, Patrick, since you are so full of honesty, what am I to do to make amends with the Duchess of Wellford?’
‘Perhaps, sir, it would go a long way to restoring her good humour, if you did the thing that she wished you to do in the first place.’
‘You have returned early, your Grace.’ Susan was looking at her with curiosity, no doubt trying to spy some evidence of carnal activity. ‘Was the gentleman you wished to visit not at home?’
‘On the contrary, he was in, and willing to see me.’
‘That was quick.’ Susan’s face moued in disapproval. ‘But I suppose it’s the same with all men. The more time we takes on our appearance, the less time they needs. It don’t seem right, somehow.’
Constance started at the familiarity, then admitted the truth. ‘He sent me home. He took one good look at me, and he sent me away.’ She looked at her maid, hoping that Susan could provide some explanation.
‘He did not find you attractive?’
She sat on the end of the bed, shivering in the damp gown. ‘He as much as said he did. He made comment on my appearance. He knew how I expected the evening to end. And he turned me down. I fear I have insulted him. Or lessened his opinion of me.’
‘Then your friend left you to settle with Lord Barton yourself?’ Susan looked more than a little dismayed at the thought.
‘No. There was no problem about that. Mr Smythe said he was most willing to help, but that my gratitude was not necessary. Then he covered me up and sent me away.’
Susan sat on the end of the bed as well, clearly baffled. ‘Forgive me for saying it, your Grace, but he must be a most unusual gentleman.’
Constance frowned. ‘I think so as well, Susan.’
Anthony stared at the locked door of Barton’s safe, and felt the sweat forming on his palms. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs and removed the picks from his coat pocket. Now was not the time for a display of weak nerves or a distaste for the work at hand. He could fulfil his promise to Stanton and destroy the plates by burning the house down if he could not manage to open the safe.
But for the promise to Constance? A fire would do him no good, for it would destroy the thing he searched for. And she wanted immediate action.
Patrick had been right. It had been stupid of him to give way to temper, and waste the better part of the evening with drink. When reason had begun to return, he had realised that he might need every spare moment between now and Monday, working on the lock, if he wished to deliver the deed to Constance and forestall Barton. He had been forced to spend several more hours becoming sober enough to do the job at all, and still might not be unaffected enough to do it well.
Now, it was past three and he had but a few hours before dawn. It was the quietest part of the night, when all good men were asleep, leaving the bad ones the freedom to work in peace.
Entry to the study was as uneventful as it had been the night of Barton’s ball, even though he’d climbed up a drainpipe and into the window instead of using the stairs. Would that the results with the safe would be more successful than the last attempt.
The thing was still there, taunting him from its place on the wall behind the desk. Barton had not even bothered to conceal it, leaving its obvious presence as a sign of its impregnability.
If the man had anything of value, it was most assuredly behind the locked safe door. Tony had found the printing press in the basement along with the rest of the supplies, hidden under a Holland cloth, with little effort made to conceal them.
But there was no law against owning a press. To rid Barton of the paper would require one lucifer and the work of a moment, perhaps doused with the ink. Tony did not know if ink was particularly flammable, but, since so many things were, it was quite possible.
The engraved plates had to be somewhere in the house or the press would be useless. He fitted his pick into the lock and felt for the sliders, working one, and then another before feeling the pick slip. And now he must start over.
How many were there supposed to be? As many as eighteen, and any mistake meant a new beginning and more time wasted. He tried again, progressed slightly further and felt the pick slip in his sweaty hands.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell. He swore silently and repeatedly. Then he took a deep breath and began again.
It would have to work, because he would not return to Constance empty handed. He imagined her as she had been when she visited him. Huge, dark eyes, smooth skin, red lips, body soft and willing.
And he had sent her away. He must have been mad.
Of course, what was one night of gratitude against a lifetime of devotion, if there was some way she could be persuaded to see his intentions towards her ran deeper than the physical? In the end, she would think him no better than Barton, if he took advantage of her need. There would be time, later, if he could wait.
He felt his pick catch another slider and move it into position. And he focused on the touch of the lock and the vision in his mind of her leaning close to whisper softly in his ear.
There was a click of the room’s door handle, which seemed as loud as a rifle shot in the dead silence of the house. Tony withdrew his pick and darted behind a curtain, praying that the velvet was not swaying to mark the passage of his body.
He could see the light at the edge of the curtain; the glow was faint, as though someone had entered the room, bearing a single candle.
A man, by the stride. Long, and with the click of a boot heel.
Barton.
Pace, pace, pace. Tony counted out enough steps for a man of nearly six foot to reach the desk.
He held his breath.
There was a faint rattle as a drawer was unlocked. The rustle of paper. A pause. A sigh. The sound of retreating footsteps, along with the retreating light. And the click of a door latch again.
Tony grinned to himself. Where best to keep a deed? In a safe? Hardly necessary, since no one would be seeking it. Best to keep it close, where one could admire it. Touch it when one wanted to reassure oneself of victory and fantasise over the conquered in the dark of night.
All in all, he was lucky that Barton was not keeping the document at his bedside. Perhaps with the prospect of Constance so firmly in his grasp, the deed was not necessary.
Tony stepped from behind the curtain and produced a penknife, then slid it along the space in the desk drawer until he heard a satisfying click. He opened the drawer an
d found the deed, face up in plain view.
Too easy, really, once one left common sense behind and entered the realm of obsession. He could almost feel sorry for Barton, had the man chosen a different object for his passion.
Tony folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. He went to the window and was gone.
Chapter Nine
Music played softly in the background and Constance sipped her champagne and pretended to enjoy herself. Sunday night’s ball at the townhouse of the Earl of Stanton was to have been a night of pure pleasure in the company of friends. She had been looking forward to it for weeks. And now Barton had ruined everything. The music made no impact and the drink held no flavour. All she could think about was the impending doom of Monday morning and the cold look on Tony’s face as he had sent her away.
Her friend, the countess, had hugged her when she had seen the expression on Constance’s face, and enquired after her health.
She had pretended that nothing was wrong, but even the earl had noticed the change in her and remarked on it. And Esme had clasped her hand again and assured her that, whatever the problem might be, she had but to ask, and they would find a way to resolve it. She could treat the Stanton home as her own, if need be. Stay the night or longer, if she wished. And take pleasure in the entertainment at hand, for it was expected to be most fine.
Constance had insisted that she was in no dire need, and that her friend needn’t worry, although the earl’s look at her as she passed through the receiving line was too shrewd and it was clear that he was not fooled.
It had been a mistake to lie at all. For it would look even worse to her hosts when she needed to swallow her pride and beg Esme for refuge at the end of the evening, if it was to be a choice between her house and her honour.
There was some comfort, at least, in knowing that only the best company was invited through these particular doors. She had no reason to fear a run in with Barton before the morning, for such as he would never gain entrance to a ball held by the Stantons.
Which made it all the more surprising to see Anthony Smythe in close conversation with the host. The earl could not possibly know the man’s true occupation, or St John would throw him bodily from the room. And Constance could not very well inform them of what she knew. Certainly not when she had gone to Mr Smythe, requesting the very service she pretended to abhor.
He was across the room from her, and she tried to resist the urge to look in his direction. How utterly mortifying it had been to go to him, practically bare and obviously willing, only to be patted on the head and put from the room. If she had behaved in a similar manner, with any of the other men of her acquaintance…
Then she need not have gone to Mr Smythe at all. Upon seeing how she had costumed herself, and hearing of her willingness to co-operate, they’d have given her any sum she required to clear her debts. The ink would scarcely be dry on the cheque before they’d have taken her up on her offer.
Then why, for the sake of her already-battered spirit, had she gone to the only man unwilling to take her body as payment? Was it because she had known in her heart that he would be too honourable to accept?
Or simply because she wanted a reason, any reason at all, to see him again, tempt him in a way that would make him forget her behaviour in the library, and offer him no resistance when he pulled her close, laid her down, and took from her what she wanted to give him?
It had been so easy to restrain herself through the last year, as the suggestions she’d received had become bolder and bolder. And, on some level, she’d known that if there was no one to offer her marriage, there might be one whose offer was not quite so insulting as the rest. She had no desire to be a mistress. That would be no better than marrying for money.
But if there were a man who valued her, and whose company she enjoyed, and if he was willing to be discreet? She would gladly yield just to feel arms around her again, and lips on her temple, and to sleep secure in the knowledge that someone cared about her, even if it was for only a night.
She glanced into a mirror at the far end of the room, catching a glimpse of the image of Tony Smythe reflected back to her. His dark blue coat fit smoothly over the muscles she felt when he’d held her. His legs, as well, were straight and strong from climbing, and graceful as he walked. She thought she could hear his distant laugh, and could imagine the light in his eyes, and the way his smile curved a little higher on one side than the other.
It was a face not so much beautiful as it was interesting. There was energy in it, and enthusiasm. One could look at it for a lifetime and always see something different. And when he had a passion for something, or someone, his excitement would be impossible to resist.
Constance averted her gaze from the mirror, casting her eyes downward, focusing on the trails of bubbles arising from her champagne. It did no good to watch him now. She might see the one thing she most feared, a look of pity in the eyes for her pathetic behaviour of the night before, and confirmation of his lack of success in getting the thing she needed. How had she expected him to manage in a night what might take days of planning? She was a fool to even ask him.
And she would look an even bigger fool, if he caught her spying on him in public.
‘Would you stand up with me, your Grace?’
She was startled. He was close to her now, standing beside her, and she’d never heard him approach. Her heart was pounding in response to his nearness, and it was not because of fright.
He gestured to the dance floor. There was polite interest on his face now. Neither more nor less than she would expect from any of the other men attending.
‘I would be delighted, Mr Smythe.’ She tried to read his face, but it gave no clue. Did he have news for her? She was dying to ask it, but what was the point in swearing him to secrecy if she blurted out the whole truth in a crowded ballroom?
They took their place in the set and he bowed to her, and the music began.
He was an excellent dancer. His steps were sure and his touch light as he guided her down the row. She tried to relax and enjoy herself, but his steady gaze was both pleasant and unnerving. He wanted to tell her something, she was sure.
And found herself wishing that that was not the reason for the intensity when he looked at her. Robert had not cared much for dancing, and was most relieved when other men had been willing to stand up with her in his place. But none of them would dare gaze at her so, with the duke in the room.
She had watched other young ladies, and watched their beaus watching them. She had thought it sweet and tried not to lament on it. Men had looked at her thus once, very long ago, but so long ago that she could hardly remember how it felt.
They had looked as Anthony Smythe was looking at her now. His hand took hers again and he smiled. When it was their turn to wait at the bottom of the set, he leaned closer to her, and said, ‘You are very lovely tonight.’
‘Thank you.’ She wondered if that was the case.
He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. ‘You were lovely last night, as well.’
‘You did not seem to think it at the time.’
‘On the contrary. You were inordinately tempting. But speed was of the essence, was it not? If I had accepted your offer, we would be there still, on the floor of my parlour, too exhausted to move.’
She stared around her, to make sure no one had heard him speak. And, as always, he had taken care that the other guests would know nothing of his scandalous comments, but her delighted blush might make them stare.
‘I am just as diligent and careful in taking pleasure as I am in doing business, and I take care not to mix the two. In the future, there will be ample time to spend together, if you still wish it. But if I had lost myself in you last night, I would have quite forgotten to go to Barton and get the thing that you wished me to retrieve.’
She opened her mouth to speak, and he smiled placidly.
‘Please act as though nothing has happened. Remember where we are, your Grace.’
He was right. Throwing her arms around his neck and begging to see it this instant was sure to incite comment. But she could not help the joy that showed upon her face.
He looked at her, smiled back and said, ‘The look on your face right now is payment enough for me. Have you forgiven me for last night?’
‘There is nothing to forgive. It was I—’
‘Shh. Let us hear none of that. May I visit you, later? With your permission, I will come to your house, to return the thing that concerned you so.’
She whispered, ‘I shall leave here immediately and tell my servants to expect you.’
‘You shall do nothing of the kind. No one need know of what has transpired between us. Enjoy your time here, for Esme is a particular friend of yours, is she not? And this is a delightful ball. It would be a shame to go so soon. Return home after midnight, send your maid to bed and wait for me at one.’
She nodded, wondering how he knew of her friendships, for she had not told him.
And he nodded back to acknowledge her assent and led her through the rest of the dance as though nothing unusual had happened, with an occasional comment about the music, the fine quality of the food, and the fact that summer had been uncommonly warm.
But he continued to fix her with the same intense gaze that had unsettled her before.
He was coming to her rooms later, and in secret. She found the prospect quite exciting. And with the way he was looking at her, perhaps he had decided to mix business and pleasure after all. It was not so surprising, she reminded herself. Despite what they might claim to put one off one’s guard, men had needs and would act on them, given the opportunity.
He might say that he was honoured to help and needed no reward, but he had taken great risk to do what she had asked. She doubted that he would deny her or himself, once they were alone. And try as she might, she could not bring herself to be bothered. Why, if Lord Barton’s offer had been so distasteful to her, was she not offended now?
A Wicked Liaison Page 10
