London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  No, he should wait and allow their bond to grow stronger. He pulled the coverlet across his middle and met Charlotte’s expectant gaze.

  “Have I angered you?”

  Her incredulous tone thrust another knife into an open wound, her confusion at his shift in mood understandable. The air went still. Even the dwindling flames in the hearth did little more than hiss their disgust.

  “Not at all.” He cleared his throat, aware the moment was nearly lost. “We should—”

  His voice snagged as her hand found his erection beneath the coverlet. She canted her head to the side, and he imagined the wheels of logic turning furiously in his wife’s capable mind in a desperate attempt to unriddle his behavior.

  She stroked him again, smooth and insistent, her fingers around his hard flesh.

  And he surrendered.

  He dropped to the pillow, where, after a quick examination of the canopy lace, he closed his eyes to all haunting realities and yielded to wondrous sensation.

  She worked him into a painful hardness in less than a few breaths. Or mayhap it was his own ramped desire and the interminable wait for this shared intimacy. Every muscle tightened at his mounting climax. He slit his eyes and viewed his beautiful wife, her concentration admirable as she couldn’t see a thing below the coverlet across his waist.

  Maybe it was better this way. The first time. Not unlike the manner in which they wove their days together, sincerity hidden below the surface, veiled by obstruction and complicated emotion.

  No. He thrust the coverlet aside. He’d create no more barriers between them.

  He located her hand atop his sex and wrapped his fingers with hers before he groaned a deep sound of gratification. Another stroke and he found his release, their hands tight as his cock pulsed with pleasure.

  Moments later, she slipped free. She scurried to the washstand and returned with a damp towel. Giving him her back, she pulled her chemise over her head, but not before, in an unexpected and erotic discovery, he noticed the dimples on her lower spine just above her derrière. His wife’s body was a treasure trove of delight.

  Unaware of his avid attention, she climbed atop the mattress, a soft smile curling her lips. With the bedlinens between them, he drew her lithe warmth closer, nestled to his side where his breath eddied across her temple to stir the finest hairs.

  * * *

  A bevy of fresh ideas and hopeful promises teased Charlotte’s brain as she slipped from Dearing House the following morning and approached the corner in search of a hackney for hire.

  After yesterday, she possessed more determination than ever to settle Louisa’s problem to the most advantageous solution, all the while strengthening the tenuous and intimate bond made with her husband.

  As she walked, she summoned the blissful memory with ease, the time spent in his embrace cherished. They’d talked and cuddled, her heart full, for somehow their awkward relationship had become amiable and playful, as she’d forever hoped.

  Later at dinner, their cheerful conversation continued, and afterward she’d played two selections on the pianoforte. They’d ended the evening with a slow, sensual kiss that spoke of more tantalizing embraces on the morrow.

  His absence at breakfast hadn’t dampened her fledgling optimism in the least, her mind honed to how she must unburden her sister and resolve the problem of Lord Gordon. Louisa read too many gothic novels and lived life with a romantic, and at times infatuated, view of circumstances. It would be fairly easy to lead her astray if a rakehell decided to expend the effort. She knew nothing of Lord Gordon. Was the gentleman a scoundrel? All the more dangerous the situation then, for her to be seen in his company. She laced her fingers tightly determined to protect her identity as well as her fragile hope.

  Now, as she arrived in Mayfair and disembarked from the hack, she pulled her cloak closed at the throat, raised the hood and aimed for the gentleman’s address. It would be difficult to explain her presence here if she gained notice. Best she scurry up the steps, deliver Louisa’s message and be done with the errand.

  Prepared for the composed reception from the same phlegmatic butler at the door, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin, startled in midmotion when the door opened although she hadn’t knocked. A tall, handsome gentleman in impeccable attire stood within the frame. The voice and shadow of another male loomed behind him.

  “Pardon me.” Her words stammered out and confidence teetered as she quickly realized the difficulty of the predicament. She’d hoped to speak to Lord Gordon discreetly, but that notion was lost. Lingering on the front steps increased the risk she’d be recognized by any passerby or inhabitant of the house. Gossip proved a reckless, unjust animal, seeking to draw scandalous conclusion from threadbare fact. If she didn’t act quickly, the gabble-grinders would label her a harlot and Dearing a cuckold before the Ton sat down for dinner.

  “May I assist you?”

  The smooth tenor of the refined gentleman pulled her into the present with slapdash speed. But what to do? If she scurried off the stoop she would be forced to return to this place a third time. She swallowed her fear. There was no decision to be made.

  “I need to speak to Lord Gordon.”

  “I am he.”

  Unease caused the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. Lord Gordon stepped forward and she moved back, while the second gentleman crowded the stoop, his face visible in profile.

  Her heart lurched, then seized in mutiny. She matched eyes with Lord Mallory. Indeed things were more complicated than she’d ever imagined.

  “Might I have a private moment with the lady?” Gordon canted a sidelong glance in Mallory’s direction, while he took in her appearance with patient assessment.

  Having received a formal introduction only a few days earlier, she was forced to acknowledge him. “Lord—”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Mallory stepped beyond Gordon and removed himself from the stoop. “Aren’t you a clever fellow to find a lovely stranger at your door this morning?”

  The inflection and tone in the latter portion of Mallory’s sentence evidenced he knew she was nothing of the kind. He flashed a grin, though his expression held a dangerous edge. Why would he behave as if he didn’t know her and cut off her greeting before Gordon realized they were acquainted?

  Her eyes trailed after Mallory, who moved to the far pavement with his back turned, well out of earshot.

  “I am Lord Gordon. How may I help you?”

  Again she realigned her purpose and with a flip of her cloak removed Louisa’s message from her pocket.

  “My sister, Louisa, asked me to deliver this message in trust you’ll read it and agree to call upon her or, at the least, respond somehow. She’s confused and distraught.” Gordon’s face transformed at the sound of Louisa’s name, and Charlotte paused to measure his reaction. A spark of alarm lit his eyes, a shadow of deep sorrow followed directly after.

  “You shouldn’t have come.”

  He didn’t reach out to accept the message, and Charlotte refused to move, though her pulse galloped with a culmination of panic and despair. Her sister would be sorely disappointed and mayhap in the family way with no alternatives. She needed to impress the importance of the situation.

  “Please, Lord Gordon, you must understand, Louisa is deserving of at least one conversation. She’s explained to me the extent of your relationship.” She nudged the message toward his stomach. “Take this.” She didn’t dare glance to the curb, where Mallory likely watched the interaction. She could only solve one problem at a time.

  With a long breath that seemingly brought about a decision, he took the message from her and placed it inside his breast pocket. “Thank you. If the situation warrants my attention, I will find a way to resolve it.”

  It was Charlotte’s turn to dispel a sigh of relief and she turned, chin down and eyes to the pavement as she left in the opposite direction to which Lord Mallory stood.

  * * *

  “Faxman, have you balanced
the total revenue from the second quarter?” Dearing rounded his desk and approached the secretary’s table. Energetic sunlight warmed the room, but it didn’t matter; he still basked in the result of last evening. Holding Charlotte’s petal soft skin against his body was glorious, their intimacy cherished as a sign of how well things progressed in their relationship. He glimpsed the cherrywood bookcase on the far wall, where he’d locked away his secrets within a double panel. He’d placed the leather box inside the compartment and closed the wood door, no one the wiser. A few volumes and a miniature framed map of the world graced the shelf to give the appearance of collected whatnot.

  “Indeed.” The wiry employee met him halfway across the room, his hands full of papers balanced atop a thick ledger. “If you’ve a moment, I’ve come across additional discrepancies that beg for explanation. Your transactions are always fastidious, so the concern this is my oversight and not yours provoked me to investigate. I’d hardly be worth my salt if I committed errors in mathematical calculation, although as my father often reminded, a fair degree of learning comes from failing.” Faxman shook his head in dismissal. “Though I’d rather not fail at all.”

  Faxman’s father talked too much, especially from the grave. Dearing swallowed a sudden pulse of concern. Damn him for hiring an intellectual and far-too-conscientious secretary. How much had the man uncovered? “What has caused your concern?”

  “There are numerous inconsistent imbursements listed in varying amounts every other week during the last six months. Significant missing funds have been transferred to a singular account, and these totals match equivocally with the profit garnered from the Middleton Railway.”

  Dearing considered his reply. He’d need to supply something suitable else Faxman believe him dicked in the nob. “It’s a complicated matter, having to do with my recent wedding.” Perhaps his explanation sounded sufficiently vague and personal enough to ward off the secretary’s inquisitiveness. Dearing knew he’d buried the truth adequately if Faxman didn’t persist or otherwise surmise.

  As an exercise in efficiency, his thoughts sprinted through the negotiations around his wedding vows. It all occurred rather quickly, as was necessary. The proposal was accepted, paperwork drawn and signed, amid a flurry of plans with the goal of securing Charlotte as his wife within a fortnight. One might think his motive centered upon the controlling interest in the railway, but any fool who believed that rot didn’t understand love.

  All the monies earned from transactions connected to his nuptials were tallied, calculated and summed into reserve, which eventually funneled back into its original source, paid in full to the last penny. If anyone succeeded in unriddling the maze of calculations to question what Dearing had gained by marrying Charlotte, he’d gained her.

  Still, he could not supply Faxman further elucidation. His marriage remained an unaccountable truth. If Faxman persisted, he would simply dismiss the subject and, if necessary, dismiss the man.

  “I see.”

  And perhaps he did. The secretary snapped the ledger closed and replaced it on his desk.

  “I remain unsettled on your behalf, milord.” This time, Faxman came forward with a single sheaf. “I received this inquiry yesterday and didn’t consider it important until I traced the series of payments through your ledger history.”

  “What is the content of the letter?” Patience at a minimum, Dearing snatched the paper from Faxman’s hand and set his eyes to the words. Bloody hell. It was worse than he’d imagined. Charlotte’s father had hired an investigator to look into all failed negotiations and business transactions. The controlling share of the Middleton Railway would certainly fall into that category. Would Lord Notley suspect Dearing of unscrupulous dealings? He folded the foolscap and placed it inside his breast pocket. “Please keep me informed of any other inquiries of this nature.” He didn’t elaborate.

  “Of course.” Faxman moved toward his desk, the efficient worker likely anxious to continue with his work. “Your accounts are impeccable. I’m certain there’s a plausible explanation.” He paused, but only the length of two ticks on the regulator clock. “My father was fond of reminding me that worry gives the slightest concern an unmistakable shadow.”

  “Indeed.” Dearing rolled the words around in his brain. Not an unmistakable shadow but a life-destroying, cataclysmic end. A plausible explanation existed, but he’d be damned if he’d ever offer it a voice. “Let’s leave off early today, Faxman. Too much brain work can fatigue later sport.” He smiled, his mind already planning a delightful surprise for Charlotte. He enjoyed the playful activities centering around her music and offered a bridge in their relationship.

  A smile tempted; he’d almost forgotten, Cricket had somehow taken residence in his rooms. Did his lady wife realize her adorable discretion was literally out of the bag? Best he check on the pet before seeking Charlotte.

  Faxman gathered his things and left straightaway. After a fruitless search for the kitten, Dearing returned downstairs and visited the music room, but there too he found no one. He lingered and instigated another pleasant discovery for Charlotte before he sought out Hudson in the front hall.

  “I wish to speak to my wife.” Said in those words, it sounded as if he spoke to a falling star or rubbed the outside of a magical brass lamp. The fanciful ideas provoked another smile. “Do you know her whereabouts?”

  Servants knew everything in a household. Well, almost everything. But that was another matter altogether.

  “She’s not at home at the moment, milord.”

  “Again? Has she gone to visit a friend?” From recent inquiries at White’s, he’d learned the duke and duchess were no longer in London. He regretted not having arranged an invitation of some sort to please Charlotte. This was a small but consistent failing on his part. Although the role of husband was a new business for him. At last he’d found his voice and therefore his way.

  “I don’t believe so.” Hudson didn’t offer more.

  “Then where is she?” His heart gave an uncomfortable twist, reminding him he beleaguered a servant for information he should know himself.

  “I cannot say with surety. Lady Dearing left on foot some three hours ago, milord.”

  “On foot? Again?” His mind stuttered to a stop. Where could she be off to without the use of the carriage? “Please notify me when she returns. I will be abovestairs.” He turned on his heel, brows furrowed as he considered the whereabouts of his wife and the awkward comparison she existed as unaccountable and elusive as the kitten who hid in the shadows.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charlotte slipped through the front door and aimed to reach the hall undetected. Anxious to send a note to her sister, she climbed the stairs and hurried to her rooms. She wasn’t one made for subterfuge, and her pulse beat triple time. Once inside, she sank against the door and sighed with relief, somewhat amazed she’d made it through the house without crossing paths with anyone.

  Though one concern was quickly replaced with another. The lingering worry that Lord Mallory would mention her appearance at Lord Gordon’s doorstep pricked her better sense to remain on guard. With any hope, the passage of time would decrease Mallory’s opportunity to share and he would eventually discard the notion. The last thing she desired was for Dearing to hear a distortion of the truth. Not now, when things were finally settling into contentment. That considered, she would need to keep Dearing home and not off to his club, where a stronger likelihood presented itself.

  A slight smile tugged at her lips. She delighted at the idea of holding her husband captive. Perhaps she should begin straightaway by luring him into the music room for another heated kiss. She could play a favorite arrangement, a passionate sonata or ardent orchestration, and then things would progress with natural ease.

  She whispered a sound through her lips meant to call Shadow from hiding, but the kitten didn’t appear. When was the last time she’d seen the little darling? With a hasty search beneath the bed skirt and a peek behind the draperies
, she made a mental note to speak to her maid. Charlotte couldn’t have Shadow slinking around the house until she was sure Dearing wouldn’t object. She wondered about his reaction as she glanced in the mirror to pin a few disobedient strands of hair back in place.

  Anxious to send word to Louisa, she dashed off a few lines and sealed the paper before she hurried downstairs. Music proved her escape and comfort in times of joy or distress. Today, she was anxious to play Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 17, a composition in three movements and a challenge to her current ability. Having practiced the arrangement for weeks, she knew she was close to mastery. One took pride wherever it could be found.

  She met Mrs. Hubbles in the front hall and asked for her note to be sent by messenger. Charlotte also learned Dearing recently had returned from Threadneedle Street. Now, as she entered the music room, she found a sudden smile. Mrs. Hubbles had drawn the curtains wide and a sweeping view of the gardens behind the house brought with it ample sun. A few of the black poplar and honey locust trees sprouted to new life after a dormant winter spell. Charlotte welcomed the change of season and the prospect of fresh plantings in the yard. No vase full of flowers graced the corner of the pianoforte, but she stifled that note of disappointment. How silly to believe her husband would continually gift her with roses. She wasn’t a starry-eyed debutante but a mature married woman. Of late, Dearing caused her to feel more womanly than even she’d believed possible.

  Dismissing the amusing realization, she settled on the bench and leafed through the sheet music that rested against the rack. Various papers in scattered order were reassembled quickly before she scanned the obedient symbols in patient wait of her attention. When she lifted the pianoforte’s wooden lid, her breath caught.