by CJ Archer
She shook her head but didn't speak. Perhaps she didn't yet trust her voice. Part of him liked that he'd shaken her so much she couldn't speak but that part was in the minority as the horror of what he'd done—what he'd wanted to do—stung him like a bed of nettle leaves.
What the hell had he been doing? He was supposed to kiss her and leave it at that. Rattle her enough that she came over all missish and ran away from him. Far away.
But in those moments when she'd been on his lap he'd been more than willing to take her to his bed. Hell, he'd have flown to the moon and back if that's what it took.
Bloody fool! He wasn't supposed to lose control. He wasn't supposed to like kissing her.
And she wasn't supposed to like being kissed.
It seemed he'd learned something about Miss Georgiana Appleby that he'd not learned from his earlier investigations. She knew how to kiss a man, how to drive him to distraction and make him forget. But as much as she'd seemed to enjoy curling up on his lap and giving into the kiss, she'd stopped it from going further. Which was more than he could have done at that moment.
So what had over-ridden her instinct? What was she afraid of? The impropriety? Him?
Or her own desires?
He stood and focused on the delicate curls of brown hair at the curve of her neck and wondered how many other men had kissed her there. Who else knew that she tasted like strawberries?
Hell. He shouldn't want to know.
He squeezed his fists closed and tried to think of how to ask her without sounding interested.
"Stop staring at me," she said, straightening. How had she known he was staring at her? She still had her back to him. "That cannot be allowed to happen again. Agreed?"
He abandoned all endeavors to ask her about other men. She was back to her spiky self and he needed his wits about him. "I'm not sure I can agree to that," he said. It was a slim chance but he had to take it. Had to. "Perhaps you should leave to protect your honor."
"Or perhaps I need to replace my pistol."
Her directness filled him up and he wanted to smile. She often made him want to smile. Something he hadn't done in a long time. Not since he'd killed Cottesloe.
"How about an exchange?" he said. "Your pistol for my opium."
She turned around. There was no hint that the kiss had affected her, nor did she look particularly annoyed. He didn't deserve to be let off so easily. After last night, she had every right to be furious. He'd been a beast. Like a demon possessed, he'd torn her room apart, invaded her privacy and revealed the most despicable side of himself. He was mortified and sickened to his stomach knowing he'd treated a woman, and a guest at that, with such disregard.
He'd wanted to apologize all morning but not in front of Aunt Harry and Philly. Although in the cold, hard light of day, he knew an apology wouldn't ever be enough, no matter how groveling.
"I was wondering when you would mention the pistol and last night," she said before he could think of what to say.
"I'm sorry, Miss Appleby." It was completely inadequate. He swallowed and tried something else. "Did I hurt you?"
"No."
Thank God. Relief made him nod over and over like an imbecile. "I hope I didn't scare you."
"You didn't." Her gaze shifted ever so slightly to the right.
His stomach rolled. He wanted to throw up. "Were any of your belongings damaged?"
"The mattress bore the brunt of your ire. Thank you for organizing a replacement so promptly. I wasn't sure how I could explain it to the maids otherwise."
Her lightheartedness over the pitiful incident only made him feel worse. How could he have been so monstrous? Thank God he'd had enough self-control to curb his anger before he did something unforgivable.
Most of the incident was vague but he remembered destroying the mattress. He also recalled it hadn't been the only thing to suffer. He could picture personal items on the dressing table tumbling to the floor and something breaking.
But it was all so bloody foggy. His head had pounded like a tuneless drum, he certainly remembered that part, and he'd been furious. A fury borne from desperation to retrieve his opium. Not to stop the headaches and nausea, although they were hellish, but to stop the nightmares. Always the nightmares.
"There were two portraits on the dressing table," he said, thinking hard. "Your parents?" She nodded. "Did they break?"
"No." She opened the worn black leather bag she'd brought with her. "I'll change your bandage now."
He caught her elbow and she stopped rummaging. He felt her shudder. "Miss Appleby, I know something besides the mattress was destroyed. I'd like you to tell me so I can replace it."
She straightened and fixed him with one of her direct stares. "Nothing needs replacing."
He let her go and she returned to her bag. She wasn't going to tell him so he'd have to discover it without her help. One of the maids should know what was missing from the dressing table.
"Please sit down," she said.
He sat in the same chair he'd kissed her in. But this time when she touched him there was no desire in it. As she unwrapped his bandage she was as clinical as Dr. Henderson, his usual physician.
"It's not healing as well as it should be," she said, frowning at the wound. She touched the swollen edge gingerly but it wasn't too painful. "Did it open up after your brush with the runaway coach?"
"Yes," he lied. Telling her he'd re-opened it while fencing probably wasn't a good idea. He'd annoyed her enough lately.
"Speaking of the coach," she said, wrapping a clean linen around his upper arm, "have you thought any more about why someone would want to run you down?"
It's all he thought about, when he wasn't trying to think of ways to apologize, seduce or get rid of her. "It was an accident," he said. "Nothing sinister about it."
Their gazes connected for a brief moment and he knew she didn't believe him. He also recognized something else in their endless depths—concern. Of a physician for her patient? Or of a woman for a man?
Her task finished, she picked up her bag. "Not too tight?"
She certainly wasn't too tight, especially not when she was kissing—. "Pardon?" he asked, dragging his mind back. "The bandage?" He flexed his arm. "It's fine. Thank you."
She nodded and headed for the door.
He sprang up and reached it first. "Before you go, Miss Appleby, we need to discuss the opium."
"Why? You plan on continuing to take it and I plan on continuing my job of weaning you off it."
"And so...?"
She shrugged and he got the feeling he wasn't going to like what she had to say. "You appear to be quite a determined individual so I think I'm in for a very long stay here, don't you?"
His jaw hurt. His head ached. He needed a drink, badly. "Determined," he spluttered. "You think I'm the determined one!" He opened the door and stepped aside to let her pass. "You'd better go before I say something I'll regret even more than last night."
He expected a smug smile or a triumphant arch of her eyebrow but instead she simply walked out. He slammed the door so hard the pen fell out of the inkstand and splattered ink all over his desk.
Damn it!
***
Sir Oswyn Crisp didn't look altogether pleased when his clerk showed Georgiana into the cavernous room he used as an office but he bid her to sit down opposite him at his desk anyway. The oak desk, centered as it was in the sparsely furnished room, looked small and the criss-cross of scratches on the surface gave it an ancient appearance, rather like the man sitting behind it. Georgiana settled her reticule in her lap then settled a direct gaze upon him. Whereas some men liked to be charmed by women and enjoyed the little smiles and flirtatious chatter, Sir Oswyn was a man who appreciated a no-nonsense approach. Man or woman, he treated everyone the same. Georgiana liked that about him. It was, however, the only thing she liked about him.
"I thought I told you not to come here unless it was important," he said, eyes squinting more than usual. She wished he'
d get some spectacles made.
"This is important," she said. "Someone is trying to kill Mr. Redcliff."
He stopped squinting. His eyes actually grew quite wide. They were a watery hazel color. "Are you sure?"
"If not kill then seriously harm him. I assume he hasn't told you?"
"He hasn't."
"Do you know who might want him...out of the way?" She pressed her hands together in her lap. They were trembling. Whenever she thought about Redcliff's accident she lost a little control over her body. Either her hands shook or her mouth went dry or her stomach roiled. Death was one thing—she saw it often in her profession—but murder was entirely another. To think that someone wanted to end a life that she was trying so hard to save...
"Tell me what happened," he said, ignoring her question.
As she spoke, he wrote notes on a piece of paper in front of him. His spindly scrawl was impossible to read upside down. When she finished, he pressed her for more details, asking her the same questions she'd asked Redcliff and Lord Northbridge, but she'd already told him everything she knew.
"Could have been anyone." He tapped the pen's nib on the paper and the small spot of ink spread like a blood stain.
"I don't think so," Georgiana said.
He looked up at her with surprise, as if he'd forgotten she was still there. In the game Sir Oswyn played on an international scale, she wasn't a significant player. Redcliff must be or Sir Oswyn would not be worrying over the coach accident. He wouldn't be bothering to try and cure Redcliff at all. So why was he? Particularly since Redcliff claimed he no longer worked for the Foreign Office.
"You didn't tell me Mr. Redcliff had resigned his post," she said.
He regarded her levelly and for a moment she thought he would deny it, or simply not answer her. "I didn't tell you because firstly it's not relevant to your employment and secondly, he only thinks he's resigned. He'll come back. They always do."
"You don't believe him?"
He lifted both his thick, bushy white brows and promptly changed the topic. "So what do you think about this attack on Mr. Redcliff, Miss Appleby? You're with him a great deal of late, surely you have an opinion?"
"I think someone is trying to kill him because of something that happened in Switzerland. Perhaps the reason is related to the incident he's buried deep in his dreams with the opium."
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his crooked leg. "And why do you say that?"
"Two reasons. His friend Lord Northbridge strikes me as the sort of man who'd blurt out the names of Redcliff's enemies if he knew of any. And he did not." Sir Oswyn snorted. In amusement? "And Redcliff himself has dismissed the entire incident, as if he doesn't care or doesn't want to confront it. As he is also doing with the Swiss event you are so interested in."
"And you think that is too much of a coincidence?"
"I do."
"You may be right."
"So the question is, Sir Oswyn, what are you going to do about it?"
He snorted again. This time she was quite certain it was amusement. "I cannot tell you that."
"I thought as much." She leaned forward. He leaned forward. The desk and several neat stacks of papers separated them. "But I will require you to tell me what happened in Switzerland, or as much of it as you know." When he began to protest she held up her hand. His lips tightened and she thought he'd ignore her command but he didn't interrupt. "If I am to uncover the origin of his troubles, his reason for smoking the opium, I need to know everything there is to know. It's vital to Mr. Redcliff's recovery, Sir Oswyn. And being the intelligent, resourceful man you are, I think you are quite aware how vital."
A slow, humorless smile spread across his face. He nodded and the way he regarded her changed. He might have already been treating her as an equal, but now he was beginning to respect her too. "I want to trust you, Miss Appleby."
"Then do. You've checked my background thoroughly. I'm not in the employ of the French. I'm careful not to divulge the names of the patients I've treated, or the ones I helped my father treat before his death."
"True," he said, nodding. "Very well." He returned his pen to the dirty wooden ink well. "Redcliff told me it was the husband of one of his Swiss lovers who gave him his injuries."
"I thought it was a brother," she said, thinking back to her first conversation with Trent.
"Husband, brother, it doesn't matter. I suspect it was neither."
"Why?"
He clasped fingers stained with black ink on top of his desk. "One of my spies died the same night Redcliff incurred his injuries."
Georgiana suppressed a gasp but she suspected her eyes were as wide as saucers. Her mind quickly raced through the possibilities but she tried to keep it in check. She needed to hear what else Sir Oswyn was prepared to say.
"Or at least I think he did."
"Think? You don't know if your man died?"
"Let me finish. His name was Harry Cottesloe. Good man. Good spy. He was based at the embassy in Switzerland under Redcliff and they were friends. On the night of his disappearance, they were at a ball held by a local count. Redcliff and Cottesloe were seen having a discussion during the evening, a heated discussion. That is unusual in itself. They were solid friends. They'd never fought before." He licked his lips and shook his head. The mystery was clearly frustrating him. "They didn't leave the ball together but neither of them returned to their homes immediately."
She supposed he had spies spying on his spies. Men like Sir Oswyn wouldn't trust those in his employ. That's what made him so good at his job.
"Redcliff returned home just before dawn," he went on, "sporting the physical injuries you've seen. He told his household staff and the doctor that he'd been at his lover's house and had been caught by her husband. He wouldn't divulge the lady's name, naturally."
Naturally. Redcliff may do a great deal of kissing but he would never tell. Knowing that wasn't in the least comforting.
"Cottesloe never returned home," Sir Oswyn said.
A bitter taste rose in Georgiana's throat. "Tell me what your investigations revealed," she said. She would not judge until she had all the facts. "Did you learn the name of the lover Redcliff was supposedly with that night?"
"Not for certain. If he was with the woman he shared with Cottesloe then she is not saying either. Unfortunately I've not the power to rack her and get the information that way."
Georgiana blinked at him. He was joking. Wasn't he? "You've spoken to her?" she asked.
"Of course." He rubbed a thumb and finger over his unruly eyebrows but they remained standing to attention. "Lady Twickenham is the wife of Lord Twickenham. They're an English couple who've been traveling across the Continent for the better part of a year."
"Rather dangerous time to be traveling, isn't it?"
"Not if one avoids the war. They've been mostly in Greece. Their last stop before returning to England was Berne."
"So they're back in England now?"
He nodded. "I know what you're thinking. That one of them might have tried to kill Redcliff by running him down."
"Are they capable of it?"
"In my opinion, people are capable of anything. But I don't think Lady Twickenham would have done it. She wouldn't want to get her hands dirty."
"But Lord Twickenham is perhaps more jealous of his wife's...activities than he's letting on?"
He tilted his head in a nod. "Precisely. It's possible he killed Cottesloe and now is after Redcliff too."
"So he knows about his wife's affairs?"
"Oh yes. Apparently they have an arrangement. He is much older than her and cannot perform his manly duty in the marital bed." He didn't try to speak in euphemisms or hide the bald truth from her. She appreciated his directness.
"Did Lord Twickenham tell you that?" she asked. "Or did his wife?"
"Lady Twickenham."
"And you believe her?"
"I believe nothing I'm told, Miss Appleby, until I know it to be fact. It's a philos
ophy that has served me well. What I do know is that she was Redcliff's lover. He and his staff have both confirmed it. Cottesloe's staff have also confirmed their master had clandestine liaisons with her too."
"Do you think each gentleman knew the other was bedding her?"
"Not initially but one of them discovered it. I suspect that's what their argument was about at the ball. I also know Redcliff is not the sort to share his lovers."
"No," she said quietly. "I rather think he would find it distasteful."
"Precisely."
"So you think Redcliff..." The words stuck in her throat. She couldn't swallow around them.
"Killed his rival?" He clasped his fingers over his green and cream striped waistcoat, its seams stretched by his protruding stomach. "That is the mystery, is it not? He is certainly a possibility, as are the Twickenhams and any French spies who may have discovered Cottesloe's identity. However since no body has been found, it's possible Harry's still alive and well somewhere."
Like in London. She fought down the panic twisting her insides into knots. "So...Mr. Redcliff may not be a murderer at all."
"Do you think he's capable of it?"
She blinked. Did she? Over a woman?
Sir Oswyn chuckled. Georgiana stiffened. He was toying with her emotions like a cat plays with a mouse, just for the fun of it. Or perhaps to gauge her thoughts about Redcliff.
"I've never known him to care for a woman," he said, "let alone enough to kill a friend over her. It doesn't fit with what I know of him."
"Perhaps he loves Lady Twickenham so much he couldn't stand having a rival," she said, hearing the hollowness in her voice and hating it.
He shook his head. "Not love. I doubt the word is in his vocabulary."
That was something they agreed on at least. "What's she like?"
"Lady Twickenham? An intriguing woman. Brilliant, forthright and extraordinarily beautiful." His eyes shone and he had a faraway look on his face. "She would make an excellent spy." His expression suddenly changed and his attention was once more focused on Georgiana. "As would you, Miss Appleby."
"I'll do what it takes to cure Mr. Redcliff of his opium addiction, but that is the only work I will ever undertake for you, Sir Oswyn."
