by Allison Lane
Again he cursed the hen-hearted milksops who had turned deaf ears on his ancestor’s pleas for support, preferring the whey-faced Henry VII to their real king. Cowards! Poltroons!
The heavens again opened, drawing new curses.
His ancestors had been just as cowardly. Generation after generation had hidden their breeding, too weak-willed to demand their rights. They’d debased themselves, satisfied to accept insipid favors tossed their way by various monarchs. Even when the throne passed to the mad Hanoverians, they had remained silent.
But he would change that. The time had come to claim his place. Those who reviled the Regent – and they were legion – would rejoice that a real Englishman could claim the throne, an Englishman with a cool head and no taint of insanity to stain the future.
He patted the valise strapped to his saddle. With the Sarsos power on his side, all would rally to his cause. Once he dealt with Mrs. Marlow…
* * * *
Alex tied his horse to the back of the carriage, then ducked inside as the heavens opened. He’d begun the day on horseback, loath to trust his libido in such close quarters. Two years of retirement had eroded his self-control more than he’d thought possible. Until he could restore it, he must keep his distance from Eden. Time had marred his judgment, too, raising questions about the intensity of his reaction. Was she truly as enticing as he thought? He’d met many women more beautiful, more accomplished, better versed in manners. Most of them had been better dressed. So why did Eden stir his senses every time he looked at her?
He’d also needed an hour alone to steady his nerves. It wasn’t another night of lascivious dreams that bothered him – he’d been hard since Eden had turned up on his doorstep, so those dreams were now expected. His worst problem arose from a new nightmare.
Sir Harold’s putrid corpse had swooped from the sky, fingers extended like talons. Again and again it had attacked, poking and prodding. Not until one rotting hand slipped past Alex’s defenses to slap his face had he finally awakened, shaking and sick. A nasty interval with a basin had ensued, for the wrists had borne rope marks. How could he have been so blind?
At twenty-three, Alex had not recognized the significance of those bruises. Sir Harold’s ship had been caught in a storm and sunk, his body washing ashore a week later, bloated, partially rotted, and bearing clear evidence of marine scavengers. It had been Alex’s first sight of violent death. Lunch hadn’t survived the experience.
But shock was no excuse for missing such obvious evidence. Sir Harold had been bound before his death, which made it unlikely that his death had been an accident.
The realization had kept Alex up the rest of the night. He had overlooked a crucial clue and closed an investigation that should have remained open. His arrogance had produced a superficial investigation at best.
Remembering the young Alex made him wince. He’d been intolerable, so sure he was infallible, so proud of his instincts that he’d not asked even basic questions – like why Sir Harold had been in Leicestershire at all. Higgins’s explanation was patent nonsense. Yes, there was a spa nearby, but it catered solely to locals, remaining unknown elsewhere. If a sickly Sir Harold had needed to take the waters, he would have gone to Harrowgate or Bath and would have lacked the time and energy to seduce Christine.
Higgins had been smart enough to know that, so he must have been more deeply involved than Alex had thought. The man had skillfully diverted attention from himself by planting blame on Sir Harold, and Alex had blithely accepted every word. The man was a vicar, for God’s sake! A gentleman. A man of honor…
Now he kicked himself roundly, for he’d fallen into the same trap as too many others. Birth did not guarantee honor. Nor did occupation. He’d unmasked traitors in trusted government positions. He’d watched lords lie and cheat and worse. Even at twenty-three, he should have known that no one was above suspicion.
Higgins’s demeanor had changed markedly when the messenger reported that Sir Harold’s body had been recovered. Had he known of those tell-tale rope burns? Why else would he shoot himself within hours?
Alex stared out the window as the carriage jolted into motion. He could force his face into an amiable expression, but his thoughts refused to settle.
If Higgins had killed Sir Harold, then it was he who had planned the theft. Using his cousin fit the pattern of the earlier thefts, as did Sir Harold’s death by drowning. The temptation to acquire the staff would have been overwhelming. He’d had two dowerless daughters to settle. Consigning an unconscious Sir Harold to the sea should have been the end of the story.
But the body had washed ashore bearing clear marks of murder. Any competent investigator—
Alex cursed. How could he have been so stupid, so—
A bump tossed Eden against his thigh, interrupting his recriminations. “Are you all right, Mr. Portland?” she asked.
“Of course.” He shifted to avoid contact even as heat exploded through his body.
“You’re wet.” She reached for a towel. “And you seem upset.”
“I wouldn’t say upset. But this storm does remind me of ten years ago. It rained during that investigation, too.”
“I’d forgot.” Her face twisted as if in pain. “The storm delayed my journey home for a full week. If only I’d returned on time!”
“No!” He pulled her around to face him. “It would have made no difference, Eden. Once he chose to end it, nothing would have stopped him. At best he would have slipped away and ended it outside.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” At least he hoped he was. He’d made so many mistakes on that earlier case it was hard to be sure. And maybe he was overreacting to the nightmare. He wasn’t an imbecile, after all. Had the marks been on Sir Harold’s wrists in truth, or only in his dream? He might well have been right the first time, for Higgins had not had the staff in his possession when he died. Eden would have found it.
But this made reviewing the case more urgent than ever. His instincts – if he could trust them – insisted that it was connected to the current problem. Which meant he’d missed something ten years ago.
“Tell me about your father,” he suggested, tucking Eden against his side. She spoke more easily when he helped her relax – or so he told himself. And touching her might satisfy him enough that he could control his baser needs.
“Papa?”
“I only met him once, but he seemed an intelligent man.”
“Very.” She sighed wistfully. “He was a scholar – classics for the most part. I hardly ever saw him without his nose in a book or a quill in his hand.”
“What did your mother think of that?”
“It’s hard to recall – she died when I was ten. But she did grumble from time to time about duties ignored.” She shook her head and settled more fully against him.
He stroked her arm. “Duties?”
“Vicar’s duties – I’m afraid he did ignore them. I did what I could after Mother died. It was a poor parish but undeserving of neglect.”
He smiled. “So you are accustomed to caring for others.” She could care for him anytime, in any way.
His tone must have revealed his thoughts – it wasn’t like him to slip – for she suddenly recalled herself, pulled away from him, and frowned. “I did not give you leave to touch me.”
“Perhaps not, but you were relaxed and we were both warmer. I meant no harm. It will be a long day, for I want to reach London tomorrow. The only way to manage that is to spend the night at Hungerford. But that is many miles away. So you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
* * * *
Eden couldn’t help but cringe at his declaration. She’d made the reverse journey in two days, so she knew just how long it was. And today the roads were even muddier.
Yet she feared that accepting his suggestion was the first slippery step toward ruin. He’d done nothing to which she could honestly object, but she could feel his desire all too clearly. It c
alled loudly to her own.
His insistence that he meant her no harm was ridiculous – he harmed her merely by sharing the carriage, for it raised feelings she should not entertain. And hadn’t he told her only yesterday that the world was full of lies and those who told them? Why should she believe anything he said?
She almost suggested that she join Carver and Tweed in the baggage coach, but doing so would admit that she felt threatened. Pride wouldn’t allow it. Yet could she survive two days in his company without succumbing to his charms?
She was shocked to admit she didn’t know.
The carriage had seemed enormous at dawn, its leather seats softly luxurious, its door and windows so tight-fitting that it was free of drafts. The warm bricks made the interior toasty enough that she’d set aside the carriage rug by the time they’d passed the gates. And the springs! She’d been able to read with no sign of a headache.
Then renewed rain had forced Alex inside, making reading impossible. He dominated the space, shrinking it until she could scarcely breathe. It was impossible to ignore him. He was big and masculine, leaving her acutely aware of him even when she closed her eyes. He triggered needs she’d never before felt, needs beyond comfort and safety. Something about him commanded her to touch, to explore, to discover the differences between John and a man in his prime. Finding herself again in his arms didn’t help.
Eden dug her nails into her palm while she fought for control, cursing her naïve idiocy. She had walked blindly into a situation that could ruin her. It had never occurred to her that seeking help might threaten her reputation. Alex—
Mr. Portland, she savagely corrected herself.
Mr. Portland was supposed to be old – older even than John. He was supposed to be avuncular at best, coldly disapproving at worst. He was not supposed to have the body of a god or the allure of a Selkie. He was not supposed to be a rake whose glance could call forth feelings she’d not known existed, whose touch weakened her knees, whose kiss—
The carriage swerved, tossing him against her and crushing her into the corner.
“Bad road,” he murmured, bracing his feet against the opposite seat as he pulled her closer. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” Her voice sounded husky. The carriage felt even smaller. His arm burned through cloak and gown to singe her skin, spiraling bubbles toward her womb and quickening her breath until she panted as if she’d run a mile or more. Her breasts tightened, aching for a bolder touch.
Stop this, she ordered herself. You betray John with every thought.
She couldn’t even blame Mr. Portland, for he made no advances, merely holding her steady so the rough road didn’t knock her about. It was she who was misbehaving by letting his masculinity affect her.
Mr. Portland was a rake, a Satyr in the most debauched sense of the word. Carver had confirmed her worst fears – the girl had taken a shine to Tweed, and vice versa, so she’d learned much about Mr. Portland during their two nights at Cliffside.
His reputation for public licentiousness raised brows in polite society even among those who indulged in clandestine arrangements of their own. He’d fought duels over courtesans, seduced a duchess under the duke’s nose, and continued sowing very public wild oats long past the age when most men learned discretion. His misdeeds had banished him from society more than once. He also gamed deeply, winning and losing fortunes without turning a hair. The Cliffside staff knew all the tales, for his grandmother had often chortled over his exploits – apparently she was the only relative who approved of him. If Eden had any sense, she would thank him for his escort to London, then turn her problem over to the Home Office and return to Ridley.
Another swerve tossed her into his lap, his arms brushing her bosom as he caught her. The stab of pleasure dropped her jaw.
“Sir!” she gasped, pushing free.
“Beg pardon,” he murmured, straight-faced, though his tone sounded close to laughter.
“Perhaps if you sat in your own corner—” She snapped her mouth shut when her voice quivered – and not from fury. The man could seduce a statue. And he knew it, the cad. His eyes sparkled as they took in her flushed face.
He grinned, but slid over a full inch. Yet his arm remained along the back of the seat. She could swear his fingers were stroking her hair. Or did she just want them to?
Olivia. Think about Olivia.
Olivia was an innocent who needed an unsullied guardian if she hoped to wed. Embracing temptation would ruin Eden’s reputation and badly tarnish Olivia’s. It would be hard enough to find a suitor for a dowerless girl – a night of reflecting on Alex’s words had convinced her that she could not realize enough from selling the stone to cover both the mortgage and a dowry. So even a tiny blemish on her reputation would make marriage impossible. Unless…
She frowned.
Carver had discovered more than Alex’s reputation. “He needs a wife,” she’d added while Eden fought to stifle speculation on his talents as a rake – imagining him in bed made her feverish. “Thought he had one, he did, but the girl eloped two years ago. Now he’s trying again.” Carver had added his requirements – quiet, conformable, competent, undemanding. Someone who was accustomed to country life and wouldn’t disturb his peace.
Olivia would be perfect. The girl had spent ten years making herself into just such a paragon. They’d both known that John had wed Eden from pity, so they’d made sure he never regretted taking them in. He’d worked hard to turn them into ladies, and had succeeded with Olivia. Eden had believed he’d succeeded with her, too, but her reaction to Mr. Portland raised doubts.
She must strive harder.
Matching Mr. Portland with Olivia would solve her most pressing problem. Olivia had to wed. Eden could survive in a cottage if she lost Ridley Park, but Olivia could not. She lacked skills like cooking, cleaning, and tending a kitchen garden, all of which Eden had learned at an early age. Alex could give Olivia the life she’d been raised to expect. She was sweet enough that he was bound to fall in love with her. To avoid hurting her, he might even abandon rak—
She instantly banished the thought, for his raking might make Olivia’s life easier. Heaven knew Eden would have been content had John kept a mistress.
When they halted for food and new horses, she waited until the serving girl left their private parlor, then started her campaign to interest him in Olivia. “How long will we be in London?”
“I’ve no idea.” He sampled his ale. “Peterson’s shop might still be closed, and there are other dealers to see. They may direct me to still others. Or they may suggest collectors not on our list, all of whom must be interviewed. The interviews will provide conflicting information that we must evaluate. Sometimes that can take months. And new facts can change the focus of an investigation, pushing it in an entirely new direction. I might find that a dealer bought the stone this morning and can name its seller. Or I might spend a week tracking down men, only to learn nothing of import.”
“I see.” She bit her lip.
“Why does it matter? Other than impatience because the thief might walk free. Even if we recover the stone, you can’t still expect the British Museum to buy it.”
“No, but I left my sister at Ridley, expecting to return within the week. She can manage the household quite well, but the steward needs constant oversight – he is not very decisive, so if problems arise, he will dither rather than act.”
“This rain will likely cause problems,” he agreed, shaking his head. “But your sister would have no authority in any case. Write to him if you are concerned.”
“Very well, but I do fret about Olivia being alone. It isn’t proper, for one thing. She’s only eighteen, and with me gone, she has no chaperon.”
“Ah.” He patted her hand, sending new tingles up her arm. She’d removed her gloves to eat, so his fingers burned her skin, recalling every touch since dawn.
She donned an earnest expression. “It’s not that she might misbehave. But you must know that
even the perception of impropriety can cause trouble. She is of an age to wed. It will be hard enough to find a match now that her dowry is gone. Tarnishing her reputation will make it worse.”
“True. Rumors can do great damage.” He reached for the bread. “Try not to fret, Eden. Country manners are less rigid than London’s, and we will leave for Ridley as soon as possible. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. London offers experiences you will not have found in the country.” His eyes twinkled.
She cursed the sparks he could raise so easily. Despite that he was behaving like a concerned friend rather than a potential lover, she was convinced he wished to bed her. She could not afford to be interested.
Yet she couldn’t help but notice his long, tapered fingers as he tore a crust from the bread. They were so different from John’s short, blunt fingers or the broad, pasty ones Richard sported. These were elegant. She could almost feel them stroking…
He noted her gaze. “Have some bread. You need to keep up your strength.” He pushed the loaf closer.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Of course you are.” His gaze wandered leisurely over every inch of her.
“I wish Olivia were here,” she said to distract herself. “She adores mutton stew. Her tastes have always been rather simple. Country born and bred, and loves it.”
“Do you really want to drag an impressionable girl all over England?” he murmured, raising his brows.
Damn him! she cursed as flames danced up her arm. How could he divert her thoughts with so little effort? And damn her for her own weakness. Her gaze landed on his broad shoulders, raising speculation on what they looked like without his shirt and coat. It was a shocking thought, for she’d never seen even John completely unclothed. Always he’d worn a nightshirt—
Jerking her eyes back to her bowl, she made sure that every comment for the rest of the meal mentioned Olivia – her beauty, her sweetness, and the competence that had allowed Eden to leave for a time. She even told him how Olivia had stayed out of John’s way lest she disturb him.
