by Allison Lane
It felt like hours passed before her tears finally dried.
“Feeling better?” he asked quietly.
“Much.” When she pulled back, he smiled and returned her to the seat.
“Good. If you think of anything else, let me know. In the meantime, we’ll concentrate on the man found with John. I think he is either Emerson or Barclay.”
“Barclay? Oakdale’s agent? But I thought we eliminated Oakdale.”
“Yes, but I’ve been thinking about Peterson’s records.” He pulled out the journal and turned to the Sarsos entries, brushing against her as he positioned the book so they could both see. “Look at this. Oakdale asked Peterson about Sarsos twenty years ago, in person. Peterson answered his questions, and Oakdale left. No money changed hands, for Peterson wasn’t yet selling information.”
“Or he wasn’t keeping records of the sales,” she countered.
“Perhaps. But that was the only time Peterson met Oakdale – Peterson didn’t carry Egyptian artifacts in those days, so he wasn’t Oakdale’s usual dealer. Four months later Barclay appeared, claiming that Oakdale had hired him to track down Sarsosian relics.”
“You mean he didn’t work for Oakdale?”
“It’s the only theory that makes sense. Everyone else insists that Oakdale was a respected Egyptian scholar with little interest in other cultures. And his Parliamentary duties gave him little time to expand his scholarly expertise. So I very much want to know who Barclay’s employer really was. His apparent openness kept Peterson from investigating him as he did the very secretive Emerson. I suspect either Barclay or his employer told Sir Harold about Sarsos.”
“How can you hope to identify him?”
“Terrence will do that. In the meantime, I will concentrate on John’s death and talk to Jeremy. And perhaps you will think of something useful.”
“I’ll write to the squire. Ten years is a long time, but he might remember something.”
When Alex fell silent, she shifted so her leg no longer touched his thigh. The contact was far too seductive. Her body had twice swayed toward him of its own volition.
Picking up Peterson’s journal, she held it close to the window, ostensibly for more light. But instead of reading, she battled her senses into submission. If she didn’t control herself, Olivia would have no chance to attract him.
Alex and Olivia were a perfect match, she reminded herself when pain stabbed her chest. Unlike her father, Eden refused to put personal desires above duty. She’d accepted responsibility for Olivia eighteen years ago. That would end only when Olivia married.
Olivia met every one of Alex’s requirements for a bride, and he would make an excellent husband. He was a spectacular specimen of manhood, with charm and intelligence to spare. He was honorable enough to keep any liaisons private so Olivia would never be embarrassed. And he was wealthy enough to retire at a young age. No rumors of deep gaming had risen since that retirement, so he was not an obsessed gamester. His estate might be isolated, but he had a town house that would give Olivia access to London. And his family woes put him closer to Olivia’s station. Alex did not define himself as an earl’s son.
But would Stratford’s antagonism hurt Olivia?
She frowned. Alex might claim that Stratford had no power over society, but people must be suspicious. There was no doubt that the estrangement hurt Alex. She’d seen the pain in his eyes during Palfry’s attack. He might not like his family, but such blatant hatred had to bother him and would certainly bother his wife. Was there anything Eden could do to ease the situation? She owed him a huge favor for his help. Healing the rift would repay it.
“Why does Palfry hate you?” she asked without warning.
“He is a puppet who mimics Stratford’s every word. Please accept my apology for exposing you to such unpleasantness, then forget it happened.”
“No apology is needed. I’ve witnessed worse between Richard and John, to say nothing of the rest of the Marlows. But I am curious. Is Palfry a simpleton? He doesn’t seem to know you at all.”
Alex sighed. “I don’t wish to discuss him.”
She almost let that be the last word, but instinct forbade it. Instinct had driven her to seek Richard the night of John’s death, which had showed her the manner of that death. It had driven her to seek Alex even when she’d learned of his retirement. Now it pushed her tongue into motion.
“I need to understand,” she answered. “His charges stand at odds with everything I know of you. How can he call you lazy and incompetent when you’ve worked so hard and achieved such impressive results? The Home Office doesn’t promote incompetents to positions like chief investigator.”
“How did you learn of that?”
“John told me.”
Alex muttered a curse half under his breath.
She laid a hand on his arm. “What happened, Alex?”
He stared out the window until she thought she’d failed. But finally he pulled her back against his side and spoke. “Stratford is as arrogant a lord as you will ever meet, more stiff-rumped than the highest duke and narrow-minded to boot. In his eyes, there is only one way to do anything, and that is his way. I have never been able to follow his rules.”
“But surely he approves of your service to England!”
“No.”
When she opened her mouth in shock, he spoke over her.
“He knows nothing of my work. Oh, he knows I worked at the Home Office – he all but forced me into the post, and I only accepted because I needed—” He broke off, shaking his head. “He doesn’t believe that I am capable of more than copying letters – poorly.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Not at all. My interests are different from his, which make them incomprehensible. My activities have never pleased him. He has no understanding of how investigations must be carried out – or wouldn’t if he actually thought about it. A gentleman does not pry into another’s business. Gentlemen never take the word of a commoner above that of a lord. And while boxing at Jackson’s Saloon is excellent exercise, actually engaging in a fight anywhere but on a field of honor is a disgrace to one’s breeding. Employing tactics outside a gentleman’s rules is even worse.”
“Are you saying he condemns you for the injuries that produced your scars?”
“In part. He doesn’t know anything about my career. Spies, traitors, and those who expose them are equally lower than dirt in society’s eyes. He would never consider altering that view, for doing so might force him to accept that his ideas about gentlemen are fantasies – I found several traitors with excellent breeding; one held a title.”
“But the war is over.”
“Not to everyone. Some still seek revenge, which is another reason I can’t tell him what I was doing. He would rant to Palfry, who would expose the details when he next cornered me in public. I still have enemies who would avenge Napoleon’s defeat by killing me. It is much better to let Stratford and Palfry complain about how I quit a modest but respectable secretarial position so I could waste my life in lazy idleness.”
She could see his point. Yet she could also hear his pain. And there must be a compromise that would ease that pain without exposing him to danger.
She turned back to the window to hide her face as she considered possibilities. Jason Portland was a military officer high enough up the ranks that he had to have earned his post rather than purchased it. He, at least, must appreciate the importance of Alex’s work.
As she said the name, a memory suddenly clicked into place – Kit Keeling returning home after his first year at Eton with tales about a schoolmate named Jason Portland. Kit had treated his old tutor’s daughter with more kindness than she’d deserved long after he’d grown to manhood. He’d even stood at her father’s unconsecrated graveside and offered his help. Perhaps it was time to accept that help. Kit could learn more about this rift. He might even persuade Jason to arrange a truce, which would make Olivia’s life easier if she wed Alex.
She wou
ld write to Kit tonight.
In the meantime, she would busy herself with Peterson’s journal. It was the best way to keep her mind off Alex’s talented lips.
The more she read, the more certain she became that Peterson had made his primary living through blackmail. He’d recorded every questionable deed that had come his way. And more. She wondered if Alex had seen the notes in the back that described in titillating detail Peterson’s personal encounters with several widows…
* * * *
Alex was grateful when Eden fell silent. How did she make him speak so freely? It was bad enough that John had told her details of his work that were supposed to be secret. He didn’t need to provide more. And he never talked about his family.
He stared at a herd of cows filing toward a milking shed. But he couldn’t concentrate on bucolic scenes today.
Eden was again reading Peterson’s journal. He wanted to slam it shut, for the contents were highly inappropriate for ladies. Yet she showed no sign of being shocked, so he tucked her more tightly against him and closed his eyes. Maybe she would spot something he’d missed. She was astute enough…
Nights of little or no sleep finally caught up with him, sending him into a doze.
Chapter Ten
Eden was more than ready to leave the carriage by sunset. While Alex had been a near paragon of virtue who offered nothing beyond companionship and comfort, reading the last section of Peterson’s journal had incited her body to riot. Every mile made her more aware of his arm warm against her shoulders, the fingers that occasionally stroked her hair, the thigh that rubbed hers whenever a wheel hit a rut.
There were too many ruts.
Despite the cold rain that had fallen intermittently since they’d left London, the carriage was hot enough to bake bread. Sweat trickled between her breasts, sensitizing the skin and recalling the feel of his hand. Sparks skittered along her nerves until it was all she could do to quietly stare out the window. She wondered whether he was as affected as she by this constant contact, but she dared not look. Confirmation would shatter her precarious control.
Why had she suddenly become so wanton? Ladies never did so, not that she could apply that standard to herself. But none of the village women exhibited such vulgarity, either. Certainly they’d never lost control of themselves in public. It had to arise from more than keeping company with a rake. Even a virile rake with a hard, muscular body, broad shoulders, and a member so impressive that her hand itched to touch…
She stared harder at the black clouds swirling outside, trying desperately to steady her breathing. But it was as out of control as the wind whipping the roadside trees. Lightning stabbed a distant hillside, sizzling across her skin like another caress.
This was a bad time for lust. That John had been gone only two weeks made it unconscionable. Tarnishing her reputation would bring censure even from those acquaintances who ignored Richard’s disdain, would convince Richard that he’d been right to despise her, and would ruin Olivia.
You cannot afford to bed this man! she reminded herself as another wave of desire melted her bones. No matter how much you might enjoy it.
And that was the rub. Never before had intimacy evoked much interest. But while John’s attentions had made her impatient to finish, she knew that bedding Alex would be far different. She could no longer pretend that her character wasn’t flawed. Traveling together made it easy to forget duty and responsibility and even society’s expectations. Yesterday she’d moaned and whimpered in his arms. If they had not reached the house, she would have begged for more. Screamed for it, in a carriage, on a public street, assuring that his coachman would know her weakness and half of London would suspect it. She ought to feel debilitating shame, yet Alex’s kisses had brought her more pleasure than ten years of marriage. She ached to feel his thick shaft stretching her as it thrust inside. She needed so badly to—
The carriage rocked to a halt, surrounded by the voices and laughter of a busy inn yard.
Eden flung open the door and jumped down without waiting for the groom to lower the step, fleeing herself as much as the carriage. She needed distance until she could settle her mind. Lots of distance. She could not afford to abrogate her responsibilities.
But there was no place to go. The baggage coach they’d caught up with an hour earlier was already unloading. Several burly men clustered around the ostler, their gestures reliving a fight – a taproom brawl, by the sound of it. Others lounged near the inn’s door, ogling new arrivals. A mail coach jangled past, its guard blowing a warning as it charged toward the tollgate at the south end of the village. A private coach heading north held back until the mail passed, then swerved around a lumbering cart. The Great North Road was always busy.
“I want to conceal your identity in case we were followed,” Alex murmured in her ear. He’d hit the ground scant seconds behind her and now slid an arm around her waist. “Let me do the talking.”
She was too busy fighting off another surge of lust to object. Before she could ask what he intended, they were facing the innkeeper.
“Andrew Westerfield,” Alex said jovially, proffering a card. “My wife and I” —wife?— “need two rooms for the night and space for our servants.”
Eden nearly passed out from relief. Separate rooms would let her regain her composure.
But relief was short-lived.
“I’ve only one room left, and it’s not my best.” The proprietor shrugged. “Above the kitchen, it is.”
Alex glanced outside where clouds boiled lower, driven by shrieking wind. Thunder crashed, sending men scurrying into the taproom. Another storm was poised to strike. “We’ll take it.”
As the innkeeper pulled out the register, Alex began a longwinded monologue on the state of the roads, his business in York, and the prospects for dry weather tomorrow.
Eden goggled in amazement. He’d again shifted personas, becoming a manufacturer of dyes. Not only had he changed his voice and accent, he even moved differently and somehow managed to look middle-aged. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn an oath that he’d been born to the merchant class, then made a minor fortune in manufacturing. Was he aping a merchant as he’d aped Richard, or was he so skilled that he could create characters out of whole cloth?
But not in an instant, she realized. His card lay on the counter, clearly reading Andrew Westerfield. So he’d planned this charade. The comfort he’d offered all day had been an act to disarm her. Had he signaled the innkeeper to claim the inn was full?
Fury rose as his arm wrapped around her waist, leading her to the stairs. She held it in check until the proprietor left them alone, then rounded on him.
“It won’t work, Alex. Using a false name won’t convince me to bed you. Even if no one finds out we’re traveling together – an unlikely hope – I would know the truth. I’ll not live a lie.”
“Stop!” he ordered, catching her hands when she would have slapped him. “I did not plan this. You said no and I accept that. I asked for two rooms because I don’t want the frustration of sharing one with you, but we’re unlikely to find a better place tonight.” He gestured toward the window where wind now drove sheets of rain against the panes. “Fate apparently wants us together.”
“Hah!”
“Not that way,” he growled, “though I can’t be near you without wanting you, devil take you!” He dragged her close and plundered her mouth.
God help her, she responded, fencing wildly with his tongue as she rubbed against him.
“Eden,” he moaned, lifting her until his thick ridge nestled where it would do the most good. She bucked against it once, twice – then froze as realization crashed over her.
“No— I can’t—”
He groaned, but released her. “See why I wanted two rooms?” Turning away, he put the width of this one between them. “My point about Fate was that we may have been followed. A horseman approached Tweed about noon when he stopped to change horses. The man sought word of two carriages
and a rider on horseback – fortunately we hadn’t caught up with him yet, and my horse is not distinctive. Tweed sent the fellow off on a false trail, but he’ll be back. So I gave a false name to the innkeeper, and I’ll stand guard tonight while you sleep.”
“I see.” She drew a deep breath. “Then I should thank you for keeping me safe.” She moved to one of the chairs and concentrated on smoothing her skirt, while her heart settled back to normal. Embarrassment nearly choked her. Her charges had arisen from her own fantasies, not Alex’s behavior. Now Alex knew just how depraved she’d become.
He wasn’t the only one who felt tempted. His kisses had opened the door to a world of sensation she would never experience. How could she close it without sampling even the least of its pleasures?
Yet how could she dismiss this chance to settle Olivia? She had a duty to her sister, and duty always took precedence.
* * * *
Three hours later, after a meal during which both took great care to do or say nothing suggestive – which only intensified memories of last night’s dinner – Alex paced the room in growing exasperation. It wasn’t working. The more he tried to put seduction out of his mind, the larger the thought loomed. His hands trembled from the effort not to touch her His erection pressed so hard against his pantaloons that the buttons threatened to rip off. Sitting next to her all day had nearly driven him mad.
“Alex?” Eden asked. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you think?” he growled. “You are a very desirable woman, but I promised not to touch you.”
“Oh.” She fell silent.
He continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth, like the caged lion he’d once seen at the Tower. It was going to be a hellish night. Even if he could raise interest in bedding one of the serving girls – impossible when thoughts of Eden’s soft skin filled his head – he couldn’t leave her alone. The danger was real enough. Tweed had reported the rider the moment Alex caught up. Alex had seen no sign of the fellow, but since no matching entourage had taken that side road, the man would surely return. Now that both carriages were together…
