by Jo Goodman
"It is Lady Battenburn's diamond necklace," he told the crowd gathered in the doorway. "It has been stolen."
It seemed to Northam that something more than a stolen necklace was causing Louise to scream like a banshee. How had the lady come to miss the piece of jewelry at this hour of the morning? From his position outside the circle of onlookers, Northam reached past Allen and Heathering and politely tapped Eastlyn on the shoulder. That worthy had somehow found himself near the center of the crush.
East managed to swivel his head. He grinned when he saw Northam. "Excuse me," he said to those around him. "Let me out. That's it. Lift your arm. View's better at the front." He extricated himself without too much difficulty, and the guests realigned themselves quickly."South is sleeping?" he asked Northam.
"I suppose he must be. He's not here." He again surveyed the bodies jammed in the tight circle around the doorway. "No, he's not here."
Eastlyn raked back a fallen lock of chestnut hair. His tone was admiring. "He can damn near sleep through anything."
Northam nodded and pointed to the pistol that Eastlyn was carrying. "You, on the other hand..."
Eastlyn tucked the pistol away. "I was already awake. I wanted to make an early start of it to London." He glanced back toward the door when the last notes of Lady Battenburn's scream faded away. The crowd seemed to swell slightly as they heaved a collective sigh of relief. East rolled his eyes. "I had my doubts that would ever stop."
Northam had wondered the same thing. "How soon did you arrive?"
"A minute, no more, after she first cried out. I would have been here sooner, but I got lost again. I should have been at the forefront of the charge, instead I was in the middle."
"Did you see anyone leaving her room?"
"No. Rutherford was already here. Heathering, too. Allen came from the opposite direction and we arrived almost together. Do you think the lady surprised the thief?"
"It occurs to me that was the cause of all her screaming."
Eastlyn gave his friend a considering look. "Where did you come from?"
"The roof."
There was only a fractional widening to East's eyes. "Alone?"
"Very much so."
"Lady Battenburn had one arm extended in the direction of the open window when I arrived. I thought she was merely reaching for her husband, who provided little calming influence, by the way. It suggests to me now that she may have seen the thief leave by that route."
Northam mulled this over. "Can you assist in a search without shooting anyone, most particularly me?"
One corner of Eastlyn's mouth kicked up. "I can certainly try."
"Not precisely the assurance I was looking for."
Eastlyn's grin deepened. "It's all I can promise. Am I searching for the necklace or the thief?"
"Either. Both." Northam drew East farther away from the guests as their circle began to loosen, and they milled about, contemplating their next step."Be careful. The others are bound to get underfoot."
* * *
Elizabeth Penrose stirred sleepily. Her cheek rubbed against the back of her hand in a languorous, feline movement. She murmured something, her lips parting and shaping themselves around words that could not be understood by the man standing over her. Northam knew he should step away from her bed, let himself out of her room as quietly as he had entered, but there was that unmistakable pull she exerted, and he was learning sleep did not diminish its force.
She lay on her side with the sheet and blankets tangled close by but not covering her. Her nightshift was a loose fitting batiste chemise, devoid of even the simplest ornamentation. The neckline was low and rounded and gaped slightly above the shadowed cleavage of her breasts. The hem had ridden up to her knees, and where one slim leg was extended Northam had a very nice view of a finely rounded calf and trim ankle. Her arms were bare, the chemise having only short sleeves. The fine hairs on her forearms were glazed golden by the early morning light.
When his eyes, dark at the centers now and as reflective as mirrors, reached Elizabeth's face again, he saw it was too late to beat a retreat.
Elizabeth bolted upright. As her mouth opened wider than her eyes, Northam was moved to take action. In the event she had practiced screaming in the same school that had tutored Lady Battenburn, Northam considered it the wisest course to shut her up. Because he doubted she would be receptive to a kiss, he clamped his hand across the lower part of her face and kept it there even when she managed to bite him.
He gritted his own teeth and punctuated his pain with a short grunt. It seemed to satisfy her and she let off.
To get better leverage, Northam sat down on the edge of the bed. The back of Elizabeth's head was pressed against an intricately carved walnut headboard and he suspected it was very nearly painful. Over the edge of his hand her eyes no longer expressed any surprise or fear but had narrowed accusingly and remained unblinking and steady in their regard. He eased his hold a fraction, not removing his hand but giving her space enough to tickle his palm with her breath.
"Can I count on your discretion not to scream?" he asked.
She nodded. The last thing Elizabeth wanted was to call attention to his presence in her room. Her initial reaction had been predicated on primitive instincts of survival. Once she recognized Northam as her intruder, fear of the man was replaced by fear of the situation. Her voice fairly hissed. "What are you doing here? Haven't you the least sense of what is proper? My God, if you are discovered..."
"I shall hide behind the truth," he said calmly, "and hope for the best."
Elizabeth's brow puckered. Her eyes were still narrowed, but the expression was less accusing and more suspicious. "What truth is that?"
"Oh, I see," Northam said, pretending only now to comprehend the root of her concern. "You think I could not resist you, is that it? That the interlude we shared in the woods, for all that it was brief, served to whet my appetite for a larger feast?" He shook his head, letting his hand drop away completely now. It hovered a moment just inches above the curve of her breasts before dropping to rest on the bed beside her hip. "The truth, Lady Elizabeth, is that the baroness has been robbed, probably by the Gentleman Thief, and has awakened a goodly portion of her guests with more screaming than occurs in a Gothic novel."
Elizabeth blinked.
Northam took this as a good sign."East and I are making a search. There will be others in our wake, but we are the first."
"How... heroic."
He ignored her sarcasm. "Yes, well, there you have it. When I opened the door to this room I had no idea that it was yours."
"Yes, but once you knew, you didn't leave."
Northam glanced around. Her bedchamber was appointed with a chaise longue near the fireplace and a secretary and chair by the window. A vanity and damask-covered stool were situated against one wall. A door he supposed led to her dressing room stood slightly ajar. A round walnut table flanked one side of her bed. It held a single book, a collection of short stories by the American writer Washington Irving, and two candlesticks. "I had to conduct a search," he said, bringing his dark glance to bear on her again.
"And have you?" There was unaccountably a small catch in her voice. "Finished conducting it, I mean?"
His eyes dropped to her mouth. "Presently."
Elizabeth could feel herself being drawn toward him as if his glance were a liquid, swirling vortex. The beautiful cobalt color of his irises was so deep a blue it was barely differentiated from the black pupils. His nose was strong, and even with the bump on the bridge it was perfect really, as perfect as his mouth, and the brilliant color of...
"Lady Elizabeth?"
She blinked again.
"Where did you go?" he asked.
That perfect mouth, set with just a hint of amusement, was homage to the greatest sculptors of the Renaissance. Elizabeth had to press her nails into her palms to think of something else besides those lips covering hers. "I want you to leave," she said.
He nodded. "In a
moment. You know, if you had not been so bent on avoiding me these last days, I would not be reduced to this rather foolhardy tryst."
"This is not a tryst."
"A rendezvous, then."
"It is not that either."
The edge of panic in her tone made Northam put a period to his teasing. "But you have been avoiding me," he said, the merest inflection at the end making it a question.
"Yes."
He welcomed her honesty. "Why?"
"Because nothing can come of it." She shook her head and pushed at the strands of hair that fell against her temple. "No, that isn't precisely true. It is because nothing should come of it. You would do so much better to leave me in peace, my lord. Your life cannot be your own once it has become part of mine."
Northam frowned. Elizabeth's speech was candid but also enigmatic. He did not believe she had set out to intrigue him further; indeed, her intentions seemed to be quite the opposite, yet Northam knew himself to be responding to that pull again. "I think you are a riddle, Lady Elizabeth."
"No," she said earnestly, "I'm not. I'm exactly what you think I am: a whore."
It was not the word that shocked him, but that it came so fiercely from the lips of Elizabeth Penrose. Northam actually reared back. His spine stiffened, and for a moment he was his grandfather, all stuff and starch, sitting at the head of the dinner table delivering a lecture on what was acceptable behavior in a moral society. Each platitude carried the resonance of a commandment from God. Thou shall not take a harlot to wive. The old earl had never uttered that exact sentiment, but the spirit of it was with Northam now.
"Elizabeth."
He said her name in the exact tone one used when trying to encourage an unreasonable child to see reason. Elizabeth had no patience for it. His next line of attack would be to tell her that she was speaking nonsense, and Elizabeth knew she might very well hit him if provoked in that fashion. To save them both from that end, she lifted her chin and fired the first volley. "You know nothing about me save what the colonel told you and what you've gleaned on our short acquaintance. It is not enough for you to make accurate judgments. Whatever you have observed in me that speaks of good character is false. I cannot say it more plainly than that."
Northam was frowning deeply now. He absently raked his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of what she was telling him."Why are you set on presenting yourself in such a manner?"
"Do not mistake my sincerity and believe I mean to intrigue you with this confession. I find it to be perfectly odious that I must say these things at all. There is no pleasure in it and I accept that you may well come to despise me."
"Indeed," he said dryly. "That seems to be your intent."
Elizabeth shook her head. "No. You are wrong. I intend only to give you a choice. It is better that you hear the truth from me than discover I have misled you."
"And what truth is that? Do you mean to name yourself a whore again?"
"It is no more than you have thought yourself." She did not avert her eyes but watched him openly, daring him to deny it. "I do not blame you. Indeed, had you not at least considered the possibility, you could not be counted as very perceptive. Admit it, my lord, my response to your kiss surprised you."
Northam said quietly, "It rocked me back on my heels." He noticed that, if anything, she paled a bit more. She demanded answers but was not completely braced to hear them. "It does not mean I thought you a whore."
Elizabeth collected herself again. She was having none of it. "But you wondered at my experience."
"You are six and twenty. Was I wrong to assume you had been kissed before?"
"Why will you not say it?" she asked. "That you are in my room now speaks to your thinking. You are not sitting with Miss Caruthers, pretending your presence has something to do with a thief. This is not Lady Martha's room. Or Miss Stevens's."
Northam held up one hand, stopping her before she named every young unmarried woman invited to Battenburn. He could have reminded her that all of these women were chaperoned by mothers or great-aunts or companions, and attending to them in their rooms would have been impossible, but this was also the argument that Elizabeth was bent on making. "I take your point."
"Then say it. Say why you have really come here."
Northam had no liking for being cornered and he had no intention of putting into words what he did not fully understand himself. She was correct that he would not have stepped beyond the doorway of Lady Martha's room, or that of the misses Caruthers and Stevens. He would not have even opened their doors without an invitation to do so, yet when his knock was unanswered outside this bedchamber, he let himself in. He could admit to himself, if not to her, that he suspected she was the room's occupant. Rather than making him take a step backward, it had had the opposite effect. He had stood over her sleeping figure, watching her, some part of him hoping that she would wake and...
"Coward," she said softly.
Northam's head shot up. He did not want to believe he had heard her correctly, but then he remembered she had called herself a whore. What inhibition would she have, then, from naming him a coward? "If your purpose is to provoke me, my lady, then consider that you have been successful."
Elizabeth took no satisfaction in it. She pressed on as Northam came to his feet, his back partially turned to her. "Would you rather I allowed you to seduce me? Should I have played the innocent for you then accepted your contempt as my due? What words would you have flung at my head? Tart? Harlot? Or perhaps you would have said nothing, and gone off to lick your wounded pride in silence, salving your conscience for taking me with the knowledge that there was at least one other before you. I am no innocent, Northam, and I will not permit you to pretend to my face that I am."
He took a step away from the bed, almost certain he meant to slap her if he did not.
Elizabeth kicked away the tangle of blankets and rose from the bed. She stood behind Northam, just inches to one side. Her hand lifted to touch his shoulder, and then she thought better of it and let it fall again. "I am not the sort of woman one marries."
Thou shalt not take a harlot to wive.
"Not if one has the ability to exercise choice. You must not be alone with me again, Northam. In any circumstances. It will go badly for you if you're discovered. I would rather you did not come to despise me for what is out of my hands."
He made no reply, and after a moment Elizabeth realized he would not. She stepped past him, the ache in the small of her back serving as a reminder of what she must do. She limped to her dressing room and returned wearing a fine wool shawl over her shoulders.
On the threshold, she stopped. She had expected him to use her brief absence as a way to excuse himself. Retrieving the shawl had been nothing more than a pretext to permit him a graceful exit.
"Can I do nothing to convince you to leave?" she asked.
Northam saw her glance toward the door as if she expected discovery was imminent. Perhaps it was, he thought, but he realized he did not care a great deal one way or the other. What he did care about was that she would not think him a coward, and taking the opportunity she presented to flee seemed a most cowardly act.
Elizabeth released the breath she had been holding as Northam walked to the door. She waited, drawing the shawl more closely about her shoulders, not because she was cold but because her tight grip on the fringed ends stilled the tremor in her fingertips. Her eyes dropped to his hand as he placed it on the brass knob, then lowered when his fingers drifted over it and fell to the key. Elizabeth's stomach twisted in the same motion as his wrist. Her breath was caught on the turn of the key.
Northam dropped the key on top of Elizabeth's vanity. From inside his jacket he removed the small telescope and stood it on end beside the key. He stared at them both a moment, studying their placement as if it held some significance, knowing it was not so at all but that what he required was time. He felt her eyes on him, regarding him with a measure of uncertainty now. She could not know what he
intended, not when he remained undecided himself.
Turning, Northam saw he had been right about what he would see in her face. Though her chin had come up, her teeth were worrying the inside of her cheek and a small vertical crease had appeared between her brows. Her breathing was shallow. Neither her shawl nor the hand closing over it could hide the rise and fall of her breasts.
He advanced on her slowly. Her eyes flashed as she glanced to the window as though it offered some escape. "It's too far," he said, his voice both quiet and intense. "And too far to the ground."
Elizabeth could not see that she had anywhere to go. She held herself very still, framed in the open doorway to her dressing room.
Northam stopped, a long stride still required to close the distance between them. "Come here."
She did not, could not, move. Tension running just below the surface of her skin pulled it tight. Anticipation was like a heated coil inside her. At the first touch of him it would unwind with such force as to make her cry out. She tried to pull into herself, shrink the feeling that was both dread and longing.
"Elizabeth."
Her name came to her as if from a great distance. She could not properly say whether it was his command or rather the voice in her own mind, the one that chided her for hesitating. Without conscious effort she stepped forward into the room, caught herself, and once again resisted the urge to place herself in front of him. She looked down at the hand he extended to her, then back to his face, his beautiful face with the darkening eyes, both steady and patient, and she knew she was well and truly without defenses.
A bead of perspiration formed between her breasts and trickled along the curve of one. Between her thighs she was damp.
They moved at the same time. She let herself be backed against the wall. Her hand released the shawl. He caught the ends when they fell to the level of her waist, twisting them in one hand so that he could jerk her against him. She threw her hands to his shoulders and lifted her face.
The taste of him was splendidly satisfying. Salty. Sweet. Faint hints of brandy and mint. She opened her mouth for him before he pressed his entry. Her hunger was a thing unto itself, existing outside reason, outside shame.
