“Apparently. I did compromise you horribly in Lady Franton’s garden.”
“And then you offered to marry me, thereby saving my reputation.”
“And my own.”
Victoria began another jab, and he caught her hand in his.
“Make your point verbally, if you please.”
“Aha!”
She didn’t try to withdraw her fingers from his grip. Her skin was so smooth, and her hand so delicate that he could scarcely remember what they’d been talking about. “Aha, what?”
“That was my point.”
Shifting his grip, he tugged her out of her seat and yanked her across the small space of the coach to sit her down beside him. “I seem to have suffered an apoplexy. What point did you make?”
She lifted her face to him. “You didn’t let me poke you again. You don’t repeat mistakes.”
“What?”
“So you’re being a boor on purpose. Why?”
He looked at her. “That’s a very weak argument.”
“Nevertheless, I asked you a question. Please do me the courtesy of answering it.”
Obviously, words had failed. Sin met her mouth with his. It was a ragged, desperate kiss, solely meant to distract her from her very troublesome line of questions. And it sent a jolt of electricity through him. She shifted closer to him, deepening the kiss of her own volition. He was ready—more than ready—to follow, however far she wanted to go.
Her soft lips parted at his teasing, her arms draped over his shoulders, and Sinclair had to stifle a triumphant groan. Good God, he wanted to make love to her. He reached for his walking cane to rap on the roof and signal Roman to make another circuit—or two—around Hyde Park.
“Sinclair,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Hm?”
“Answer the question.”
He sat up, letting the cane fall back against the seat. Her lips and cheeks were flushed, and she still clung to his neck as though she intended never to let go. Yet distraction obviously wasn’t going to work, either. He wanted to trust her, but he couldn’t be certain which part of his body was telling him that.
“The question,” he repeated thickly. “You’ve missed the straightest path. I’m being a boor because I am a boor. Just because I don’t want you drawing blood with your damned nails doesn’t mean I’m playing games or hiding things.”
She studied his face while he gazed back at her evenly and waited for a lightning bolt from heaven to strike him dead. He’d told lies as blatant before, but never to anyone to whom he’d wanted to tell the truth.
“All right,” she said quietly, withdrawing her arms. “If that’s how you want it. But if you won’t trust me, don’t expect me to trust you.”
“I don’t believe I asked you to.”
“No, you didn’t.” Victoria turned away again to resume gazing out the window. Hurt and disappointment showed in every line of her slender body.
Seeing her disappointed, though, was far better than seeing her—or himself—dead. And so, though he wanted to apologize, to assure her that if she would just be patient he would try to make things right for them both, he kept silent.
The coach turned up the drive and stopped. As a footman pulled open the door and flipped down the step, Victoria glanced at him again. “I have a dinner engagement this evening.”
He followed her to the ground. “Anyone I know?”
“I didn’t ask them.”
Well, this wasn’t going to be very productive. He needed access to her friends. If she’d decided to ignore his existence, that was going to become considerably more difficult. So, he had two choices. He could tell her another lie that would hopefully leave her feeling more charitable toward him, or he could tell her the truth. A little bit of the truth—enough to regain her cooperation, but not to put her or his friends in any danger.
Milo pulled open the front door as they reached it. “Good afternoon, Lord and Lady Althorpe. How was your luncheon?”
In the four weeks Sinclair had known the butler, Milo had never asked him how any part of his day or evening had gone. Obviously, the question wasn’t for his benefit. “Quite well,” he answered anyway, when Victoria kept walking. “It was very enlightening.”
“Ha,” she said to the air, heading for the stairs and, undoubtedly, her private rooms above. And she still had the damned key.
“Victoria, may I have a word with you?” he asked.
“You’ve had several already.”
Sinclair strode forward and scooped her into his arms before she could so much as gasp. “I require several more,” he stated grimly, continuing up the staircase with her in his arms.
“Put me down! At once!”
“No.”
His rooms began at one end of the hall, and hers at the other. After a few seconds’ debate he decided on neutral territory, and pushed open the library door opposite the master bedchamber. Once inside, he kicked the door shut and then plunked his bride down on the sofa beneath the window.
“You are worse than a boor!” she snapped, shooting to her feet again. “No one has ever treated me in such a disrespectful manner, and I certainly won’t tolerate it from you!”
“Sit,” he ordered.
She folded her arms across her chest. “No.”
He took a step closer. “If you won’t sit down, it will be my pleasure to convince you to do so, Vixen.”
Victoria’s expression could have frozen the sun, but after a moment’s defiance she sank gracefully onto the cushions again. “As you wish, my lord,” she said, her jaw clenched.
“Thank you.” Now that he had her attention, though, he wasn’t quite certain where to begin. He’d kept his own counsel and his own secrets for so damned long that he had no idea how to part with any of them, or how to sort out which ones might be safe for her to know and which ones wouldn’t be. From the expression on her face, growing grimmer by the moment, he’d best think of something.
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he said slowly.
“Don’t expect me to act surprised.” She leaned over to pick up a book and open it. “In fact, I no longer care.”
Hoping that wasn’t true, that after only two days he hadn’t alienated her beyond repair, Sinclair paced from the door to the window and back again. “I did return to London with a purpose other than assuming the marquisdom.”
“Yes. You mentioned something about finding a spouse.” Licking her forefinger, she began flipping pages, slowly and noisily. “I was there.”
“I intend to find the man—or woman—who murdered my brother.”
Victoria slammed the book closed. “I knew it!”
“Yes, well,” he continued, trying to ignore the sudden dryness of his mouth and the hard pounding of his heart, “don’t make more of it than there is.”
Her violet eyes were still suspicious as he faced her again. “Why not just say that’s what you’re doing, for heaven’s sake? And why did you wait so long to come back to London if you wanted to see justice done?”
At least she still seemed interested. “I was…obliged to remain where I was,” he said slowly. “And obviously whoever killed Thomas thinks he’s gotten away with the murder. I don’t want to disabuse him of that fact until after I’ve caught him.”
“So what does that have to do with your pretending to be drunk? Or with those three men lurking in the stable yard?”
He froze, then fixed a puzzled look on his face. “What three men lurking in the stable yard?”
She sighed. “The three men I saw you out there talking with last night; the same three who were at our wedding pretending to be drunk—or so I presume. I have some reason to doubt that now, as you know.”
Good God. She was astounding. He and the lads weren’t sloppy; they would have died a long time ago if they had been. Yet she had noticed them and in two days figured out part of their play. No wonder she’d become so immediately suspicious of him. He hadn’t realized how intelligent
she was, and it didn’t leave him feeling any better about including her.
Sinclair cleared his throat. “I know those gentlemen from my excursions in Europe. They offered to help me out.”
“And the supposed drunkenness?”
“People talk more freely when they think you’re inebriated. It’s a habit, I suppose.”
As he finished speaking, he realized he’d said too much. Thankfully, she seemed too absorbed by the rest of the information to realize that he’d stumbled.
For a long moment Victoria sat in silence, looking down at her hands. “Might I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“How many of the stories about your escapades in Europe are true?”
He relaxed a little. “Most of them.” On the surface, anyway.
Slowly she stood again. “Very well, Sinclair. You’ve given me something to think about.”
Any answer was better than outright rejection. “And might I ask you the same question? How many of your supposed exploits in London are true?”
She strolled to the door and opened it. “Most of them,” she said airily, and turned up the hallway to her rooms.
Sin resumed pacing. Victoria wasn’t precisely an ally; he wasn’t willing to tell her enough to make her one. But she wasn’t an enemy, either, and that felt like a victory—or at least the beginnings of a truce.
“A shilling for your thoughts, dear.”
Victoria started, realizing she’d been shoving her potatoes back and forth across her plate for the past five minutes. “They’ll cost you at least a pound, Lex.”
Alexandra Balfour smiled. “Done.”
“But we demand the thought in advance of payment,” Lucien Balfour said from her other side. “And considering that I have received permission to play faro at White’s tonight, it’d better be an astonishing thought.”
His wife scowled at him. “Don’t be silly, Lucien. Obviously she came here to talk.”
“No, actually I came here because I told Sinclair I had a dinner engagement. I needed…a moment to recover my wits.” She glanced at her friend. “I probably chose the wrong location for that, now that I think about it.” Witlessness was not a weakness to suffer from in the Balfours’ formidable presence.
“Nonsense,” Alexandra countered. “Don’t say anything, then, if you don’t wish to. I’m just glad to see you.” She shot another look at the earl.
Victoria couldn’t read it, but apparently Lucien could. He pushed back from the table and stood. “I’m off to White’s, then.”
“Oh, no, you don’t need to go because of—”
“I’m not.” He nodded in Alexandra’s direction. “I’m going because of her.”
“He’s terrified of me,” Lex said dryly.
“Only when she has slicing apparatus to hand.” Lord Kilcairn strolled over to his wife’s chair and leaned over the back of it. Alexandra tilted up her face and touched her lips to Lucien’s.
Victoria fidgeted. That was what being married was supposed to be like. Sinclair could use a few hundred lessons in that. And so could she, no doubt, since she’d arranged to spend the second night of her marriage dining without her husband.
“All right, Vix,” Alexandra continued when Lucien vanished. “What’s troubling you?”
“I really didn’t come here to complain. Sinclair made me angry, and so I said I had a dinner engagement.” She shrugged. “So here I am, abusing your friendship.”
“You never could, with what you’ve done for me. What made you angry?”
“Lex, don’t. You’re not my governess any longer.”
“But I am still your friend.”
“You’re also the one who said if I didn’t learn to behave, I’d end up married to some incorrigible scoundrel.”
Lex grinned. “No, it was Miss Grenville who said that. I told you you’d end up with a poor reputation.”
Victoria pushed her plate away. “Well, you were both right, I suppose.”
“Is he incorrigible?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cursing, Victoria stood to pace around the table. “I can’t even be in the same room with him without us arguing.” And without her thinking about his delicious kisses and his warm, sure touch—which made his boorishness even more annoying.
Alexandra cleared her throat. “So. How did Lord Althorpe react to your menagerie?”
“I think they amused him. He didn’t seem to mind, anyway.”
“That’s something, isn’t it? I tend to think that any man who can accept Henrietta and Mungo Park can’t be all bad.”
“I haven’t actually introduced him to Mungo yet.”
“Uh-oh. That could be the deciding factor in any relationship.”
Alexandra was merely trying to raise her spirits, of course, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. “You have a point. But how can someone be so attractive and so…aggravating at the same time?”
“Well, h—”
“And don’t say I should ask myself that question, Alexandra.”
Her friend chuckled. “Then I won’t say anything at all—except that you’re not a coward or a quitter.”
“And I also suppose I should try being married for more than one day before I turn my nose up at it completely.”
“I think that’s fair enough.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Sin was gone when she returned to Grafton House, and Victoria went to feed and visit with her pets in the conservatory. The cats especially seemed to enjoy the overgrown plants scattered throughout the room, while Henrietta and the foxhound, Grosvenor, had commandeered the old couch she’d purchased for them. Mungo Park was still pretending to be part of the ornate cornice work above the window, but the pile of nuts she’d left for him on the mantel had shrunk by half.
She would love to give them the run of the house once they became used to their new setting, but she wasn’t certain how Sinclair would feel about that. Her parents had insisted that the useless beasts stay in the room adjacent to her bedchamber, with even Lord Baggles only allowed out at night and only as far as her closed doors permitted. Lord and Lady Stiveton would have been happy to keep her enclosed in the same space.
For a long time after she retired for the evening, she stood looking out the window, but no shadowy figures appeared tonight. No doubt Sinclair had picked a different place for his rendezvous—somewhere she would never know about.
He had said that he pretended drunkenness out of habit, to loosen the tongues of those around him. That implied he’d used such tactics before, and often. And apparently his cronies used them as well. The question was, why? What information had he been looking for, precisely? Did it all relate to his brother’s murder? She didn’t think so—he’d said he’d returned to England for the purpose of finding the killer. So apparently he’d been up to something else in Europe.
And if he admitted to feigning drunkenness, were there other habits he merely pretended to? She kept thinking of that other Sinclair—the sharp, focused, and very sensual one who made an occasional appearance, apparently just to confuse and torture her.
Victoria smiled as she slipped beneath the warm, soft covers. They’d been married only a day, and she’d already discovered one secret. It was only a matter of time before she learned the others.
“You told her?”
Bates’s jaw dropped, while Wally sprayed ale across the floor. Crispin Harding managed to look smug, as though he’d expected nothing less.
“I didn’t have much choice,” Sin said defensively. “She saw you clods out in my stable yard the other night.” She’d seen him, too, but he left out that fact.
“So you told her the truth?” Bates hissed. “You? The master of misdirection?”
“I didn’t tell her everything, for God’s sake. Just enough to keep her from asking sticky questions.” He hoped the tale he’d told would suffice; his bride seemed to have an uncanny ability to see more than she was supposed to.
She’d been avoi
ding him for the past three days, either going out with her friends or staying in her rooms with her menagerie. He’d made a point several times of encountering her, both to determine whether she’d decided to give him a chance, and because he seemed to have developed an odd need to see her. He wanted more, of course—he wanted to touch her and kiss her and hold her—but he could wait for that. For a little while longer. He was patient, but he wasn’t a eunuch, for God’s sake.
“You’re going soft. A pair of pretty blue eyes looks at you, and you tell her all our secrets.” Wally signaled for another tankard of ale.
“Violet eyes,” Sin corrected. “They’re quite remarkable, really. And all I told her was that I wanted to find Thomas’s killer.”
“And how did you explain us?”
“Just to say that you were helping. And keep your voice down.” Crispin continued to gaze at Sinclair knowingly, and he scowled. “Speak, giant.”
“I was just wondering when you were going t’ask us whether we’d found out anything interesting.”
Sin kept his silence while a footman provided them with fresh drinks. He didn’t like what the Scotsman implied: that he’d become so involved with Vixen that he’d forgotten his brother’s murder. “I assumed you would tell me if you’d learned anything.”
“Nothing from me,” Wally muttered. “The cat drowner also kicks dogs and growls at small children. Our next saint, I suppose. Exports whatever he gets a good price on. Not much else, though, and nothing I could find that seemed illegal enough to warrant a murder. He attended Parliament yesterday, but you know that.”
Sinclair nodded. “I saw him. And Kilcairn, who seems to be rabidly anti-Bonaparte.”
“Aye,” Crispin agreed. “His cousin was killed in Belgium. Hate t’say it, Sin, but I don’t think he’s your man.”
As little liking as he had for the earl, he’d already come to that conclusion himself. “Why would I hate to hear that we’ve eliminated a suspect?”
“Because you practically breathed fire at ’im at your wedding. I figured you might want a chance t’make worms’ meat of ’im.”
“Right.”
“Let flights of angels sing him to his rest.”
Meet Me at Midnight Page 10
