by Mary Campisi
And how could she honestly not know that Kleeton wanted to bed her? Couldn’t she tell by the overblown praise he gave her? Did she really believe it when Kleeton told her she had hair the color of the sun, as though one hundred fairies had danced through it with their wands dipped in gold? Or that she was so exquisite she reminded him of a Greek goddess? What rubbish! He’d almost fallen off his horse when he’d heard Kleeton murmur those words. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to spring from Speed Demon and pummel the man.
Emily was an intelligent woman. Certainly, she could tell when a man was feigning sincerity for ulterior motives. As in wanting to feel the silk of that luxurious golden hair running over every inch of his naked body, or finding out just how exquisite her body was minus clothing.
If Noah had made any of those ridiculous comments to her in the guise of a compliment, she’d have flung a chamber pot at him. Or jabbed him with a poker. But not Andrew. He was too perfect, too polished. Beyond reproach. It had been almost four days since the argument. They were becoming quite adept at avoiding each other whenever possible. Cyrus had received a note from Emily via Billington the first morning, informing him she was a little under the weather and wouldn’t be taking her early morning ride for the next several days. Just as well, because Cyrus didn’t trust himself to be alone with her for fear he’d wring her neck.
Meals were another somber affair. Cyrus tended to bury himself in the paper during breakfast and other than a slight nod when she entered, ignored the beautiful woman at the other end of the table. He called forth all his tactical skills to elude Emily during the other meals by dining before or after the scheduled time. As for Kleeton and the afternoon rides, Emily gave those up as well, at least for the moment.
For all his apparent elusiveness, Cyrus knew where Emily was and what she was doing at all times. If she roamed about in the gardens, working among the herbs or wildflowers, which she seemed to do quite a bit, he watched from the library window. If she decided to stroll among the roses, or walk the privet maze, Billington followed her. If Emily ventured to the stables, which she did every day, Cyrus trailed several paces behind. Henry Barnes was more than willing to report his mistress’ comings and goings once he learned Cyrus didn’t like Andrew Kleeton any more than he did.
Evenings stretched out long and lonely. There were no more after dinner chess games or comfortable conversations. No more soft melodies drifting through the air as Emily’s fingers glided over the piano keys. Only the echoes of silence rang through the manor, louder and more deafening than a crowded ballroom at the height of The Season.
“Sir?”
Cyrus turned from the window. Billington’s measured steps advanced toward him, his lanky body moving with its usual air of quiet superiority. “What is it Billington?”
“This, sir,” Billington held out a plain white envelope with Emily’s name on it. “It’s from Mr. Kleeton.”
Cyrus snatched the envelope and tore it open. He scanned the contents and said, “It looks as though I’m about to get a peek into Kleeton’s lair. Emily’s been invited to tea tomorrow afternoon. Isn’t that nice, Billington?”
Edward Billington’s upper lip twitched into a semblance of a half smile. “Very good sir. Very good indeed.”
****
The carriage rolled along the dirt road, winding its way past rows of elm and ash, their leaves fluttering in the soft breeze like tiny jewels. Small clouds of dust kicked up around the wheels, partially obscuring the mosaic pattern the sun’s rays cast on the ground as they filtered through the green foliage.
Cyrus stared out the window. He and Emily had been in the carriage less than ten minutes but it seemed like hours. The scent of her lilac perfume called to him. He stared harder. Her soft, even breathing floated through the carriage and wrapped around his body like a whisper, tugging at his heart. And his groin. He closed his eyes and blinked hard. A vision of Emily, naked and writhing beneath him, swept through his mind. Soft. Sensuous. His eyes shot open. Damn, but it was hot in this blasted carriage. He tugged at the knot of his cravat. This had been a mistake. He should have saddled Speed Demon and ridden alongside the carriage, a safe distance from the sight, and sound and smell of Emily.
Casting a sideways glance at her, he noted she continued to stare out of the window, oblivious to his current state of distress or the fact that she was the cause of it. Her hair looked perfect, every golden lock in place under the pale green bonnet trimmed in gold. Hands adorned in cream kidskin remained in her lap, resting on the neat folds of her pale green gown. Emily appeared calm, cool, and unperturbed, unlike her husband, who was as wild as a tempest, and as hot as the devil himself. Emily could do that to him. And it galled him.
He couldn’t think straight when she was so close which was the whole reason they were in their current predicament. He’d lost his temper, said things he shouldn’t have, and all because whenever he looked at her, smelled her lilac scent, heard her soft voice, he lost his objectivity. Damnation! Never, had he been on an assignment where he’d done that. He’d always prided himself on his ability to remain in character.
Until now. Emily made him feel things he’d never felt before and it was proving quite difficult to keep his cover because he felt anything but detachment from his wife. And because of this, he interfered with his own character. Noah kept creeping in, stealing an extra moment whenever possible, lingering on a word, fabricating excuses to spend time with her. Cyrus Mandrey would not have done that. Cyrus was here to do his job in a professional manner but Noah wouldn’t let him, and now Cyrus Mandrey and Noah Sandleton were intertwined, creating a dangerous, deadly situation.
Cyrus Mandrey would never have lost his temper or forgotten to shuffle along or spoken in Noah’s voice. He would’ve completed his mission, with as little emotion as possible, and disappeared. That’s what had always made Noah such a good operative. He possessed the ability to lose himself in whatever role he played. So much so, it was difficult to find a trace of Noah Sandleton in any of his characters. Until now. Noah had seeped into the persona of Cyrus Mandrey, little by little, day by day.
It was time to get a grip on the situation and force Noah out of the picture, or at least control him before he made another mistake. If Kleeton were The Serpent, he’d be a trained observer, skilled at detecting the slightest incongruence.
Cyrus pulled his gaze back to the woman seated across from him. Her eyes had fluttered closed, her head tilted back to expose the slender column of her neck. His gaze lingered on her chest, mesmerized by the slow, even movements of her breasts. He leaned against the velvet squabs and sighed. There was no way he could play the role of Cyrus Mandrey without Noah’s thoughts and feelings taking over. No way at all.
****
Penworth was an old estate, older than Glenview Manor, with vine-covered brick walls and overgrown privet and arborvitae cowering along the pathways and main entrance. Clumps of overgrown grass and weeds crowded out the few spindly roses that fought through the thick greenery as they struggled for a hint of light.
Cyrus walked ahead of Emily, reminding her of a soldier blazing the path. Tiny shreds of guilt tugged at her. They hadn’t exchanged a civil word in days. Longer than that since they’d laughed or shared honest conversation. She missed those times. He’d only been trying to protect her because he believed Andrew was a threat, but it hadn’t been necessary. Andrew wasn’t trying to get into her bed, for heaven’s sake. Only one man had ever tried to do that, and he’d succeeded, with very little effort.
Noah was the cause for the rift with Cyrus. Everything always came back to that blasted man. If Cyrus hadn’t tried to make excuses for Noah’s actions, implying that he might well have had good reason for leaving, Emily wouldn’t have lost her temper and this whole argument would never have taken place. Cyrus always seemed to rally for Noah, giving him the benefit of the doubt, making an excuse for his absence. She knew why he was doing it. She’d figured it out weeks ago.
Cyru
s wanted to protect her feelings by fabricating forgivable reasons for Noah’s leaving but there was no use trying to sweeten a bitter pill. Emily knew her husband for the uncaring rakehell he was, even if Cyrus did not.
“We’re here to see Mr. Kleeton.” Cyrus’s low voice pulled Emily back from her thoughts. She looked up and gasped. A short, squat man with a black patch over his right eye stared straight at her. His good eye, if it could be considered that, was a rheumy faded gray. His sallow complexion matched the few strands of hair remaining on his head. He wore black from the ill-fitting jacket stretching over his round middle to the boots on his small feet. He made no move to let them in, nor did he speak. His thin lips curved downward into a frown.
Cyrus cleared his throat and tried again. “Would you be so kind as to announce Lady Emily Sandleton and Mr. Cyrus Mandrey? Mr. Kleeton is expecting us.”
The man backed away from the door, an inch at a time. Cyrus took that opportunity to shoulder his way through, grabbing Emily’s hand, and pulling her with him. The heavy wooden door clicked behind them. Emily turned to see the butler’s pudgy hands pushing a heavy brass lock through the bolt. Thank God Cyrus was with her. She’d apologize for their silly little spat as soon as they were back inside the carriage headed home. And to think she’d almost tried to sneak away to Penworth without him. Emily clung to his arm as they walked down the hall. It was mid-afternoon, nearing the end of summer, yet Penworth gave off the feel of midnight in the dead of winter. Dark. Dismal. The butler stopped in front of a black, double door and knocked.
“Come in,” Andrew Kleeton called from the other side.
The butler opened one of the doors and stepped back to permit Cyrus and Emily entrance. A stale, sour odor reached Emily as she passed the strange creature of a man and when she sensed his rheumy eye on her, she moved closer to Cyrus.
Andrew Kleeton rose from an overstuffed chair and approached them. He was the one bright spot in an otherwise, gloomy room. The casual elegance of his coffee-colored superfine jacket, cream breeches and snowy-white cravat were at odds with his dark surroundings. He was sunshine and light, with his blond good looks and gleaming smile.
“Emily, how good to see you,” he said, bestowing one of those smiles as he took her hand.
If she kept her gaze fixed on his summer blue eyes, she could almost forget where they were. She glanced at the black, brocade draperies that covered the windows, barring even a sliver of light from entering. The sofa, the chairs, the rugs, were all done in matching patterns of black. What in the world was Andrew doing in a morbid place like this?
Andrew nodded in Cyrus's direction. “Mandrey.”
“Kleeton.” Neither man made an attempt to extend a hand.
“If there is no objection,” Andrew said, “I had rather thought to share a quiet cup of tea with Emily.”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Cyrus asked, his words laced with sarcasm.
“Alone.”
“Why?”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed just a hint, and then he smiled again. “I have some issues I wish to discuss with her. In private.”
Cyrus crossed his arms over his burly chest. “My job is to protect Emily. Where she goes, I go.”
“Are you still worried about Noah Sandleton? You needn’t be.” Andrew strode to a brocade-covered window and pulled back the fabric. “Even your Mr. Sandleton couldn’t get through these.” Black iron bars, set close together, ran the entire length of the window, blocking anyone from entering. Or exiting. A twinge of uneasiness gripped Emily. With each passing moment, Penworth reminded her more of a prison and less of a residence.
“Emily?” Cyrus asked, ignoring Andrew.
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said with more conviction than she felt. She looked about the room, from the huge sword displayed over the mantel to the flickering lamps which cast eerie shadows off the walls. What was Andrew doing here? It was the tenth time she’d asked that question in the ten minutes since she’d crossed the threshold of Penworth. He didn’t belong in such morbid surroundings. Perhaps this was the décor of the previous residents, the duke and duchess of something or other. Emily couldn’t recall their names, but would bet these hideous furnishings bore their stamp.
But what about the monster of a man behind her? She could still hear his thick, heavy breathing, still smell the sour cabbage emanating from his person. Was he a cast off from the duke and duchess as well?
“In that case, I’ll be waiting right outside the door,” Cyrus said.
Andrew addressed the butler. “Thank you Charles, that will be all. Would you please send Mrs. Rothmore in with our tea?” He smiled at Emily again. “Oh, and have her see to Mr. Mandrey’s needs.”
The labored breathing diminished, as did the smell of something akin to a rubbish bin, signaling the butler’s departure. As the door closed, Emily let out a long breath. “Andrew,” she asked as she removed her bonnet, “where on earth did you find that man?” Dreadful, shocking, monstrous were more appropriate descriptions, but she didn’t want Andrew to know how much one man bothered her.
“Charles? He’s harmless,” Andrew said, taking a seat beside her on the black sofa. He leaned back and crossed a booted foot over his knee. “Charles is the product of our country’s illustrious prison system. When I found him, he was nothing more than a bloody, beaten piece of human flesh, his eye gouged out and his tongue ripped from his mouth. He’d been thrown in a fallow grave, left to bleed to death.”
Prison. Beaten piece of human flesh. Left to bleed to death. Questions thundered in her brain, rolling over one another, fighting for the answers like the hooves of a hundred horses charging into battle. What was Andrew doing near a prison? Why was this man Charles beaten and left for dead? What crime had he committed? Why did Andrew’s fine lips twist into a cruel smile, his eyes glaze, as though he relished the tale and wanted to say more? Perhaps expand on the hideous mutilation of the butler, describe each gory detail?
Emily shuddered. Andrew’s gaze snapped to hers, his eyes warm and smiling, making her think she must have imagined the cold steel of a moment ago, must have dreamed the demonic curl of his lips.
He patted Emily’s hand and asked in a voice the texture of brushed velvet, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing near Newgate?”
Emily nodded. How foolish and small of her to act so skittish about the tale of a man and his misfortune. She should concentrate instead on Andrew’s valiant rescue effort and the fact that Charles was still alive, disfigured or not.
“It’s a well-kept secret, but I’m something of an amateur writer. I’ve always kept journals of my travels, writing about everything, no matter how insignificant. Human suffering intrigues me. Exploring Newgate seemed logical. I wanted to understand the mechanisms of a prison from the dank, musty interior of the cells to the warped, sinister minds of the guards and the broken, hopeless spirits of the imprisoned.”
“To fight the cause of the oppressed?” Emily asked, thinking him nothing short of a hero.
“To test the limits to which a human will go before he loses reason, blurs all sense of right and wrong, and is willing to compromise himself and his ideals,” Andrew answered.
Emily frowned. She hadn’t expected that answer. “But why is he compromising himself?”
Andrew leaned toward her, his summer blue gaze pressing into hers. “Greed and power, Emily. It all boils down to that. Greed and power.”
“Greed and power?” she echoed. “As in everyone has a price at which he or she will give over and perform in a particular manner?” Her voice raised an octave. “Or, for the assurance of a certain amount of control, one can also be persuaded to surrender one’s values? I most strongly disagree with you, Andrew. If one has true conviction, no amount of money or power will lure him from that conviction.”
He laughed, a full and hearty sound that filled the air, lightening the somber mood. “Oh, Emily, of course, you believe in conviction and principle. That’s what makes
you who you are.” His words were soft and gentle as the wind whispering through the trees. “That’s why you are so very special. And you are, Emily. So very special.”
She smiled, mistaking the heat in his voice for genuine brotherly affection. “As are you. Thank you for being such a good friend.”
His lips tilted upward, a faint suggestion of a smile playing about his mouth. “Friends.”
“Good friends,” Emily said, her smile deepening.
“Ah, yes,” he repeated. “Good friends.”
A knock on the door signaled their refreshments had arrived. “Come in, Mrs. Rothmore.” The door opened, but it was Cyrus, not Mrs. Rothmore, who bore the silver platter of tea and assorted cakes, cookies and scones. He advanced, and without a word, placed the tray on the mahogany table.
“Your new duties suit you, Mandrey,” Andrew said, nodding toward the silver tea service.
Cyrus ignored his words and addressed Emily. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course, Cyrus,” Emily said, puzzled by his over-concern. “Everything is fine.”
“I’ll be outside,” he said and turning on his heel, quit the room.
“He’s the reason I wanted to speak with you in private.”
“Cyrus?” Emily asked, holding her cup while Andrew poured the steaming brew for her.
“Yes. Mandrey. I think you should get rid of him. The sooner the better.”
“I can’t do that!”
“How can he protect you when he can’t take his eyes off you long enough to notice the threat of danger?”
She stared at him, unwilling to hear the words, much less understand them.
“The man’s in love with you, Emily. Surely, you can see that.”
“That’s absurd. Cyrus is concerned for my welfare, nothing more. Certainly nothing on a personal level.” She sipped at her tea, finding it odd that Cyrus had said the exact same thing about Andrew. She didn’t believe either one. More likely, they were using her as a pawn, a prize to be won in their war against one another, for nothing more than the sheer sake of winning and besting the other.
