His brows furrowed in concentration, and he deliberated over her words.
She counted the number of couples strolling through the garden as he struggled to reach whatever conclusion was awaiting him after her declaration.
“Andrew,” he said.
“What?”
“If we are sharing each other’s confidences, you might as well call me Andrew.”
Bea’s spine relaxed an imperceptible inch. He had decided to confide in her after all. It was better this way, for him to trust her. She’d not have to use her considerable charms to coerce his secrets from him. Seduction was not unpleasant; however, she had come to like Andrew Smith in their short acquaintance, and she didn’t want to see him hurt.
“Andrew, how pleasant to make your acquaintance. You may call me Beatrice.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
She smoothed her skirts before clutching them together in her lap, a sign of how nervous he had made her. Drat. This country lord is more suave than I had anticipated. To avoid the peril of further missteps, she had to redirect the conversation to safer waters. Thomas would bemoan her lack of restraint were he to discover how a simple country lord had discomposed her.
“You are a charmer, Andrew. Best be careful, else we shall find ourselves in front of the minister before week’s end.”
“Beatrice, you do flatter me, but you are too expensive for everyday wear.”
She swallowed a sigh of regret and the bitter sting of rejection. True, she’d tolerated this man’s attentions with restrained irritation less than an hour past, but he’d shown himself to be a gentleman and a more intuitive conversationalist than she had credited him to be. She liked him, and though she had no desire to wed ever again, rejection was unpleasant, so she laughed instead. “You’re right. I’m much too costly for a gentleman farmer such as you. Since you have delivered a kind set-down, my amazing intellect will be here in London and not in the wilds of northern England to face certain boredom and stagnation. Avail me now of your worries, and between the two of us, we’ll decide what, if anything, is to be done.”
“Somewhere in there was an insult, Beatrice, but no matter. Like your uncle, my brother backed the wrong side.”
“He has not reconciled with you?”
“No, and I doubt he ever will. It is too late for us anyway.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. To lose a brother, even one who was adrift, cannot be easy.”
“What? No, I meant he’s thrown his lot in with a wicked bunch of smugglers. He’s their captain, if you can believe it, and for all I care, he can go hang. He made his choice, and now he can live with the consequences.”
“He sounds like my uncle. He joined with some smugglers, too, but these men were smuggling guns and money to French soldiers. I’m ashamed to call him family.”
“Anthony, too.”
“Anthony’s your brother?”
“Anthony Longe. He took my mother’s maiden name when he chose this dark path, the one bright spot in this whole sordid affair. That and he has decamped far from here, in the village where my mother grew up. No relations remain in Maryport, and none who live there remember my mother’s family, for they moved away when my mother was a mere infant.”
She scooted closer, bridging the gap between them, and rested her hand on his thigh, a calculated but necessary move. His trust was essential. Yet when the muscles underneath her hand shimmied and bunched, she admitted there might have been an ulterior motive behind her shrewd deliberation. She’d wanted to see if he was as solidly built as she’d imagined. “Maryport is near the Lake District, isn’t it?”
He removed her hand to trace lazy circles on her palm. “Hmm, my estate is not far from there.”
“I’ve longed to travel there, but an opportunity has never arisen.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll have reason to do so.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“As yours is with me.”
She leaned closer until her face was but a whisper from his. “I was right, you know.”
“About what?”
“You are a man worth knowing. Even a pretty window ornament can recognize a man of quality.”
“Thank you, though I must admonish you against calling yourself names. You are no empty-headed bundle of fluff, my lady, but kind and wise and—”
She pressed her lips to his and kissed him to stop his words, for in her heart, she knew otherwise. Conniving, lying, and manipulative were more apt terms. With every caress, coy glance from beneath her lashes, and shared confidence, she’d manipulated his responses to her, playing him like a fiddle. Her conscience pricked at her deceit, because even though she had promised to never reveal his secret, she was going to do what she must and damn the consequences.
A charming flustered smile tugged on his lips as he pulled away. “Well, it’s past time I return you to the ballroom.”
“You’re right. Father is going to make my sister’s betrothal announcement before the supper waltz. I’d best hurry if I’m not to miss it.”
They strolled through the garden and up the stairs in silence, Bea’s mind too preoccupied with what had occurred in the garden to engage in small pleasantries and her body too aware of the man’s strength beside her. The two slipped into the ballroom unnoticed, and Bea curtsied, prepared to leave.
Andrew stopped her and pulled her farther to the ballroom’s shadowed sides. “May I request the privilege of calling on you tomorrow?”
Guilt lodged in her throat. He was a sweet man who deserved more than lies and intrigue. He deserved a loving woman, a partner to share life’s burdens and a wife who’d not disgrace him. Grief replaced her guilt, for at one time, she’d have been willing to play the part. Gone was the wild, impulsive girl who had loved with abandon and believed anything was possible. Gone, too, was the calculating debutante who did what was necessary to ensure her love-child had a name. No more was she sheltered and naive. Fear, anger, regret—she’d experienced them all. Nothing, save a handful of charred cinders, remained of the girl called Beatrice Westby. Andrew Smith deserved better than what she had to offer.
“I’d be honored,” she heard herself say. He beamed, and she dropped a brief curtsy, eager to be away. Slipping through the crowded ballroom, she rushed outside, her strides lengthening until she ran. She ran until her sides ached and her chest heaved, until exhaustion numbed her from the harsh realities of her chosen life, and when she could run no more, she returned to the house once again collected and in control.
What did it matter if an honorable man wished to court her? He was a job, nothing more, and she was a superb actress.
****
“Where have you been?” Thomas Wickes said, sneaking up the back servants’ entrance. He ducked into Beatrice’s old room in Westby Manor and closed the door. The festivities below stairs were waning, and tonight’s events had left her exhausted. She experienced no remorse for leaving her baby sister’s betrothal party early.
“Getting the information you requested.” Beatrice slipped behind her dressing screen and removed her dress. With a shimmy, the golden silk pooled at her feet. Her stockings soon joined the pile of feminine cloth on the floor. Grabbing her dressing gown, she secured the sash and stepped from behind the screen.
She turned her back to Thomas and handed him her hair brush. One by one, Thomas removed the pins holding her honeyed curls in place and dropped them in Beatrice’s open palm. “I saw you dancing with Smith hours ago. What have you been doing since then?”
“You’re not my husband or my father, Thomas,” she said, gifting him with an annoyed over-the-shoulder glare. “Something happened.”
“Something? Or someone?” He pulled the brush through her hair, and she winced at the sharp tug of pain.
“Jealousy ill suits you, Thomas, and it is a tedious emotion. Since Lord Smith proved most cooperative in divulging his brother’s name and whereabouts, I am in a generous mood and will not torment your green beast
any longer. My sister was the reason for my tardiness.”
“Amelia, I assume, since she went missing after your father’s announcement.” Thomas handed her the brush and shucked his boots before removing his cravat. Bea sauntered to the bed and slid under the covers, her bare legs and feet reveling in the luxurious slide of silk. Thomas’s home, though modern and in possession of many luxuries, did not boast silk sheets, a serious lack of linens, in her opinion. She sighed and snuggled under the counterpane. “It seems my sister has eloped with your inside man, Tavis McGuire.”
“What? Did he find what he was looking for first?” Thomas joined Beatrice under the covers and pulled her back into his embrace.
“I doubt it, since he was busy romancing my sister. My guess is they are galloping out of London, heading north to Gretna Green.”
“Hell and damn.” He blew out the bedside candle, plunging the room into darkness.
Beatrice yawned and relaxed in Thomas’s embrace. “She seemed happy when I helped her climb out her bedroom window.”
“Climb out a window? Amelia?”
“She surprised me, too.”
“Tavis will have to wait. What of the information you learned?”
“Smith’s brother is a smuggler and a ship’s captain, most likely on The Stallion of the Sea. He has residence in Maryport. The man has been on the run for years. My guess is it shouldn’t take much to convince him to retire and for me to step in as his successor.”
“Explain to me why you’re doing this?”
“Because you’re too well known and too important, and I make a damnably good male. You can’t fault my training, for it far outweighs anyone else’s in the War Office.”
“Someone else would have suited.”
“Grumble all you want, Thomas, but it has to be me. After eight years of training, I’m ready. Master Jones has declared there is nothing left for him to teach me.”
“Fine. We leave for Maryport tomorrow at first light.” Thomas kissed her forehead, rolled over, and slept, his gentle snores a familiar comfort despite this night’s revelations. He was a dear man and, much like Andrew Smith, too good for her. When they had embarked upon their affair more than a year ago, Beatrice had warned him to tangle with her was to court disaster, but he had silenced her concerns with his tenderness and care. Her training might be complete and her emotions better controlled, but she was no worthier now than when she agreed to Thomas’s mad proposal to mix business with pleasure. As Jones often said, one has to know when to walk away, and it was past time she ended her relationship with Thomas Wickes. He’d be better off without her.
She crept out of bed, careful not to disturb Thomas, and dressed in her traveling clothes, then snuck out of the house. By the time first light peeked over the horizon, she had fled London, leaving behind Thomas, Andrew, and any dreams of a happier future.
Chapter 21
Herm, Channel Islands, September 1810
Beatrice had run away from him again. “What the hell!” His bellow followed the emphatic door slam Beatrice delivered after scurrying away from him. Since arriving on this Godforsaken rock the islanders called Herm, nothing had gone to Thomas’s plan. Instead of falling into his arms and renouncing any involvement between her and the Rom leader, Beatrice had been agitated and refused to accept the comfort he offered.
Jiggling the handle on the small cottage door proved ineffectual. It was locked. “Contrary female can’t stay in one place,” he muttered. “Not like I’ve spent months searching for her and want to be near her.” Not as if he were anxious to hear how she had spent her time recovering after the accident. He shot an angry glance at Stefano, his imagination running rampant at all the liberties the man might have taken with his Bea. Damn it! She’s my woman!
He needed answers, and he needed them before he strangled Beatrice’s not-husband. Thomas pounded on the closed wooden plank keeping him from Bea, but Stefano pulled him back and shook his head. God, even the man’s name has me curling my lip like a wild dog.
Thomas bristled and clenched his fist, knowing a good fight would clear the air and put some distance between him and this anger. Stefano, however, was oblivious to the gathering tension, or he didn’t care. Either way, it made Thomas all the more eager to hit the man. Thomas balled and unballed his fist and reined in his galloping temper while the other gathered driftwood and other sizable logs from the woodpile next to the cottage.
“Why did you stop me?”
“It won’t work. When she’s in a mood like this, best to let it run its course and stay out of her way.” Stefano dropped the gathered firewood in a pile and squatted over it, using his tinder box to strike a flame and coax a spark from the seasoned wood.
“What would you know about her moods? You haven’t been around to see her moods since she left the schoolroom. A lot can change.”
The wooden logs held the flame and soon a small blaze flickered from the pile of dead branches to chase away the cool night. “Of course not, no. Our acquaintance occurred when she was a young lady—serene, pleasant, and never rash.”
“Sarcasm is not necessary.” Thomas resisted the urge to stick out his tongue and squatted by the fire. This man takes me back to my schoolyard days, when throwing rocks and sticking out one’s tongue was the best rejoinder for an insult. Much more time in the man’s company and he’d regress to their cavemen ancestors of long ago, pounding his chest as he wrestled the other male to secure Beatrice’s affections. Luka Stefano was not his favorite person.
“It is if you are too stupid to believe because I knew her when she was young I didn’t experience the full sting of her spite. Once she told her father I had stolen one of his prized horses, and all because she caught a village girl kissing me. I tried to explain how the little village hussy had come on to me, but she was incensed and in retribution created a crazy story about me stealing a horse. We were run out of town because of her lie.”
“You were the cause of the curse?”
“If you’re implying I participated in such a ridiculous farce, you would be wrong.” Luka poked at the fire, his expression unwelcoming.
“No, but her lie is what caused the curse.”
“Yes.”
“And all because you couldn’t keep your hands off some rosy-cheeked village wench?”
“She initiated it, which everyone conveniently avoids mentioning, but yes. One indiscretion cursed Tris and exiled my family from England.”
“So you’re the injured party, hmm? To hear her tell it, you were the one who left her.”
“I am aware of who left whom, but my reasons were not as unscrupulous as you have imagined.”
“Why?”
“Because she was young and had never been farther than her father’s townhouse in London. A nomadic lifestyle wouldn’t have suited her.”
“Or maybe a wife wouldn’t have suited you.”
“I made the best choice at the time. Everyone paints me as the villain, but I was barely a man, myself.”
“Man enough to seduce her, get her with child, and leave.”
Stefano lifted his head, and he stared at Thomas. “What do you know about our history?”
“More than you, apparently.” Thomas reclined against the pile of firewood and crossed his arms over his chest, for all intents, a gentleman at his leisure.
“Are you going to make me beg?”
“Are you going to be difficult when I take her away from here tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll let her go, provided she tells me where the child is.”
“You don’t know.”
“We have established there is much I don’t know, so spit it out! My patience for this game wears thin.”
“The child is dead. He died soon after his expulsion.”
Stefano blanched, his pallid complexion visible even in the firelight. His discomposure almost stirred Thomas’s sympathy.
“You lie.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t know?”
“When I
left her, I took the family to Russia. We rarely go there, reserving it for times of great turmoil amongst nations. I needed to get away, somewhere far away where she’d not come looking for me. If she tried to send a letter, I’d not have gotten it until too late.”
“Would you have come back if you’d known?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I was a young man. My father’s passing came as a surprise, and I was thrust into the role of clan leader. I was finding my way with my people. A wife and child would have made the transition more difficult in some ways and easier in others.” There was a beat of silence. “Yes. I would have come back for her, had I known.”
He snarled, his sympathy fading in light of Stefano’s multiple transgressions. “You did more than abandon her. You ruined her life. When she discovered she was with child, she had to marry in haste. Within a month of your having left her, she married a marquis. He was a brute.”
Stefano clenched his fists. “Her mistreatment during her marriage is to be laid at my door, too? Abandonment, death, and abuse—she has done nothing but suffer since I’ve left. Fool!” He grabbed a hefty log he had yet to chop and heaved it across the deserted beach.
“Temper, temper, Stefano. Flinging logs will not change what is past. Beatrice will still resent you, and your child will still be dead. I do regret telling you so baldly. Had I know you were unaware of the child’s death, I’d have softened the blow.”
Stefano plopped into the sand. “I didn’t know. I’ve kept her here all this time, and I didn’t know.”
“Kept her here? She was too ill to travel. How did you keep her here?”
“I coddled her. Cooked her meals, laundered her clothes, and helped her heal. When she awoke, she believed us to be married. My grandmother asked me to continue the charade until her memories returned. She feared any unpleasant news would harm her worse than playacting as her husband. Believe what you will of me, but after my initial anger cooled, I wished her no ill will.”
“To hear Beatrice tell the story, you tortured her needlessly and worked her like a serving girl.”
Silver-Tongued Temptress Page 12
