All He Desires

by Anthea Lawson

  Miss Briggs glanced up, a bit more animation touching her face. “My mother was a governess and, um, she made sure I had proper schooling. Although my ancient languages are not very good.”

  “Nor are mine! Thank heavens we don’t have to converse in Latin. Although I’m sure the local dialect is a challenge in itself.”

  The girl gave a self-deprecating shrug. “After some time it’s understandable enough.”

  “It would appear I’ll be here long enough to make a start at it. Although there are things on Crete I would rather do.”

  “Such as?” Interest glimmered in Miss Briggs’s soft brown eyes.

  “I wanted to come here because of the myths. I was hoping to see the cliffs Icarus flew from. Or visit the cave where Zeus was born, though it’s doubtful I’ll see it, now.”

  “I have visited it. Mr. Trentham took us there.” Miss Briggs’s voice dropped. “They say you can hear the ghosts of all those who have prayed to him sighing in the winds around the cave.”

  “Did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “It sounds wonderfully eerie.” Caroline considered the girl a moment. “But how did you become acquainted with Mr. Trentham?”

  “Monsieur Legault gives him the bones, from the dig. He puts the bits back together and tries to tell if the person was old or young, had injuries, and, um, perhaps how they died.”

  “Delightful.” Caroline should have known he had such a morbid hobby. “Perhaps I should be worrying a bit more about being under his care.”

  “Oh, not at all.” Miss Briggs gave her an earnest look. “He is very well thought of, even though he does keep himself aloof.”

  “I’m much relieved to hear it. I’d hate to think he was only waiting for me to expire to see how badly my arm is fractured.”

  That surprised a smile from her new companion, a lopsided grin featuring an engaging gap between her front teeth. “Oh, no. Mr. Trentham is very kind.”

  Not kind enough to escort Miss Briggs safely back to London, however. “At any rate, he has brought you to me. But please, call me Caroline. This situation”—she glanced wryly down at the covers—“hardly warrants formality.”

  “Then you must call me Pen.” The girl ducked her head once more. “But you are tiring, and Mr. Trentham gave me instruction that you were to rest.”

  “No doubt. He probably tells his bones that, as well.”

  “I’ll just keep my journal then, while you nap.” Pen rose and fetched a battered book and pencil from the satchel she had brought, then sat at the table and began to write.

  Caroline lay back against the pillows. “Pen, will you write some letters for me? Now that I am on Crete longer than anticipated, I must inform my uncle and brother immediately.” And she would have to confess her injury, though she would make light of it. She was going to be fine, after all, and there was no sense in worrying them needlessly.

  “Of course, miss, after you wake.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to think of home, but instead the image of Mr. Trentham came unbidden. The shadows in his dark blue eyes, his disheveled hair. The care he took with her, despite his obvious reluctance: the gentleness of his hands, the utter competence as he tended her.

  She was far away from everyone she knew and loved, with Maggie growing ever more distant, yet somehow she did not feel afraid.

  The sound of Pen’s quiet humming followed her into sleep.

  Chapter 6

  London, April 1848

  Reginald pushed open the door to his father’s study. The old man was there, working at his desk. He glanced up and set his pen down as Reginald marched into the room.

  “Father. I do believe there’s something you’ve been meaning to tell me.” He set his hands on his hips. “The little matter of the new daughter you intend to acquire.”

  Lord Denby sighed and removed his spectacles. “You have heard about the adoption plans, then. I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, but the petition process is a long one, and I wanted to be certain everything was in order first. I am not deliberately keeping secrets from you, you know.”

  The devil he wasn’t. Reginald knew what his father thought of him, had seen the frown on the old man’s face, which he had quickly hidden when Reginald had entered the room. Ever since his father had taken Caroline and her brother in he had felt it—the subtle message that he, Reginald, was lacking. At first he had fought against it, but it had become easier with time to just accept the fact, to become in actuality what his father had thought him. And in a way it was satisfying—he was fulfilling his father’s expectations at last.

  “I’ve never been enough for you, have I? Better to just replace me with someone more biddable, someone more decent?” He sneered the words.

  “Enough!” His father stood. “I am not considering adopting Caroline in order to replace you, Reginald. This is something I have been considering for months. She deserves to have a place, a full place, in our family.”

  “Yet she will take only half my inheritance. I suppose you want me to be grateful for that, and for giving me a sister.”

  “You are my heir, heir to an earldom. Nothing can diminish that! And if you do not consider her as a sister”—Lord Denby shook his head—“it is not for lack of opportunity. Both she and her brother have long treated me as more than simply their guardian. I intend to bring her formally into the family—where she belongs.”

  It was too damned much. “She belongs as a vicar’s wife in some rustic hamlet! I can’t believe you would throw over your own flesh and blood like this.”

  “You have never understood—”

  “I understand perfectly.” Reginald forced his hands to unclench. “You plan to adopt Caroline, whatever I may feel about it.” Why couldn’t his father just give the chit a dowry and marry her off? The man was too sentimental for his—or the family’s—good. Certainly too sentimental for Reginald’s good, as his recent violent encounter with his creditors had proved. He still felt a faint twinge in his ribs every time he drew breath.

  “It is for the best. You will come to understand that in time, when the weight of the title rests on your shoulders.” Lord Denby’s lips tightened. “Meanwhile, I suggest you reconcile yourself to the idea.”

  Not bloody likely. He would have no shoulders for a title to rest on if something wasn’t done to stop the adoption. But it was clear he was going to get no further here. He gave the old man a cold stare. “I see how it is. Good day…Father.”

  Back straight, he left the study. He had not thought he could change his father’s mind, but some barely acknowledged part of him had hoped his feelings would influence the old man. Rubbish.

  He collected his hat and cane from the butler and let the heavy doors of Twickenham House shut behind him. He would, as usual, have to rely upon his own devices. And if it ended up causing his father pain, well, he had brought it on himself by insisting upon such a foolish course of action.

  “To my club,” he directed his driver as he entered the coach, after first giving the man a hard stare to determine it was indeed his driver. The day was advanced enough that when he arrived there was a good chance he would find Viscount Keefe there. The man was predictable in his habits, and, luckily for Reginald, those habits seemed to be worsening.

  He leaned back, propping one ankle across his knee. His father had been given his chance. Now it was Reginald’s turn, and the plan he had concocted was brilliant, if he said so himself.

  Once at the club he selected a table positioned just at the edge of the shadows, but close enough to the center of the room that he was still clearly visible. Wouldn’t do to be too inconspicuous, not when he wanted Keefe to seek him out. Reginald had no doubts he would. A few judicious words dropped into the right ears assured the man would come to him.

  It did not take long. He sipped his whiskey and watched as his target casually made his way over.

  “I say, Huntington, may I join you?”

  Reginald waved to the other c
hair. “Be my guest.” He studied the tall, well-proportioned man taking a seat across from him. Viscount Keefe—golden, handsome, popular with the ladies, and possessed of a particular weakness.

  The perfect tool.

  Reginald signaled the waiter. “What are you drinking, Keefe?”

  “The same, thanks.” The viscount crossed his legs and affected to look nonchalant, but spoiled the effect by drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop. “I’ve heard some interesting things about you recently.”

  “Interesting? In what way?” Reginald kept his voice bland.

  “Well…” Keefe leaned forward. “Aside from some gossip about an opera dancer, word is you are about to embark on a very lucrative financial venture.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled inwardly. The rumors he had seeded had indeed reached the proper ears. The potential lure of easy money had done its part to pull Keefe in.

  “Dash it all, Huntington, do you have to be so secretive? You know I consider you a friend.”

  He knew no such thing, but if Keefe wanted to imagine they were friends, so much the better. “Why so interested? Doesn’t your family give you an ample allowance? I can’t imagine you’d want to be involved in my little schemes.”

  Of course he knew full well the viscount was in nearly as much difficulty as he himself was, financially. It was not easy to maintain a certain lifestyle on what the older generation considered a proper allowance. Certainly his family provided for him, but Keefe’s tastes had begun to far outstrip his income.

  Due primarily to his secret vice. Opium. Opium of the quality and quantity the man seemed to crave was not cheap. Ultimately it would devour him. But not, Reginald hoped, before the wedding.

  “I am interested, actually.” The golden-haired man gave him a smile full of charm and bright, even teeth. “My income could stand to be fattened up a bit. And, frankly, a man likes some independence from the dictates of family.”

  Reginald nodded. “Family is one of the great curses of a man’s life.”

  “Too true.” Keefe knocked back the rest of his whiskey. “My dear papa, under pressure from Mother, is going to tie off the purse strings if I don’t procure a mate this coming Season. As if I had either the time or inclination to go chasing down a suitable chit. Blasted inconvenient.”

  Excellent news. Reginald concealed a smile behind his raised glass. “Dreadful news. Any prospects?”

  “God, no. Though I need to start looking. There must be some well-heeled heiresses about. Can’t put it off any longer. In fact, Papa has already cut back my incidentals a bit more than is comfortable.”

  Reginald set his glass down and leaned forward. “This may be our lucky day, Keefe. You need a suitable wife and income, and I know someone on the marriage mart whose value is about to rise. Significantly. Best of all, nobody else knows.”

  The viscount’s green eyes sparked with interest. “Go on.”

  “Think of it, my friend. You can be first off the mark, wooing and winning the prize before the competition has even caught the scent.”

  “Who is she? You must introduce me immediately.”

  Reginald held up his hand. “If I tell you her name and give you the key to her heart, I’m going to want something in return. This information doesn’t come cheaply.”

  “What’s your price?” Keefe ran his fingers back and forth over the leather armrest, though he kept his voice cool.

  “Thirty percent of the dowry.”

  The viscount frowned. “That’s a steep price.”

  “It’s a rich dowry.”

  “Then why don’t you marry the chit yourself if she is so well endowed?”

  Reginald shuddered. Perish the thought he ever be shackled to that do-gooding harpy. “The truth is, she would not have me. But you…With my information there is little doubt she would be eating from your palm within a fortnight.”

  “I’ve had my success with the fairer sex.” Keefe smiled his even smile.

  “Then there’s nothing to lose. If she won’t have you, you spend nothing but the effort of wooing. If she will have you, then your father restores your allowance, you gain control of her income, and you get to keep two-thirds of her dowry. What do you say?”

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  Reginald hid his amusement. “You insult me.” He made to stand.

  The viscount, a flash of panic in his eyes, waved him back. “Sit down, sit down. I was jesting. Thirty it is. But who is she? I won’t have her if she’s hideous in appearance or manners—though you wouldn’t suggest such a woman, would you?”

  “No. She’s not a remarkable beauty, but passable. You’ll find it easy enough to sow your seed there. And I’m sure I needn’t remind you that beauty is fleeting, but a substantial annuity brings joy for a lifetime.”

  “It does, indeed. Now who is it?” The man was drumming his fingers again.

  “Caroline Huntington. My cousin. She’s going to be adopted by my father.”

  Comprehension flashed through Keefe’s eyes. For all his dissipated ways, the man was no fool. “Ah. Made part of the family. With part of the family’s fortunes attached.”

  “Indeed.” How it galled.

  Keefe nodded. “I’ve seen your cousin—tolerable-enough looking. And the Huntington fortune—even a fraction of it—is quite respectable. I imagine I could take on some ‘regular’ expenses here and there.”

  “Very practical—for both of us.” Reginald lifted his glass. “To romance.”

  “To wooing and winning.” Keefe followed suit.

  “To substantial annuities.” Their glasses came together with a satisfying clink. “I’ve no doubt you can court my cousin successfully. Especially as I will provide you with details of her habits. Blind her with kisses, marry her, and install her out in the country somewhere. Before long you’ll be back in Town, living the merry life.”

  And Reginald would benefit, far more than 30 percent of the dowry. Keefe was a scandal waiting to happen—a big enough one to discredit even the most charitable-minded of chits. Although the timing had to be just right, so Reginald could save his own skin while getting his damned cousin out from underfoot.

  “I’ll call on your cousin at her earliest convenience.”

  “There is one problem.”

  Keefe rubbed his fingers along the armrest. “I thought you said there were no other suitors.”

  “There are none. But Caroline is abroad just now, in the Mediterranean. She’s expected home quite soon. Be assured, I will notify you immediately upon her return.”

  “The sooner the better. I can’t stave off my tailor’s bills much longer.” Those emerald eyes glinted as Keefe rose. “I await your word. Good day, Huntington.”

  “Good day, indeed.”

  Crete, April 1848

  Alex set the woven basket down and straightened his coat, then rapped on the door of Miss Huntington’s quarters.

  “Pen?” her clear voice called from inside.

  “Not Pen,” he replied.

  “Mr. Trentham. One moment. I wasn’t expecting…”

  He heard rustling from within, and a sound that could have been the scraping of a chair. Finally, after several moments she bade him enter.

  He was pleased to find her resting in bed—not attempting to sweep cobwebs from the ceiling, or organizing the villagers into a volunteer fire department, or engaging in whatever other endeavors might pop into her head.

  “You’re here rather early to inspect my arm, aren’t you?” she asked, the covers pulled up to her chin.

  He went to set the basket on the table, but the surface was covered with stationery, correspondence and, oddly, sheets of paper with numerals written large.

  “There has been a change in plans. Madame Legault needs Pen this afternoon, so it has fallen upon me to play nursemaid.”

  “You?” Her fingers tightened on the blankets. “It’s not necessary. I assure you, I will do quite well on my own.”

  He set the basket down and look
ed at her more closely. Her color was good, her eyes were clear, but there seemed something peculiar about her, or more accurately, the shape she made beneath the coverlet. It appeared bunched in odd places, and her toes raised the blanket in two sharp points.

  He stepped closer. “Have you been spending adequate time resting, Miss Huntington?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her eyes were wide. “Just as you advised.”

  “Is that so?” He bent and with a quick tug whisked the covers off the bed.

  “Mr. Trentham! Why—” She reached for the blankets, but it was too late.

  “Yes. I know. An outrage. And do you always wear full skirts and shoes beneath the bedclothes?”

  She laughed then and blushed most charmingly. “You have, quite literally, uncovered my secret, sir. I’m afraid I am incapable of lying about during the day. I know—I’ve been a terrible patient—but if you do not let me outside, I shall have to throw myself out the window, upsetting all those lovely geraniums in the process!”

  He tried, without real success, to keep a stern look on his face. “It’s obvious to me that leaving you unsupervised would be utter folly. What with you leaping into and out of bed, diving out the windows, perhaps even turning somersaults.”

  “No, not somersaults. They make me dizzy.”

  “It’s a good thing I had the foresight to plan an outing to distract you from such mischief.”

  She looked up at him, interest sparking in her brown eyes. “An outing?”

  “If you feel strong enough.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I feel strong enough. How fortunate that I find myself pre-dressed for an outing.” She offered him her hand, and he helped her rise to her feet, where she teetered for a moment before recovering her balance. “Let me just fetch my pelisse and hat.” She moved to the wardrobe and handed him her pelisse, turning so he could drape it about her shoulders. One-handed, she fumbled at the catch.

  “Let me fasten that for you.”

  It should have been a matter-of-fact enough thing, closing the pelisse, and yet suddenly it was not. Her hair smelled of rosemary, and his hand was so close to her throat that he could not help but be aware of the delicate pulse there. For a bare second his fingers brushed against her skin.