“What can I do?”
“Where were you two nights past when I was injured?”
He was at Emaline’s attempting to convince himself that one cunt was as good as another, but damned if he would say so. He scowled at her.
“Are your whereabouts that night well known?” she revised.
Afflicted by guilt—an emotion he so rarely felt that it took him a moment to recognize it—he said hoarsely, “No.”
“Would you say I was with you if asked?”
“Hmm . . . I might. With the right persuasion.”
“If you were with another woman, I’m not inclined to persuade you about anything. I shall find another alibi.”
“Are you jealous?” He smiled, warmed by the thought.
“Should I be?” Maria shook her head. “Disregard. Men do not tolerate jealous women.”
“True.” Christopher pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, then deepened it when she did not pull away. Instead, she shivered and opened wider. His tongue stroked deep, his blood simmering instantly at her response. Hurt and in pain, she still accepted his amorous attentions as if unable to resist.
He whispered against her mouth, “But this man likes the thought of a jealous Maria.”
A knock came to the door that led to the gallery, forcing them apart.
“Rest,” he said when she opened her mouth to reply. “I will make myself useful.”
Rising to his feet, Christopher moved to the door and opened it, finding a sheepish-looking Tom.
“Lord Welton is in the parlor,” Tom said. “Philip has asked for you.”
Christopher was immediately on his guard, his face impassive but his thoughts awhirl with possibilities. He nodded, then retreated back into the room and collected his coat.
“What is it?” Maria asked, dark eyes wide with concern. “Is Simon well?”
It took a moment for him to squelch his urge to retort rudely. “I will see to him, but tell me this: would you show such concern if it were I in Quinn’s place?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Yes. I hope you squirm with it.”
A bark of laughter escaped—part humor, part disgust with himself for being enamored with a beauty infamous for her history with men. When she offered up another smile, he settled into resignation and nursed a faint hope that his enchantment with her would pass.
“Give me a moment to handle an unexpected matter, my lovely savage,” he murmured, shrugging into his coat. “Then we will speak further on the terms of our association. I will check on Quinn, as well.”
She nodded and he departed through the sitting-room door, pausing a moment on the threshold to take in the destruction of the furnishings and the struggling, gagged Irishman tied to a gilded chair in the corner. Furious mumbling and violent thrashing accompanied Christopher’s appearance. Quinn rose to his feet, hunched over by the shape of his chair, and two of Christopher’s battered and rumpled men shoved him back down.
“Gentle with him, lads,” he admonished wryly, noting the half dozen men sprawled about the wreckage in varying degrees of pain. “The lady insists, though it appears her fear is groundless.”
He managed to quell his laughter until he reached the stairs. Then he gave it free rein until he reached the foyer. Thankfully, he discovered the lower floor in much better order than the upper.
Philip met him at the bottom step. “I sent the housekeeper to speak with Lord Welton in the parlor,” the young man explained, leading Christopher to his command position in the lower study. “She told him the lady is indisposed. Apparently, the news was not well received. The housekeeper asked for you.”
Christopher turned to the woman who stood tall and proud by the front window. “What can I do for you, Mrs . . . ?”
“Fitzhugh,” she replied with a lift of her chin. Gray strands of hair curled by the heat and humidity of the kitchen surrounded a face lined with age, but handsome in its features. “’e asked me if she was ill or injured. I doona like ’im, Mr. St. John. ’e pries.”
“I see. I take it you would prefer he not learn of your lady’s condition.”
She nodded grimly, reddened hands twisting in her apron. “’er ladyship gave strict orders.”
“Send him away, then.”
“I canna do that. ’e settles the accounts.”
Christopher paused, his niggling sense of suspicion flaring into absolute certainty of something amiss. Maria should be settled in her own right, not dependent upon the largesse of her stepfather. He shot a side glance at Philip, who nodded his silent understanding. The matter would be investigated thoroughly.
“Have you any suggestions?” Christopher asked, returning his attention to Mrs. Fitzhugh and considering her carefully.
“I said you were coming to call. That you were expected and Lady Winter was indisposed.”
“Hmm . . . I see. So perhaps I should arrive at the scheduled time, yes?”
“You wouldna want to be late,” she agreed.
“Of course not. Step out in the foyer, Mrs. Fitzhugh, if you would please.”
The housekeeper hurried out and Christopher arched a brow at Philip. “Send for Beth. I wish to speak to her this evening.”
“I will see to it.”
Christopher left the room and traversed the short distance to the front parlor, where he entered behind Mrs. Fitzhugh as if he’d only just arrived. He feigned surprise. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Lord Welton glanced up from the act of pouring a libation and his eyes widened. Satisfaction flared in the emerald depths but was quickly masked. “Mr. St. John.”
“A lovely afternoon to call, my lord,” Christopher said smoothly while surreptitiously examining the fine quality of the other man’s garments. Despite a mode of living reported to be excessive in all vices, the viscount looked the picture of health and vitality with his raven tresses and cunning green eyes. He bore the appearance of a man who felt so secure of his place in the world, nothing concerned him.
“Yes. I agree.” Welton’s throat worked with a large swallow, then he said, “Though I had heard that my stepdaughter is ill.”
“Oh? She was vibrant when I saw her only two nights past.” He sighed in mock disappointment. “Perhaps she will withdraw from our plans for the afternoon. I’m crushed.”
“Two nights past, you say?” Welton asked, frowning suspiciously.
“Yes. After our fortuitous introduction at a weekend gathering at Lord and Lady Harwick’s, she graciously accepted my invitation to supper.” Christopher said the last with a hint of male satisfaction in his tone.
The subtle implication was not lost on Lord Welton, who smiled smugly. “Ah well, sounds as if this rumor is as worthless as most.” He tossed back the contents of his glass and set it on the nearest side table before standing. “Please give her my regards. I’ve no wish to intrude on your appointment.”
“Good day to you, my lord,” Christopher said with a slight bow.
Welton grinned. “It already is.”
Christopher waited until the front door closed behind the departing viscount and then returned to the study. “Have him followed,” he said to Philip.
He took the stairs back up to Maria.
Robert Sheffield, Viscount Welton, descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look up at the home behind him.
Something was wrong.
Despite the apparent facts to the contrary—the governess’s oath that the attackers were unknown to them and St. John’s assurance that he was with Maria the night of the attack—Robert’s gut told him to be wary. Who else would want Amelia besides Maria? Who else would be so bold? He would not have believed Amelia’s claim that her assailants were unknown to her, but the governess had corroborated the tale and she had no reason to lie to the person who paid for her services.
Robert paused on the threshold of the carriage door and glanced up at his driver. “Take me to White’s.”
V
aulting into the interior, he leaned back against the squab and considered the alternatives. Maria could have sent men in her stead, freeing her to meet with St. John, but where would she gain the coin to finance such a venture?
He rubbed the space between his brows to ward off a headache. So ridiculous, really, this constant push and pull. The wench should be grateful. He’d rescued her from certain rotting in the countryside and seen her married to titled and wealthy peers. Her lavish home and envied mode of dress was due entirely to him, and yet had she ever thanked him?
No. Therefore, he would keep her in mind as the prime suspect, but he was no fool. He also had to consider the possibility that someone else had a grievance with him, someone who knew his fortunes rested with Amelia. He hated to expend funds that could be used for his pleasure on a fruitless search, but what choice did he have?
Robert sighed, realizing that he would need more money if he wished to maintain his present style of living. Which meant he needed to search for a generous admirer for Maria.
Chapter 8
“Amelia, do not cry any more. I beg you.”
Amelia pulled the damask counterpane farther over her head. “Go away, Miss Pool. Please!”
The bed sagged next to her and a hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Amelia, it breaks my heart to see you so distressed.”
“How else should I feel?” She sniffled, her eyes burning and gritty, her heart broken. “Did you see what she went through? How she fought to come to me? I do not believe my father. Not any longer.”
“Lord Welton has no reason to tell you untruths,” Miss Pool soothed, her hand stroking down her spine. “Lady Winter does have a somewhat . . . fearsome reputation, and you saw her garments and the men at her service. To me it appears that your father is correct.”
Tossing back the blanket, Amelia sat up and glared at her teacher. “I saw her face. That was not the look of a woman who gleefully accepts coin to stay away from me. She did not look like a conscienceless monster who wishes to train me into the life of a courtesan or similar such nonsense as my father has accused.”
Miss Pool frowned, her pale blue eyes filled with confusion and concern beneath her blond brows. “I would not have stopped you from speaking with her if I had known she was your sister. I saw only a young boy running toward you. I thought it was a lovelorn swain.” She sighed. “Perhaps if you had exchanged words, you would not hold these illusions about her strength of character. Also, I’m not certain lying to Lord Welton was wise.”
“Thank you for saying nothing to my father.” Amelia caught up her teacher’s hand and squeezed. The coachman and footmen had also kept their silence. Having been with her from the beginning, they had a tendré for her, and while they stopped short of allowing her to leave, they did their best to make her as happy as possible. Except for the groomsman Colin, the object of her affection, who spent all of his time either avoiding her or glaring at her.
“You begged me,” Miss Pool said with a sigh, “and I was not strong enough to refuse.”
“No harm was done by keeping the knowledge from him. I am here in Lincolnshire with you.” Deep in her heart, Amelia suspected strongly that if her father learned of Maria’s actions, everything in her life would change. She doubted it would be for the better.
“I read the papers, Amelia. Lady Winter’s mode of living is not one that would be conducive to your instruction in ladylike pursuits. Even if everything else your father said was . . . embellished—which I doubt after seeing what I saw—you must agree that the chances of her being a suitable influence are very small.”
“Do not insult Maria, Miss Pool,” Amelia said briskly. “Neither of us knows her well enough to cast aspersions upon her character.”
Amelia’s voice broke as she recalled the sight of the large ruffian who had crushed Maria to the ground and then pierced her with a knife. Tears hung on her lower lashes and then fell to water the flowers that decorated her muslin gown. “Dear God, I hope she is well.”
All this time she had thought her father was protecting her from Maria. Now she was at a loss. The only thing she knew for certain was that her sister’s voice had carried a note of desperation and longing that would be impossible to feign.
Miss Pool pulled her closer and offered a shoulder to cry on, which Amelia gratefully accepted. She knew Miss Pool would not be with her for long. Her father changed her governesses every time he moved her, which was no less than twice a year. Nothing in her life was permanent. Not this new house with its charming garden pathways. Not this lovely room with its floral décor in her favorite shade of pink.
Then her thoughts paused.
Siblings were permanent.
For the first time in years, she realized that she was not an orphan. There was someone in this world willing to die for her.
Maria had risked life and limb in an attempt to speak with her. What a drastic difference that was from her father, whom she heard from only through third parties.
Suddenly, she felt as if something she had been waiting for had finally come to fruition, though she did not understand why. She would have to explore it, come to terms with it, then decide how she would act upon it. After years of days that blended one into another with nothing new to offer, a mystery had been revealed, one that offered the hope to end her loneliness.
The tears that fell next were tinged with relief.
Maria stared up at the canopy above her bed and attempted to find the fortitude within her to bear the pain of moving. She needed to see to Simon. She knew he was capable of taking care of himself, but she also knew he would be worried about her and she could not allow him to fret unnecessarily.
She was about to slip out of bed when the door from the gallery opened and St. John returned. Once again, her breath caught at the sight of him. He was beyond uncommon handsome, yes, but it was the absolute confidence with which he carried himself that she found most attractive. Simon also bore the trait, but in Christopher it was packaged differently. Where Simon exploded in Irish passion, Christopher coiled tighter and became more dangerous.
“Move and I will turn you over my knee,” Christopher rasped.
A smile hovered, but she held it back. The fierce pirate was something of a mother hen. She found it rather charming. It balanced out his otherwise overbearing and curt deportment. She could tell she set him off kilter. It was a simple joy to tease him, knowing that she was able to penetrate beneath his skin.
“I must show Simon that I am well.”
A low growl rumbled through the space, then he stalked to the adjoining door. Opening it, he said loudly, “Lady Winter is well. Do you understand this, Quinn?”
Grunts and incensed mumbles accompanied Christopher’s statement. He turned to look at her and asked, quite arrogantly, “Do you feel better now?”
“Simon, love?” she called out, wincing as the expansion of her lungs caused her shoulder to burn.
Violent thumping of chair legs against the floor was her reply.
Christopher stood there with one brow arched, waiting.
“Must you restrain him so?”
The other brow rose to match the first.
“I feel as if I should do something to save him,” she murmured, chewing on her lower lip.
Slamming the door shut, Christopher shrugged out of his coat and returned to his spot on the bed. She took note of how the stricture of his garments seemed to irritate him. Then she imagined him in only shirtsleeves and breeches on the deck of one of his ships and she shivered.
His mouth lifted at the corner, as if he knew her thoughts. “I’ve no wish to be courteous to him. He should have been watching you. He failed in that task.”
“He was unaware I was leaving.”
“You snuck out?”
She nodded.
He snorted. “More fool he, then, for not anticipating such an action on your part. He should know you better than I, and yet even I would have expected you to run off.”
“I would not
have gone had I anticipated danger,” she argued. But then she would have missed that sighting of Amelia. While the outcome was heartrending, it gave her some hope. Amelia was healthy and still in England.
“Those who live as we do should always anticipate danger, Maria,” he said softly, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Never lower your guard.”
As she struggled with her response to his gentleness, her gaze shifted to the door, seeking escape.
“Lord Welton was here.”
Her gaze flew back to meet his. Dark blue and fathomless. The man was an expert at keeping his thoughts to himself. She, however, was almost certain he could read her panic. “Oh?”
“He was under the impression that you were injured.”
Maria winced inwardly.
“But I assured him that two nights past we shared a repast and you were in excellent health.”
“Two nights past,” she parroted.
Christopher leaned closer, his free hand lifting to brush across her cheek. He could not seem to stop touching her in some fashion, a foible she found vastly appealing. She had been taking care of herself for so long, it was lovely to feel cared for.
“I told you I would help you,” he reminded softly.
But there was something she sensed churning beneath the surface masculine perfection. More than mere unease with new territory. Until she knew what it was, she could not trust him with simple truths, let alone with something so vital as the reclamation of Amelia.
So she nodded to signify her promise to consider his request, then closed her eyes. “I am truly weary.” The left side of her body throbbed from her head to her hip.
She sensed him lean closer, felt his breath brush across her lips. He was going to kiss her again, one of those light but utterly delicious meldings that made her blood thrum. Because she relished those kisses, she opened to him. He laughed softly, a throaty sound she adored.
“Can I trade a kiss for a secret?” he asked.
She opened one eye. “You put too much stock in your kisses.”
His grin stole her breath. “Perhaps you put too much stock in your secrets.”
Sylvia Day - [Georgian 02] Page 9
