The Westerfield Trilogy

by Renee Rose

  * * *

  “Lord Auburn has declared an interest in me,” she informed her preferred suitor in an undertone at the grand Ides of March dinner before the ball. Auburn sat beside her mother, charming the older lady with his witty banter whilst flashing his smile across the table to her and her father every chance he could.

  Darlington stiffened beside her, casting a dark look at his competition. “I should have broken his nose,” he muttered, causing her to stifle a giggle.

  Her mother looked over disapprovingly. She gave the hint of a shrug in reply.

  After dinner, Lady Westerfield served chocolate for dessert, a hot drink poured into tiny cups.

  Her father picked his up and handed it to her. “Pass that onto Darlington, I do not care for any,” he said. She complied with the automatic obedience owed one’s father and Darlington picked it up reflexively, his focus on Lady Westerfield, who had asked him a question. Only after she received her own from the servant, did she realize how odd his request had been. Why had he not simply offered the cup to her, rather than ask her to pass it to Darlington?

  She looked back at her father, who appeared intent on Auburn’s monologue. She looked into Darlington’s cup. Like most of the guests, herself included, he had drunk it in a few short gulps, the thick, sweet drink going down far too easily. An oily residue appeared in the bottom of Darlington’s cup, a different appearance than the dregs in her own cup.

  As usual, she could hide nothing from Darlington. He saw her gaze and followed it, comparing the two cups. He picked up his cup and sniffed the remains before swiveling his head to study her with an inscrutable expression. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest and her corset dug into her ribs as she struggled for breath. Her fingers turned ice cold and blood drained from her face.

  Her father. The traitor.

  How could it be? And he had just poisoned the man she loved. And worst of all, Darlington thought she had done it.

  The moment Westerfield stood, signaling the end of the meal and the start of the ball and festivities, Darlington slid his chair back and jumped to his feet. He took the time to help with her chair, but bowed and murmured, “Please excuse me,” before leaving the room in three long strides.

  She followed him out, but he had already disappeared. She started toward his room, then caught sight of his form outside the window, moving through the garden. She darted out, tripping over the walking stones in the darkness, barely suppressing her scream when she found Darlington collapsed behind the shrubbery.

  She knelt beside him, a sob welling in her throat. “Darlington, Oh God, Darlington.”

  “I hope you will understand when I ask you to stay away from me,” he mumbled, bringing tears to her eyes to hear his voice. He was still breathing, though his face was pale and sweat had gathered along his hairline.

  She crawled over him and tugged his cravat to untie the knot and loosen it. He lifted his hand and swung his arm, landing his palm square on her backside. “I said leave me,” he rasped.

  “I will not,” she said, searching his pockets for a handkerchief as he landed another swat on her bottom.

  “You have the most perfect arse for spanking,” he said, his words slurred.

  Her eyes flew to his face in surprise.

  “I know—inappropriate. But I have been nothing but inappropriate with you, have I not? And still you are here. Which either proves your guilt or your insanity. Dear Eliza, I do not wish to break your neck,” he said. “So you should leave me now.”

  She marveled at the fact that he believed her a murderer and the worst he had done was slap her backside. But then, he was not in his right mind. “I do not wish it broken, either, my lord,” she said, mopping his forehead with the handkerchief. “But I cannot leave you to die. Please believe me—I had nothing to do with poisoning you. I mean—I know I gave you the cup, but I did not realize it had been poisoned until after you had drunk it, and then you already knew it, too…” She stopped herself, realizing her babble solved nothing. “Tell me what to do,” she said, giving into the tears pressing behind her eyes. “Darlington, what can I do to save you? Is there anything I can do?” Her voice broke into a sob on the last words, tears streaming down her face.

  He brought his hands to her body, plunging them down the neckline of her dress and sweeping along her corset before withdrawing them and yanking her up on his lap.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she sniffed.

  “Searching for a knife,” he mumbled. He dragged his hot palms up her outer legs, around the waistband of her drawers and down the insides of her legs.

  He toppled over onto his side again, then flopped on his back, appearing very much like a drunk man. She straddled him, peering down at his face. “I assure you I have no weapon. I do not wish to kill you, Darlington. I play no part of this—I promise you.”

  “If I were to be killed by anyone, I suppose I should like it to be you,” he muttered, his hands gripping her waist and shifting her weight. She gasped, realizing his hardened length lay between her legs and he derived pleasure from her movement.

  She scrambled off him. “That is inappropriate,” she said, her voice sounding as shaky as she felt.

  He struggled back to sitting and pulled her torso down over his lap.

  “Darlington!” she exclaimed, exasperated, unable to struggle free from his strong grasp.

  His hand connected with her bottom with a stinging blow. “Poisoning me is a spankable offense,” he declared.

  She giggled through her tears, the situation too ridiculous to sort out how else to respond. Her father, an apparent traitor against her country, just poisoned the man she loved. Meanwhile, Darlington seemed more interested in spanking her than telling her how she might save his life or defending himself if she attempted to murder him. The sharp steady slaps reined in her panicked thoughts as she could focus on nothing other than the insistent tempo over her smarting flesh.

  He stopped spanking and pulled up her skirts. She expected him to open her pantalets and spank her on the bare, as he had done in the library that morning, but he slid his hand over her warmed skin, stroking her bottom.

  “My lord,” she said, trying again to wriggle free.

  “Shh,” he said. His other hand tangled in her hair, stroking it with a caress so tender she melted.

  * * *

  He could not resist her. It had been his problem from the start. He never, in his ten years as a spy, had made such a stupid blunder as drinking from a cup handed to him by a suspect. Hunt had used thorn apple in his cup, presumably to incapacitate him and keep him away from the meeting later, not enough to actually kill him or he would already be dead.

  He believed Eliza’s innocence, except he did not trust his own judgment. Which somehow left him with her over his lap and his hand in her drawers. And this time, inhibition and propriety dulled by the drug, he had no intention of withdrawing it. His middle finger slid up and down her moistened cleft, pushing gently at her tight entryway. Her thighs tightened, back bowing. He gave her a slap on her bare cheek.

  “Give a dying man his pleasure,” he said. He was cruel to allow her to believe he would expire from the poison, but he cared not.

  When she softened and opened her thighs for him, his heart twisted with love. Her obedience to his most unsavory demands, her submission to his punishments made him half mad to claim her. But even in his semi-delirious state he would not go that far. No, he just wanted to give her a bit of pleasure.

  He slid his finger inside her, satisfied when she undulated her hips in response. “Sweet Eliza,” he murmured. He worked the finger in and out, following her responses and building a tempo to match her need. When she began to thrash against him, he gripped her hips, holding her fast as he pumped his finger in and out, his knuckles tormenting her sensitive bits until she bucked and cried out, the inner walls of her tight channel contracting in waves.

  He left his finger thrust within her until her climax passed and she fell limp over his
thighs. Sliding out, he lifted her onto his lap and kissed her with all the passion in his heart.

  “Stand up, love. We have a meeting to go to, whether I can see straight or not.” He nudged her to her feet and staggered to his own. Picking up the handkerchief, he pulled her hands behind her back. “I am sorry, but I have to bind you until we see this thing through, darling,” he said, tying a quick knot around her wrists.

  “Do you not believe me?” she asked, a desperate pitch to her voice.

  “Of course I do,” he said, taking hold of her elbow and walking across the lawn toward the gatehouse. “But I am in no condition to make sensible decisions.”

  “Darlington,” she said, stopping and gazing up at him, fresh tears tracking her cheeks. “What about my father? What will happen to him?”

  He cupped her chin and kissed her on the lips again. “I will do my best to make it all come out,” he promised, though he did not know how he would do so. All he could hope was Jenners and Smith had a better handle on things than he did at the moment.

  In fact, when they arrived at the gatehouse, they found Hunt tied to a chair, under interrogation. One of his lips looked swollen and bloody and his eyes blazed with anger.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Jenners greeted him. “What in the blazes happened?” he demanded, taking in his rumpled appearance.

  He lifted his chin toward their prisoner. “He put thorn apple in my chocolate and I did not realize it until after I had drunk it down.”

  Jenners stared at him skeptically.

  “I know,” he said, acknowledging the unspoken surprise at his stupidity. “So what happened at midnight?”

  Jenners tugged the rope binding Hunt. “He showed up with a satchel of money. He purports to be the buyer, not the seller. No one else arrived. We waited until Hunt started to leave, then we invited him to our little conversation here.”

  “What did you do to him?” Eliza asked.

  Hunt had not seen his daughter standing in the shadows and at the sound of her voice, his face turned red. “Get her out of here! She has nothing to do with this! How dare you involve her just to get to me?”

  “Hunt, if you wished to keep your daughter out of this, you should not have hidden the papers in her trunk,” Smith said, kicking Hunt’s chair.

  “Get her out of here,” the man seethed.

  Eliza lifted her chin, her tears dry now. “No. I have a right to know what this is all about, Father. Why are you selling our country’s secrets?”

  Hunt jerked against his bonds. “For the last time, I was not selling, I was buying, and I arranged the transaction to save my country, not harm it.”

  He raised an eyebrow at Jenners, who shrugged. “That’s the story he keeps repeating. Says an anonymous note arrived asking if he wanted to buy England’s war plans, which contained special documents about warships.”

  Hunt nodded. “That is right. But I already have England’s plans for warships, because I manufacture them for her. So I brought the note to Magistrate Enton, and we agreed I should go through with the transaction, and take custody of the seller.”

  Smith made a scoffing noise. “A likely story! Why would the magistrate not send a constable with you to pick them up? And why did you poison Darlington?”

  Hunt lifted his chest as well as he could with his arms bound behind his back. “I am quite capable of bringing a man to justice, myself. And I knew Darlington would attempt to interfere.”

  “What was your plan for apprehending the seller? More poison in a cup of chocolate?” Smith sneered. Then his man quirked a grin at him and said in an undertone, “Never thought you would fall for the poison in a cup of chocolate bit. Did the lady give it to you?”

  He ignored Smith. “There is only one way to clear up this matter,” he said.

  “Cut off the girl’s toes?” Smith offered, a jaunty, hopeful tone in his voice intended to frighten Hunt.

  “Take him to the magistrate to verify the story. I suggest we go at once,” he said, understanding if Hunt’s story were true, mistreating him now could have career repercussions for all three of them, not to mention his plans to marry Eliza.

  “But sir, we are only just getting started with our interrogation.”

  “I regret it, Smith. Please go hook up our carriage and bring it around.”

  Smith shrugged. “If you insist, but I still think I can make him talk.”

  “If the magistrate cannot corroborate his tale, I will give you leave to interrogate him for as long as you please,” he promised.

  Smith grinned and tipped a pretend hat before leaving them.

  He wove his fingers into Eliza’s where her hands were tied behind her back, giving them a reassuring squeeze. He prayed, for her sake, Hunt’s story held.

  “You let her go. I will not have her dragged into this.”

  “I found the stolen plans in her trunk, Mr. Hunt,” he said. “A few hours before her maid left without asking leave.”

  Hunt stared at him, for the first time appearing unsettled rather than livid.

  * * *

  “Did you hear this?” her father asked her.

  Darlington’s warm hand settled on her low back, lending her support, despite the fact he held her as his bound prisoner.

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, you do not look surprised—you already knew?”

  “Yes, Lord Darlington… er, questioned me when he found them.” The tips of her ears grew hot at the memory of his interrogation in the very same room. It took great effort not to look around for the riding crop he had used to whip her bare bottom.

  “Lord Darlington, indeed,” her father sneered, no doubt at the false title. “Untie me, man!”

  “I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot trust a man who just poisoned my chocolate,” Darlington said drily.

  She had momentarily forgotten his poisoning, as he conducted himself so well in the present situation. She glanced up and saw the pallor of his skin and a glistening on his upper lip, indicating he still suffered its effects.

  The sound of the carriage clattered outside. The man called Jenners sauntered over to her father to dislodge his bound arms from the pole to which they had tied him.

  Darlington tugged at the handkerchief binding her wrists, unwinding it. “Go back to the manor and explain to Westerfield and your mother the turn of events.”

  “No,” she said, a wave of desperation bringing tears to her eyes. “I am coming along to London. I need to know,” she said, begging his understanding. She simply could not stay without knowing for certain whether her father was a traitor and what fate would befall him.

  He sighed. “How could I refuse you anything when you look at me so?” he murmured as Jenners led her father toward them.

  “Thank you.”

  He led her to the carriage and handed her in like a perfect gentleman. Her father sat next to her, grumbling about his bound hands. Jenners settled across from them, looking menacing. Darlington climbed in beside Jenners.

  “Drive back to the manor. I must inform Westerfield of our departure, or Mrs. Hunt will be unduly concerned,” Darlington directed the driver.

  “She will be overcome at your dragging me off to London in the middle of the night,” her father grumbled, but Darlington ignored him.

  When the carriage arrived at the front door and Darlington climbed out, Jenner swept his eyes over her. “Why did you untie her hands?” he demanded.

  Darlington rolled his eyes. “I will take her with me, if you cannot manage her,” he said, holding his hand out to her. She took it, preferring to stay close to Darlington.

  “A lot of good that will do!” Jenners grumbled as she climbed out.

  Darlington offered his arm and she took it, having the odd sensation of being a long-married couple, facing life’s difficulties together.

  “Eliza, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist when they had moved beyond sight of the carriage.

  The tenderness in his tone caused her h
eart to flutter.

  “I promise I will try to make this come out as best I can. I hope you know that.”

  She stopped and faced him, pulling the lapels of his jacket to draw him down for a hard kiss. “Do you believe him, then?” she asked when their lips parted.

  Darlington looked sober. His eyes still lacked focus, and he blinked as if concentrating to see her clearly. “I think it is plausible. But I am in no condition to judge.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  He turned and led her forward, toward the door to the manor. “What do you think?” he asked, dodging her question.

  “I think you want to believe me, but you cannot eliminate all suspicion.”

  He flashed her a boyish grin. “Not much escapes your analysis, does it? Can you forgive me my small doubts? You did just poison me, after all.”

  Before she could answer, they entered through the door and Darlington asked the butler to send Westerfield out, not wanting to enter the ball and have to speak with anyone there. When their host arrived, he explained the situation quickly. “So you see, we cannot stay to inform Mrs. Hunt or collect our things, we must leave straightaway.”

  Westerfield blinked. “Well, what on earth will I tell Mrs. Hunt?” he asked, as if daunted by the prospect of dealing with an emotional woman.

  “Perhaps Lady Westerfield could deliver the news,” Darlington suggested. “She is quite adept at handling people.”

  “Quite right,” Westerfield said, looking relieved. “I will speak with her first, and I will have your things packed and sent to London. Please send word of the outcome of your trip.”

  “Straightaway, my lord,” Darlington promised. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He led her back to the carriage. “I wish I could sit beside you,” he muttered as they approached. “Not that I can provide much comfort. But still, I should like to be your support.”

  His words were still faintly slurred at the edges, touching her with his compassion for her when he still suffered from his poisoning. He placed his large hands around her waist to boost her into the carriage, keeping them there just a moment too long, as if a secret signal to her of their connection. She sat beside her father, as was seemly, and Darlington settled across from her.