by Diana Quincy
The vegetable girl spoke up. “What do you mean when you say you landed?”
“I am an aeronaut,” Mari said, trying not to squirm each time Mrs. Godfrey poked at her knee. “I experienced a little mishap with my parachute.”
“Yes.” Leaning his left hip against the worktable, Dunsmore crossed his arms over his chest. A substantial, well-formed chest, she was annoyed to notice. “In the same way I only indulge in a little bit of brandy.”
“An aeronaut!” Sarah’s rounded eyes fixed on Mari. “Do you jump from a balloon?”
“Yes, I do.” She favored the girl with an encouraging smile. Allies in the household would be helpful, and servants in great houses typically knew where the family secrets were hidden. “I tether my parachute and gondola to the balloon so that it can carry me up into the sky. When I am high enough, I cut the cable that connects me to the balloon. Once the separation occurs, my parachute opens and allows me to float down to safety.”
“You’d have been wiser to stay tethered to the balloon.” Picking up a potato, he tossed it a few inches into the air and caught it. “Or better yet, on terra firma. We’re not birds, after all.”
She lifted a brow. “Somehow your appalling lack of imagination does not surprise me.”
His insolent mouth tilted into a smile that hinted of great wickedness. “To the contrary, Miss Lamarre, if there is one thing I don’t lack, it’s imagination.”
The impact of that devilish smile burned through her like acid. She’d been wrong to assume Dunsmore was harmless. His dangerousness came not from a clever, inquisitive mind, which he clearly lacked, but rather from his potent masculine appeal. It emanated from him as radiantly as rays of warmth flowed from the sun. No doubt women all over England tossed up their skirts the instant he shined that smile on them.
“Off with you,” Mrs. Godfrey said. “We need to get Miss Lamarre into a hot bath to soothe her knee.”
A bath. Mari suppressed a sigh of delight. She hadn’t had a real bath in days. “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Godfrey. “It’s no trouble.”
“Do take Godfrey up on her offer, Miss Lamarre.” Dunsmore wrinkled his nose. “You could definitely use a bath.”
Mari stiffened. “At least I don’t smell like a brandy-soaked connard who’s been bouncing the mattress all night,” she retorted in French.
“Noticed that, did you?” he said smoothly in the same language. “Don’t go getting your breeches in a bunch. I think I can manage one more round if you want to have a go with me.”
“Cochon.” The varlet had no manners, yet lightning shot down her insides whenever he aimed the full force of that brutish masculinity in her direction. Turning away from him, she reverted to English. “Mrs. Godfrey,” she said sweetly. “A bath would be just the thing.”
“Of course, dear.” The older woman turned to the servant girl. “Sarah, run and tell Toby we need a bath in the blue bedchamber.”
Settling back against the straight back of her wooden chair, Mari smiled her gratitude. Being carried into a suspected traitor’s dwelling, rather than breaking into it, had definite advantages. Not only could she conduct her investigation in comfort, but once she got her hands on the evidence against this man’s father, she’d take great pleasure in knocking the arrogant imbecile down a peg or two.
Chapter Two
A few hours later, after a long bath and an even lengthier nap, Cosmo trotted down the stairs with thoughts of the parachutist filling his mind.
She was up to something.
He could feel it. Although he had no idea what her motive could be, it clearly wasn’t the obvious. With that tart tongue, Mari Lamarre—if that was her real name—couldn’t be out to seduce a titled husband. Not that he’d be averse to joining giblets with her. He’d wager his inheritance the fallen angel was no innocent.
After all, she’d recognized the smell of prigging on him, and too much knowledge glistened in those heavy-lidded eyes for her to be a maiden. Strange, though, that he couldn’t recall the precise shade of those lustrous orbs, unless contempt could be counted as a color. But he could well envision those long legs wrapped around his hips, or propped up over his shoulders while they did the dirty deed. With her tall, confident frame, Miss Lamarre looked as if she could well accommodate a man of his size. Just thinking about it made his prick twitch.
The sleek lines of her body, endless legs sliding into slim hips, lean torso topped with plump breasts, would tempt any man. Not to mention the way she carried herself, with unflagging self-assurance and intelligence snapping in those watchful eyes. A woman such as that wouldn’t let a man get away with much. Whatever her true intent for coming to Langtry, he’d amuse himself watching his fallen angel reveal her game. So much the better if it included a bit of bed sport.
Coming to a stop outside the familiar heavy door near the back of the house, Cosmo tugged his waistcoat straight before tapping on the door to his father’s study.
“Come.”
He entered the dark-paneled chamber to find the Marquess of Aldridge sitting at his chessboard in front of the window. Light streamed in, tracing Aldridge’s wavy, graying mane and the sharp angles of his profile. “Good morning, sir.”
“It’s afternoon, Cosmo.” Eyes on the chessboard, Aldridge moved his black knight. “I trust you enjoyed your evening of excess.”
“I did. It was most diverting.” Even now, the old man’s disapproval made Cosmo feel like a boy called to account for putting a frog in the governess’s bed, something he’d never actually done, since it showed an utter lack of imagination.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope you will one day tire of a life of dissipation.”
“No doubt.” Cosmo’s glib bearing belied the tension straining the muscles across the back of his shoulders. “I cannot imagine growing weary of dabbing it up with a willing wench.”
“No, I don’t expect you can.” Disappointment tinged with sadness flickered in the older man’s otherwise inscrutable gray eyes. A shade so like Elinor’s, only hers had glowed with light-filled laughter. A familiar wave of loss washed through Cosmo. Laughter had vacated this house when his sister had left it.
“You are one-and-thirty,” Aldridge said, repeating a familiar refrain. “It is well past time you took a bride and filled your nursery. As my only heir, you have your duty.”
He couldn’t imagine subjecting any decent woman to life with him as a husband, especially in light of what had happened with Ellie. “In due time.”
“What’s this I hear about your bringing some gel to the house? I gather she’s one of your bits of muslin.”
“Not exactly.” Exchanges with Aldridge were rather like fencing without the safety button on the tip of the blade. Any direct hit drew blood. “I haven’t had the pleasure of swiving Miss Lamarre yet.”
“I see.” Aldridge fixed an impenetrable gaze on his son. “I won’t have strumpets lifting their skirts in this house.”
“That should not be a problem, since I usually wear breeches.” The deep-throated French lilt sent a jolt of anticipation through Cosmo. Both men turned toward the threshold, where the fallen angel stood wearing said breeches.
Cosmo suppressed a smile. “Sir, allow me to make known Miss Mari Lamarre. She is a parachutist who injured her knee upon landing on the property early this morning.” He enjoyed the way her left cheek twitched at his deliberately skeptical emphasis on the word landing.
She wore the same clothes from that morning, only someone had tidied them. A white cravat hugged her slender neck, while the billowing white riding shirt hid more feminine assets. Formfitting buff breeches emphasized the lithe lines of her shape and the subtle curve of her hips.
“Miss Lamarre.” Pushing down on the arms of his chair for support, Aldridge hauled himself to his feet with considerable effort. Emotion twisted in Cosmo’s chest at the evidence of his father’s diminishing vitality.
“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Mari
said politely to the older man. Tendrils of dark hair fell about her shoulders, escaping the careless knot at the back of her neck. “I experienced a mishap with my conveyance and was swept off course.”
“Engaged in aerostation, are you?” Interest glimmered in the deep lines of Aldridge’s face. “Did you call yourself Lamarre?”
“Yes, my lord, Mari Lamarre.”
Aldridge coughed into his handkerchief, harsh barks that racked his chest. “Beg pardon,” he said, once the coughing abated. “Are you any relation to Guillaume Lamarre?”
“Oui, c’est mon oncle.”
Aldridge slipped into flawless French. “Your landing here is most fortuitous, mademoiselle. I am a great admirer of your uncle’s scientific works.”
“Science?” Cosmo echoed, taken aback by his father’s interest in that barbaric form of entertainment.
“Indeed, Miss Lamarre’s uncle is an inventor to be admired. Guillaume Lamarre designed and tested the first silk parachute.”
Surprised appreciation flickered on Mari’s face. She moved closer to Aldridge, where the window’s light illuminated honeyed skin draped over an open, strong-boned face. Lord, what a handsome woman. Pretty was too trite a word to describe the confident energy she projected.
“You do follow the study of aerostation,” she said.
“Oh, yes.” A rare smile softened Aldridge’s stern countenance. “Purely as an amateur, of course.”
“This mutual appreciation is most affecting,” Cosmo said with some annoyance. “But to take pleasure in watching a human being expose herself to danger strikes me as rather savage.”
“You are primitive in your thinking, Cosmo.” Aldridge’s admiring gaze remained fastened on Mari. “Parachutes are far more than entertainment. One day they might well save people who need to escape the tallest structures.”
“Quite right, my lord.” Mari’s lean body practically vibrated with enthusiasm for her perilous hobby, while Cosmo’s stomach churned at the idea of the woman hurling herself out of a balloon from thousands of feet up in the air. “Even now, they are an important safety device. Hot air balloons have an unfortunate habit of catching fire in the air. With a parachute, the balloonist has at least a hope of survival.”
Aldridge nodded. “One day they might well take agents behind enemy lines.”
“Yes! Mon oncle has spoken of that.”
Good lord. Soon the two of them would be finishing each other’s sentences. Just when Cosmo felt certain she’d forgotten his presence, Mari lifted a dark eyebrow in his direction. “Your father is a most forward-thinking man.”
“Yes, he’s a paragon of all that is good in the world.”
Aldridge stiffened for a moment, yet his face softened when he returned his attention to Mari. “You are most welcome to remain here until you make a complete recovery. We would welcome the company.”
She smiled, color washing over the high curves of her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to see to my equipment.”
Bowing, Aldridge slipped back into formal French. “But of course. I do hope you will favor us with your company at supper, mademoiselle. I look forward to hearing more about your experiments.”
Still unaccountably irked by the effect she had on his father, Cosmo followed her out the door. “Why don’t I come along? I wouldn’t mind examining your equipment.”
This time they used the front entrance, stepping off the landing onto the sweeping expanse of flat, manicured lawn surrounding the old house. The briny smell of the sea hung over the place, even though she couldn’t see the beach from here.
Dunsmore walked at a slow pace, perhaps mindful of the slight limp she affected. “How is your knee?”
“Much better, thank you. I should be able to leave on the morrow.”
“I fear that won’t be possible. The sole bridge connecting Langtry to the outside world is under water at the moment.”
She feigned surprise, even though the washed-out bridge was the reason she’d parachuted into Langtry. “There must be another way out, Dunsmore.”
“Cosmo, please. After all, you’ve sat on my face. Surely, that gives us leave to call each other by our given names.”
Incorrigible man, but giving the scoundrel false encouragement might assist her cause. “Very well, Cosmo. Surely there is another way out.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” He appeared pleased to be imparting information that would keep her at Langtry indefinitely. That made two of them. “It’ll be a few days before the water recedes.”
She pretended to bristle. “A few days!” For added impact, she favored him with a colorful French curse.
“Yes, and then it will have to be checked to make certain it is sound before anyone can cross. My father will be pleased to have your company during that time. Tell me, do you have that effect on all men?”
She ignored the question, focusing instead on the topic pertaining to her mission. “Your father is most formidable.”
“Quite so. He’s brilliant at everything, fair and ethical, moral to a fault. You won’t find a more widely admired man.”
None of that surprised her. She had a dossier highlighting the Marquess of Aldridge’s many distinguished accomplishments. “Do you count yourself among his admirers?”
“How could I not?” he answered in the same wry voice. “He’s one of England’s finest statesmen. Aldridge was personally engaged in negotiating the Treaty of Amiens to secure the current peace with your Napoleon.”
She considered him for a moment, noting the physical similarities to his father—the strong brow and sharp jawline, the tall, well-formed body. But where the father cut a slim, elegant form, there was nothing subtle about Cosmo’s strapping, wide-shouldered frame. “Your father is quite different from you.”
“Very. It isn’t easy being the dilettante heir of one of England’s greatest statesman.”
“I can imagine.” She noted the tension strumming beneath that facile surface. “Mustering all of that self-pity must require great effort on your part.”
He barked a laugh, releasing some of that emotion, revealing two slightly crowded rows of snowy teeth. “He is rather hoping I’ll grow up soon.”
“It is not an unreasonable hope. You aren’t exactly a boy.”
“You’re hardly in the first blush of youth yourself.” He ran an impertinent, assessing glance over her. “How old are you, anyway?”
Coming to a stop, she faced him. “Not that it is any of your concern, but I am six-and-twenty.”
He scrutinized her face. Probably for wrinkles, considering what an unmannered scapegrace he was. “Your eyes are quite extraordinary,” he said, surprising her with the compliment. “I’d defy anyone to put a name to that singular confection of greens, browns, and ambers.” Bending closer, he peered into her eyes, and the scent of cedar and freshly bathed male flesh rolled over her. “Is that a shot of violet swirling around in there as well?” Immediate sensual alertness twitched deep in her belly. Stung by her unaccountable physical attraction to a dissolute popinjay, she spun on her heel and resumed walking.
He fell in step beside her. “What color are your eyes?”
She shrugged. “Je ne sais pas. My brother also has them. When we were children, we called them yeux arc-en-ciel.”
“Rainbow eyes.” He contemplated that for a moment. “You have a brother?”
“Oui. Two of them. And you?” She knew he didn’t, but wanted to turn the conversation back to his family.
“No, although I did have a sister once.”
Her report said Elinor Dunsmore had died in Paris after marrying a Frenchman. “Once?”
“Elinor. My younger sister.” His speech remained politely glib, yet his obvious sorrow pierced the air. “She’s no longer among the living. Now there was a true angel on earth.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss. What happened to Lady Elinor?”
He stared straight ahead, his face set in dogmatic lines. “I kille
d her.”
Chapter Three
He’d surprised her, of course. He saw it the contemplative narrowing of those kaleidoscopic eyes of hers. An admission of murder was bound to capture anyone’s attention.
“Vraiment?”
“Quite so.” He forced a light tone, despite the heaviness in his chest. He couldn’t abide maudlin sentiment. “You see, she was in a spot of trouble, but I was otherwise engaged between a plump pair of thighs.”
“Your father is a formidable man. Surely he could have gone to her aid.”
“The old man can usually move mountains, but age has caught up to him. What was needed to save Elinor was someone who could travel quickly on horseback.” Bitterness surged from his belly, burning up through his throat. “Someone who could ride like hell once he got across the Channel.”
She glanced his way. “Your sister was in France?”
“Yes, our Elinor married one of your kind. Rodolph was a French nobleman who met with a bad end. He departed for his club one evening and never returned. His body turned up a few days later. Whether his death was the work of footpads or the result of lingering revolutionary fervor, we’ll never know.”
“And your sister?”
“She was heavy with child and couldn’t immediately leave Paris on her own. My father endures a chronic hip ailment that precludes him from riding. He is in discomfort most of the time.”
A little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “It is not apparent.”
“Of course not. Aldridge is far too mannerly and stalwart to let a little pain detract from his noble carriage.”
“When he couldn’t locate you, why did he not dispatch a servant to her aid?”
“Unfortunately, the lower orders cannot speak your mother tongue. When Aldridge couldn’t run me to ground, he sent a skilled surrogate in my place, but he arrived in Paris too late. Elinor and her son died in childbed.”
“Many women lose their lives during the birthing process,” she said softly. “It is the way of nature. You cannot hold yourself responsible.”
Anger roiled his insides. Everything had gone to Hades after Elinor died, and he was to blame. “I should be disappointed if you were suddenly determined to become my advocate, looking to excuse my corrupt behavior,” he said sharply. “Tell me, have I engaged your sympathy sufficiently enough for you to drop those breeches and let me fuck my grief away?”
