Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Pouring water into the stained bowl in the center of the washstand and preparing to shave himself, he thought wistfully of his valet, Leighton. Able to fend for himself, Simon often left Leighton at Monks Abbey, but this was one time he’d have been happy to have his precise valet bustling around the room. Not because he wasn’t perfectly capable of shaving and dressing himself, but because Leighton would have seen to it that a pot of hot, strong coffee had greeted him when he woke. If the past few days were anything to go by, he thought, he’d be lucky if there was any coffee available when he descended the stairs.

  By the time he was dressed in a plum coat and dove-gray breeches, he felt able to face the day. And Padgett and Stanton. He sighed. Closer acquaintance with both men had not endeared them to him and accepting Padgett’s invitation had been a mistake, he admitted. Wondering how soon he could politely take his leave, he wandered downstairs.

  The house, Woodhurst, that Stanton had inherited from his great-grandmother was a snug little place nestled in the middle of a hundred and twenty acres of woodland that had been planted over a hundred years previously. Once the house had been part of a larger estate, but with each generation more and more of the land had been sold until only the hundred and twenty acres and its woodland remained. The house and land, situated five miles from the village, had been more than adequate for Stanton’s great-grandmother, but Simon suspected that Stanton would sell it ... or gamble it away before too many more months passed.

  As he’d guessed, there was no coffee or any sign of the Archers, and he walked out of the cold, empty breakfast room, intent upon getting his horse from the stables at the rear of the house. Hearing footsteps, Simon looked up to see Lord Padgett and Stanton coming down the stairs. Forcing a smile, Simon said, “If you’re looking for coffee, there is none.”

  A big, burly man, with dark, heavy features, Stanton shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Padgett said as he reached the last stair. “Nolles will have coffee waiting for us.”

  “After last night, if you don’t mind, I’ll forego the pleasure of another visit to Nolles’s place,” Simon said easily.

  Padgett’s pale blue eyes studied him. “I was surprised when you accompanied us last night—Nolles mentioned that your cousin, the viscount, prefers The Crown. I can’t say that you looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

  Padgett was a tall, slender man with wavy fair hair and chiseled features. Like Stanton, he was in his middle thirties, and like Stanton, the signs of a dissolute life were already evident on his once angelically handsome face.

  “I can’t say that I did,” Simon answered levelly. “Becoming cup shot and losing ridiculous sums of money isn’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”

  “Tom always said that you were too nice in your notions,” Padgett drawled.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Simon said without a smile.

  “Suit yourself,” Padgett returned indifferently.

  That he had served his purpose as far as Padgett was concerned didn’t escape Simon, and glad there was no longer any reason to pretend an affability he didn’t feel, Simon said briskly, “I intend to.” Looking at Stanton he added, “Thank you for your hospitality. I shall send a servant over to pack up my things later today and bring them to Windmere.”

  Stanton waved a dismissing hand.

  Minutes later, glad to leave Woodhurst behind, Simon was on his horse and riding toward Windmere. Coffee was foremost in his mind, and after that, a private conversation with Barnaby.

  Not in the mood for more unpacking even if it was the last trunk, Gillian lingered over her coffee as long as she could, but soon enough, she had no choice but to push away her cup and say, “Enough for me. Shall we go find that trunk?”

  One of the footmen had dragged the trunk in question into the sitting room the two women shared and the efficient Nan was already there. Signs of her industry scattered around the room. A pink woolen shawl that Sophia hadn’t worn in years was folded over the arm of a chair, a gray striped velvet pelisse that Gillian had never liked lay nearby and a worn pair of jean half boots she’d forgotten sat on the floor.

  Smiling, Nan glanced up from her task and said, “I don’t know who packed this trunk, but I fear that most of it should be given to the poor in the village.”

  Watching as Nan pulled out a ragged yellow parasol and a black silk reticule with a large tear on one side, Gillian said, “And some of it, not even suitable for that.”

  “I agree,” said Sophia, sighing.

  It was a large trunk and while they came across a few things to keep, most of the contents were added to the pile for the vicarage for distribution to those in need.

  While Gillian and Sophia folded the various items and stacked them on the sofa, Nan continued to dig into the trunk. “Ah, here we have it,” Nan said, “the last item.” Vexation in her voice, Nan added, “Though how it ended up here I have no idea. It should have been packed with your other gowns.”

  Gillian glanced over at Nan, and the color drained from her face. Frozen, she stared as Nan continued to shake out the amber silk and lace gown she’d worn that night at the dinner party given by the Duke of Welbourne, the diamond and topaz brooch used to alter the neckline still fixed in place. First Canfield and now this, she thought sickly. Would she ever be able to escape reminders of that terrible night?

  Chapter 12

  Gillian must have made a sound because Sophia glanced at her. Seeing the expression of horror and revulsion on Gillian’s face, Sophia rushed over.

  Laying a hand on Gillian’s rigid arm, Sophia asked, “What is it, my dear? Why do you look as if you’ve seen a ghost—or something worse?”

  Gillian nodded in Nan’s direction and said bitterly, “I have seen something worse—look at what Nan is holding.”

  There were no secrets between the two cousins, and while Nan might not be privy to what had transpired between Gillian and Lord Winthrop the night Charles had died, Sophia certainly was. Glancing over and seeing the amber silk and lace gown in Nan’s hands, Sophia muttered, “Oh my. I thought that wretched garment had been given away ages ago.”

  Puzzled by Gillian’s reaction to the gown and Sophia’s comment, Nan asked, “But why would you give away such a lovely and expensive gown?” Defensively, she added, “I know you told me to leave your things behind that horrible night, but I could not bring myself to do so: I packed your belongings and brought them right home with us.” When Gillian continued to stare at the gown with revulsion, Nan said, “Very well, I’ll see to it that the gown is given away, but what of the brooch? Surely, you mean to keep it?”

  Gillian opened her mouth to tell Nan to do whatever she wanted with the brooch, but a thought occurred to her. She walked across the room and stared at the brooch. While she’d never wanted to see the gown again, the brooch didn’t have the same effect on her; it was connected with the horrible events of that night, but the sight of it didn’t make her flesh creep. She viewed the brooch as a warning—a symbol not to trust a charming man—even when he presented gifts. Staring at the brooch, she realized that it could serve as a reminder of just how perfidious a man could be. Every time she saw that winking topaz and diamond piece of jewelry, it would be a tangible warning not to trust a beguiling smile and a handsome face.

  Luc’s lean, dark features flitted through her mind. She fingered the brooch, a wry smile curving her mouth. Did she really think a brooch would protect her from his undeniable pull? It might not, but then again ...

  “Save the brooch,” she ordered. “Please put it in my jewelry box. As for the gown—burn it for all I care.”

  Nan removed the brooch from the gown, saying, “Very well, Madame. I’ll put it away on my way downstairs.” She looked dubiously at the amber silk and lace gown. “This isn’t the sort of garment that would be suitable for one of the housemaids; I’ll send it to the vicarage along with everything else.”

  As Gillian and Sophy were going through the things in the trunk
, Simon rode up to the front of Windmere. Shown into the morning room by Walker, he was pleased to find that Barnaby was still there, enjoying a late breakfast with Emily and Cornelia.

  “How is it,” Barnaby asked, grinning, “that you usually manage to turn up on my doorstep when food is being served?”

  Simon grinned back. “Talent,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the large silver coffeepot on the sideboard. The scent of the coffee teased his nostrils and he almost moaned with delight, but his empty stomach rumbled and after placing his cup on the table, he returned to the sideboard. Thick slices of ham beckoned and coddled eggs made his mouth water; the sight of some preserved cherries had him scooping up a spoonful or two of them, along with several of Mrs. Eason’s delicate Bath cakes. When he rejoined the others, his plate was heaping. Taking that first, reviving swallow of the rich, dark coffee, he sighed blissfully.

  Amused, Barnaby watched him. Knowing from the ladies where Simon was staying, he said, “I take it that the amenities of Stanton’s bachelor household do not extend to food or coffee?”

  Simon nodded. “Or anything else that charitably could be called comfort. He may refer to the Archers as his servants, but a lazier pair I’ve not seen—when I’ve seen them about.”

  Cornelia’s eyes narrowed. “Is she a skinny blond rag of a woman and he’s a scrawny fellow with a face only a hangman would love?”

  “You know them?” Simon asked, surprised.

  “Never met them, but they’ve been pointed out to me in the village, and Mrs. Gilbert is well acquainted with them. You’d best watch your step,” Cornelia warned, “and your friend had better check his plate—they answer to Nolles, and anyone who works for Nolles isn’t someone I’d want running tame through my house.”

  “Must you continue to stay at Stanton’s?” Emily asked unhappily, not liking the sound of that. “You know that you are more than welcome to stay here.”

  Barnaby looked alarmed. “What and decimate my kitchen and larders?” he demanded, his gaze on Simon’s plate.

  “As long as you provide me with such excellent coffee,” Simon returned, smiling, “I shall be a perfect guest and restrain myself from laying waste to your kitchen and larders.”

  “Are you staying with us?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow.

  “If I may?”

  “Unless I wish to listen to a scolding wife,” Barnaby answered, a lazy smile curving his lips, “I fear I have no choice but to offer you my hospitality.”

  “Aha!” Simon exclaimed. “Mathew is right, you do live under the cat’s paw.”

  “But it is such a dainty little paw, don’t you agree?” Barnaby murmured.

  Emily snorted. “If your brother thinks that anyone can get Barnaby to do anything he doesn’t want to do, he doesn’t know him very well.”

  “Cornelia and Emily mentioned that Mathew is still battling his demons,” Barnaby said, all trace of lightness gone. “How bad is it at Monks Abbey?”

  Simon hunched a shoulder. “There are days I think he’s doing better and then there are days that I know he’s gone somewhere black and bleak.” He made a face. “And then there are times he’s just impossible to be around—snarling and snapping at anyone who crosses his path. I try to be understanding, but I fear I have little patience with him when he’s simply looking for someone to start a fight with.”

  “Mayhap I shall do something outrageous to distract him,” Barnaby said, only half-teasing. “He does enjoy lecturing me.” As much to himself as anyone else, Barnaby added, “We need to give him a focus for all that rage and despair he’s feeling.”

  Simon started, an idea springing full-blown in his mind. Swallowing a bite of ham and coddled egg, Simon said, “I may know just the thing.”

  When the ladies pressed to know what Simon referred to, he shook his head and would say nothing more.

  “It is most unkind of you to say something like that and then not tell us,” Emily complained. “And to think that before I met Barnaby you were always my favorite Joslyn.” She bent a severe look upon him. “I suppose once we leave the room, you’ll tell Barnaby.”

  Simon smiled angelically, not to be drawn.

  Rising to her feet, Cornelia said to Emily, “Come, my dear, let us leave the gentlemen to their secrets. Don’t forget we are to meet with Mrs. Smythe within the hour at the vicarage.”

  Both men rose as the ladies exited the room. With the women gone, Simon wolfed down his food and in between bites, said, “I wanted to speak with you privately anyway, and what I have to say may provide us with a way to drag Mathew from his lair.”

  Barnaby regarded Simon thoughtfully. Of the three English Joslyns he’d met when he first arrived in England over a year ago, he’d liked Simon best. The youngest brother, Simon had welcomed him, and with his easy charm and teasing manner, most people found it difficult to dislike Simon. Now Mathew ...

  Barnaby grimaced. He didn’t blame Mathew for resenting him. Mathew had grown up believing he would inherit Windmere and the title and fortune that went with the great house. Groomed from childhood to step into the 7th Viscount Joslyn’s shoes, Mathew, and everyone else in England, assumed that when his great-uncle died Mathew would be the 8th Viscount Joslyn. To discover after the old viscount’s death that the title and everything else went to an American, a plantation owner from Virginia, someone the English branch of the family hadn’t even known existed, had been a catastrophic shock for Mathew and his brothers.

  Since there had never been any question of him inheriting Windmere or the title, Simon had found it easiest to accept Barnaby as the new viscount, but Mathew and Thomas, understandably, had been resentful of the man they viewed as an interloper. The relationship between Barnaby and Mathew had been strained and chilly, but a fair man, even if it damn near killed him, Mathew swallowed most, not all, of his rancor and unhappiness and attempted to, if not befriend Barnaby, at least not treat him like an enemy.

  Thomas had been another case altogether, Barnaby admitted. From all appearances, Thomas had adored Mathew and had taken Barnaby’s assumption of the title as a personal insult. Barnaby’s possession of Windmere had only added to Thomas’s rage at the situation, but they all now knew that there had been another more personal reason that the middle Joslyn brother had not wanted Barnaby living at Windmere: the tunnels beneath Windmere.

  Barnaby sighed. Aloud he said, “Who could have guessed that Thomas Joslyn would be the investor and brains behind a gang of smugglers?”

  “No one,” Simon said simply. “I know Tom’s fortune didn’t compare to Mathew’s or yours, but it was more than sufficient to enable him to live like a gentleman and eventually marry and raise a family in comfort.” He shook his head. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know why he turned to smuggling with Nolles.”

  “Sometimes sufficient isn’t enough,” Barnaby said. “Greed is an ugly vice and when in the grips of it, can turn even an honest, reasonable man into a monster. Perhaps that’s what happened to Thomas.”

  Simon pushed away his empty plate and, standing up, walked to the sideboard. He looked at Barnaby and asked, “Would you like more coffee?” At Barnaby’s nod, he carried the silver coffeepot over to the table and, after filling Barnaby’s cup, poured himself another cup. Setting the coffeepot down on the table, he reseated himself.

  “Tom was greedy—I know that from having grown up with him, but I’ll admit I never thought he’d become a smuggler.” Simon sipped his coffee. “I wonder if it wasn’t simply that the opportunity was there and in the beginning he did it more as a lark and then ...” He shrugged. “And when he saw how much money could be made ...”

  “I suspect you’re right.” Barnaby stared at the patch of linen tablecloth in front of him, frowning. “I wish it could have ended differently. I never wanted Thomas dead and certainly not by Mathew’s hand.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Simon said softly. “You didn’t ask for Tom to try, more than once, to kill you.” Simon looked away and fo
r a long moment there was silence in the room, both men lost in thought.

  Before the silence became marked, Simon said, “If you consider it without emotion, Mathew being the one to kill Thomas was probably the best possible outcome of the affair.”

  “Because if I had been the one to kill him, Mathew would have had an added reason to curse and despise me?”

  Simon nodded. “The same holds true if it had been Lamb or Emily who had killed Tom that night.” He looked away. “I can’t seem to make Mathew understand that he is guilty of nothing or that his actions might have saved lives. If he had not fired when he did, you or Lamb or Emily might have died. And if Tom hadn’t died ...”

  “The scandal would have been impossible to suppress.”

  Simon nodded grimly. “The family could have survived the scandal, although I’m sure there would be people who would have assumed we were all in on it, but Tom’s death and your clever story to Lieutenant Deering allowed Tom to be considered a hero and avoided scandal.”

  “You might ask your brother the next time he’s being particularly difficult if he’d rather have had the truth come out,” Barnaby said. “Perhaps, when he considers all aspects of what could have happened, he might be able to accept his part in it without feeling such guilt.” When Simon looked unconvinced, Barnaby sighed. “Mathew will have to find his own peace—you cannot do it for him. Now what did you want to tell me that you didn’t want the ladies to hear?”

  Simon shook off his glum thoughts about Mathew and succinctly brought Barnaby current with his observations over the past few days and his suspicions about Nolles and Padgett. It took awhile; Barnaby may have heard the names in passing but he was not familiar with Padgett, Stanton or Canfield or their relationship to Thomas. Simon had to explain who they were and how they related to Thomas. Mention of Nolles narrowed his eyes and by the time Simon ceased speaking, Barnaby was frowning.