Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  Thanks to a great deal of rest over the past three days, and Quinn’s gentle care, she finally felt strong enough to walk further than a few steps. Which meant she could explore the house.

  There should be time for a bit of reconnaissance before Quinn brought her supper tray. And it seemed wise to plot her escape route. Darkridge hadn’t turned her in yet, but he could change his mind at any time.

  She hadn’t seen the glowering earl since their conversation that first night. She should be pleased about that, but instead found herself wondering why he hadn’t returned, and listening for his voice in the house.

  Elizabeth picked up a candle on her way to the door, peeking out to study the darkened corridor beyond. It seemed strange that she had seen no one other than Quinn. Most aristocrats found it impossible to run a household without troops of servants, from a valet and cook to footmen and maids by the dozen. But she had heard no sounds of anyone cleaning or speaking or moving about.

  Tonight, the entire place seemed empty, silent as a…

  Tomb was accurate, but the word sent a frisson skittering between her shoulder blades. Ignoring it, she slipped into the shadowy hallway.

  She doubted that she could simply walk out the front door without the butler noticing. In fact, she doubted she could reach the front steps without fainting, she thought, catching her lower lip between her teeth at the pain throbbing in her side. But if she could locate a back stair or other exit, she might be strong enough to use it in another day or so.

  Lord Darkridge’s town house appeared to follow the traditional design, with rooms arranged around a grand central staircase. She seemed to be on the middle floor. The hall was decorated in dark green damask, an eerie hue in the candle’s glow. Moving cautiously, she began opening doors.

  What she discovered astonished her: the rooms were completely empty. They held no furniture, no art, no rugs, nothing on the mantels. Not even any candles or lamps for light and warmth. They were all well-kept and clean, but abandoned. No, not abandoned exactly. Just… empty.

  Perplexed, she sat down on the stairs to catch her breath and rest a few moments, then tiptoed up to the third floor. The rooms there were in the same condition. There was no indication at all that a man of wealth and title lived here.

  There was apparently no back stair, either, she realized with chagrin. Elizabeth came to the end of the hall on the third floor and opened the last door—to find a room so different from the others that it stole her breath.

  This one was brightly lit by an iron chandelier overhead and a fire on the hearth, the walls decorated with pictures: hunting and historical scenes, landscapes, grand manor homes, and above the hearth, portraits of a gray-haired gentleman and a lovely blonde lady. There was a desk piled with papers, wing chairs beside the hearth, and most striking of all, bookshelves, floor to ceiling, crammed with leather-bound volumes of every description.

  Elizabeth felt light-headed from her exertions, and knew she should return to bed downstairs, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the astounding library. She moved toward the shelves, feeling something close to awe, and set her candle in an empty sconce on the desk. Growing up with mostly borrowed books, she had never imagined a collection of this size. There were histories, novels, treatises on mathematics, chemistry, music, boxing… and a score of identical small blue volumes with no lettering on the spine.

  Unable to resist her curiosity, she pulled one of the little books down and flipped through the pages. It contained poems, all hand-written, and all apparently by the same writer. It seemed odd that the notorious Marcus Worthington should be a man of letters, odder still that he had a passion for poetry. He appeared to have bought the poet’s entire collection.

  She had to admire his taste, for the verses were most engaging. Each was like a portrait in words and ink—one describing a lady of Covent Garden, another a gambler, the next a Thames dockworker. The images fairly leaped from the paper, each conveying a captured spark of personality.

  Enchanted, she flipped to the first page to note the writer’s name. She could find nothing but the owner’s signature, Marcus Worthington, in bold black lettering. There was no mention anywhere of the author’s identity.

  Elizabeth shut her eyes against another wave of dizziness. Pressing one hand to her side, she replaced the book on the shelf. She really did need to go back to bed. With regret, she turned away from the bookshelves—only to notice another of the little blue volumes as she passed the desk. This one was lying open, a plume and inkwell beside it.

  Leaning over the book, she blinked, then gasped at what she saw: a half-finished poem, in the same handwriting as all the others.

  Marcus Worthington wasn’t a poetry collector. He was the poet! She couldn’t have been more shocked if she had found a session of Parliament meeting in his house. It seemed utterly out of place with everything she knew of Lord Darkridge.

  Then she remembered he had mentioned being “something of a poet” that night at the Rowlands’ party. He hadn’t been telling her a tale. He was a poet, and tremendously talented.

  She had barely recovered from that surprise when she recognized the subject of his half-finished piece.

  It was her!

  He had only written a few lines, but it was unmistakably about her: the opening described her lavender Watteau gown and the gazebo at the Rowlands’ party. The rest depicted an Elizabeth she had never seen in a mirror: parted lips, flowing night-touched hair, a seductive challenge in her gaze. A blush warmed her cheeks when she read of her bounteous—

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  The angry demand startled Elizabeth so badly that she jumped. Pressing a hand to her aching side, she turned to find Lord Darkridge standing in the doorway, dressed in traveling clothes—glowering at her.

  “The… the door wasn’t locked.”

  “I have never had cause to lock it.” He took off his cloak and threw it over a chair. “Had I guessed that you were well enough to wander about my house, I would have.”

  Elizabeth stood straighter and returned his harsh stare without flinching. “I was restless,” she explained, thinking quickly. “I’ve… I’ve grown accustomed to keeping late hours.”

  “I see.” His anger seemed to subside a bit. As he came toward her, he still looked annoyed, but one corner of his mouth curved. “It does become something of a habit, doesn’t it?”

  Only then did he appear to notice her state of undress, his gaze skimming downward, slowly.

  His bold perusal sent a tingle of heat through Elizabeth’s body, an unfamiliar sensation that made her breath catch. The direction of his thoughts was clear—as if she needed any clarification after reading that poem.

  She was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the friction of the soft cotton shirt she wore against her naked breasts. And the silk of the robe against her bare legs. And how loosely she had tied the sash when she had thrown on the accursed garment.

  He was still walking toward her.

  She folded her arms, the sleeves of the robe flapping. “You’ve a very strange house, my lord,” she said briskly, trying to redirect his attention, as well as her own. “Why don’t any of the rooms have furniture? Why aren’t there any guest rooms?”

  “Because there aren’t any guests.” His gaze rose to meet hers, his voice deeper than before. His eyes had darkened.

  Elizabeth couldn’t seem to move, despite the fact that every feminine instinct urged her to exit the room, at once. “Then where… where have you been sleeping since I’ve been here?”

  Oh Lawks, that was a foolish choice of topic.

  As if sensing her unease, he grinned. “There’s a couch in the parlor downstairs.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling an unexpected moment of sympathy and understanding.

  Lord Darkridge might be a man of wealth and title, but he lived alone, without friends, an outcast from respectable society. And he had no servants but for Quinn because he couldn’t trust anyone with his secret
identity.

  She also understood now why he had put her in his own bedroom. There weren’t any others. It seemed an oddly considerate gesture for a man purported to be an utter blackguard.

  He stopped just two paces away, so close now that she could sense the heat of his body. And notice the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. His clothes were rumpled, his hair tousled from the wind, like he’d just come in from a long ride.

  His rough appearance made him look all the more like a scoundrel.

  “Your… your butler Quinn is rather unusual as well.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “He’s quite skilled with his poultices and tinctures… almost as if he were better suited to being a physician than a butler.” She tilted her head to one side. “And is that his last name or his first? I called him Mr. Quinn and he said to simply call him Quinn.”

  Lord Darkridge’s broad shoulders moved upward, then down in a slow shrug. “I keep his secrets. He keeps mine.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help wondering exactly what Darkridge’s secrets might include. Madness? Murder? Were the terrible rumors true? She also remembered promising Georgiana that she would keep a safe distance from him.

  Which wasn’t working out very well at all.

  “Mr. Swift,” he said lightly, reaching down to close the book of poetry that lay open on his desk, “as I’m sure you discovered during your reconnaissance—”

  “I wasn’t doing any reconnaissance.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Not at all. I was merely… I was restless, as…” She gave up the ruse, sighing. “How did you guess?”

  He smiled, revealing a dimple in his stubbled cheek and a spark of amusement in his brown eyes. “Because you are clever, strong-willed, and devious—traits we have in common. And if I were in your position, that’s the first thing I would do. Search for an exit.”

  “Damn,” she muttered. Clever didn’t begin to describe him. His thinking was too nimble by half.

  “And as I’m sure you discovered,” he continued, inclining his head toward the corridor, “there is no back stair. I purchased this house because its design provides excellent security. You will find no other exit or entrance than the front door. And that, I assure you, has a lock you won’t be able to open.”

  She bit back another oath. Logical. Analytical. Tactical. If the man were mentally unbalanced, he was hiding it well.

  She was beginning to suspect that some of the rumors about Darkridge were nothing but gossip.

  “Tell me, then, my lord,” she said coolly, “how long do you intend to hold me prisoner here?”

  “That isn’t…” His smile vanished. “I am not holding you prisoner.” He turned and moved away from her, toward the hearth. “Thus far, Quinn has been referring to you as his patient. As for me…” He looked at her over his shoulder. “I haven’t yet decided exactly what you are to me.”

  Elizabeth found it impossible to think of a clever response. When he looked at her that way, she couldn’t think at all. She wished fervently for a drink of water to cool her suddenly dry throat.

  All at once, the room tilted dizzily. She sank into the nearest chair, beside the desk, bracing one hand against the polished oak—and almost knocked the inkwell to the floor. “Oh Lawks!”

  Darkridge caught it with a deft lunge before it could fall. “You are obviously not well enough to be wandering about, madam.” He crouched in front of her. “And have you had anything to eat tonight?”

  “I think Quinn was…” She blinked, waiting for her vision to clear. “… going to bring a tray—”

  “But then you decided to go exploring. Wait here.” Placing the inkwell on the desk, he straightened and left the room without further explanation.

  By the time he returned a short while later, carrying a tray, she was feeling a bit steadier. “That’s really not necessary.”

  Ignoring her, he pushed a stack of papers out of the way and placed the tray on the desk, setting a plate and napkin in front of her. There was roast chicken, cheddar cheese, and a thick slice of wheat bread with butter. The tray also held a cup of tea, a crystal goblet filled with another sort of liquid… even a small pastry.

  “Thank you,” she said, surprised again by his thoughtfulness.

  “I’m afraid Quinn’s cooking skills are somewhat less impressive than his medical skills,” he said with a shrug, “but we make do.”

  She picked up the little pastry, which was topped with a strawberry and a dollop of whipped cream. “I would call this quite impressive.”

  “He bought those, at a pastry shop.” Darkridge carried over a wooden chair from the other side of the room. “He thought you might like them.”

  Unable to resist, she ate it in three quick bites with a sigh. “I’ll remember to thank him.” She picked up the crystal goblet, her brows arching when she discovered that it held a dark amber ale. “But I don’t usually drink any—”

  “That’s for me.” Darkridge snagged the goblet from her with a roguish grin.

  She regarded him in puzzlement. “I thought earls preferred wine. The more expensive the better.”

  He took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. “A few of my tastes have changed in recent years.” After a long drink, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Elizabeth picked up the bread and nibbled at it, studying him from beneath her lashes, utterly perplexed by the man. He was a wealthy aristocrat… who didn’t behave like one in many ways. An outcast with the worst sort of reputation… who had saved her life and showed her a surprising amount of kindness.

  And a notorious highwayman… who appeared to be as skilled with words as he was with a gun.

  She nodded toward the little blue volume he had pushed to the side of his desk. “You’re very talented.”

  “My work is not meant for public viewing,” he growled, studying the rim of his goblet. “Or public comment.”

  “But your poems are good,” she insisted honestly. “They’re original and so… vivid. That description of me is… very flattering. Though my hair isn’t long or flowing at all. I think you exaggerated a bit there, and on the part about my—”

  She stopped herself, blushing furiously.

  Confound it, she had once again turned the conversation in a direction she didn’t want to go.

  “No,” he said, glancing at the part of her anatomy in question, an appreciative expression curving his mouth. “I assure you that is quite accurate.”

  His eyes met hers and Elizabeth felt the warmth in her cheeks turn scalding. No aristocratic lady would tolerate such audacity. An aristocratic lady would rebuke him or slap him or at least stamp her foot in feminine pique.

  But she didn’t do any of those things. When he looked at her that way, she could scarcely breathe, never mind react. All she could do was… feel, a glittering heat, swirling right at the center of her body. A sensation so new and startling that she couldn’t compare it to anything else she had felt in her life.

  “‘Queen and huntress,’” he murmured, his gaze still on hers, “‘Chaste and fair… Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright.’”

  “Shakespeare,” she whispered. “No… Jonson. From Cynthia’s Revels. His description of the moon.”

  “Yes.” He regarded her in surprise. “Ben Jonson. You are a student of literature?”

  “I-I’ve always loved reading.” She grabbed her cup and took a sip of tea, trying unsuccessfully to douse the unsettling sparks dancing in her middle.

  Taking the plate of chicken, she turned in her seat, deciding she would prefer to gaze at the bookshelves while she ate, instead of at him. “From your reputation, my lord, I was under the impression that you spent all your money on… gambling and drink and wicked women. But you haven’t, have you? You’ve spent it on books.”

  He chuckled. “I despise gambling. My taste in drink is, as you can see, rather inexpensive. And at the moment, there appears to be only one woma
n in my house.” His voice dropped to that low tone that played havoc with her pulse. “And I’m not yet certain how wicked she might be.”

  Elizabeth slanted him a quelling look.

  Which only earned her an unrepentant grin. He drank from his goblet, then raised it toward the shelves. “As for the rest, most of this belonged to my family.”

  “The books?”

  “And all of that.” He indicated the artwork on the walls.

  “You mean the paintings?”

  “And the homes in the paintings.”

  Elizabeth stared at the array of grand manors shown in the pictures, her mouth forming an ‘O’ of astonishment. “You… you own all of that?”

  “The Worthington family owned all of that,” he corrected, any note of humor fading from his voice. “For generations. The earldom dates to the time of the Tudor kings—and my ancestors had a talent for making advantageous marriages.” He gestured with his cup, naming each place in turn. “We owned a country estate in Surrey, another in Dorset, a seaside retreat in Brighton, an ancestral Scottish castle in the Highlands, Worthington Manor in Highgate just outside London. And a town house on Park Lane. But all of it was…” He hesitated. “Lost, when I was young.”

  “Lost?” Stunned yet again, she turned to face him, hearing the pain and bitterness in his voice as he said the word. “How?”

  His jaw hardened, his expression suddenly remote. “How doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ll soon reclaim them. Every last one of them.”

  With the help of Montaigne’s riches, she guessed. So that was why he had turned highwayman. “And what of that elegant couple?” she asked gently, pointing to the portraits above the hearth. “Are… are those your parents?”

  His eyes turned cold and he glanced away. “I don’t discuss them. With anyone.”

  Before Elizabeth could ask anything more, he turned the tables on her.

  “As long as we’re asking questions, why the devil do you wear your hair so short?”