by Connie Mason
From Le Dernier Mot,
The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know
“Well?” Jonah laced his fingers together so Serena could step into them to mount her horse. She nodded her thanks and settled her boots, heels down in the stirrups, but she didn’t say a word. “Aren’t you going to tell me what Mme. Nadya said?”
“No.”
Before he could protest, she reined the mare’s head around, kicked her into a canter, and set off along the riverside path.
Jonah mounted Turk in one fluid motion and pounded after her. But between her head start and the way she flattened herself on the mare’s back to urge her to more speed, Serena would not allow him to come within a horse’s length of her all the way back to the stable.
A fracas was erupting in the paddock around a young stallion that reared and snorted, refusing to let anyone close. All the Wyndebourne groomsmen and stable boys were hanging on the fence, watching and cheering, as one man tried to loop a rope around the animal’s head and muscle it into submission. No one was available to tend Serena’s and Jonah’s horses.
Serena was off her mount and leading her into a stall as Jonah clattered into the stable behind her. He looped Turk’s reins around a nearby pole and stomped after her.
“I told you this gypsy business was a bad idea. Now what did that woman say to upset you so?”
He was utterly unprepared for the way she blindsided him. If Serena had been one of the Triad’s assassins, Jonah would have been dead. But instead of attacking him with intent to harm, she threw herself into his arms, palming his cheeks and pressing hungry kisses to his mouth.
Well, whatever Mme. Nadya said deserves a “Hallelujah, amen!”
Jonah had been kissed by some experienced lovers, worldly widows who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it from a man, and once by a courtesan in Paris who doubled as a Triad spy. He thought he knew all there was to know about the delicate byplay of mouths, teeth, and tongues.
He was wrong.
What Serena lacked in finesse, she made up for in enthusiasm. No other woman in his experience had kissed him with such rapacious need, with such hunger, with such desperation. He was granite hard between one breath and the next.
Jonah walked her backward so her spine was flattened against the stall. Blessed woman, she parted her legs so that when he bent his knees to press against her, his hard length rubbed against the soft crevice between her thighs.
Too much restrictive clothing, too many layers of fabric separated them. Even so, the world dissolved in heat and friction and blinding need. Without conscious volition, he undid the silver frogs at her throat and trailed his lips down her neck and lower as he continued to unfasten her bodice.
She gasped and arched her back, lifting the tips of her breasts above her boned stays. She made little needy sounds as he found the hard button of her nipple and sucked it through the thin linen of her chemise.
Serena knocked his hat from his head and threaded her fingers through his hair, encouraging him to remain at her breast. He bit down on her and she cried out.
“Oh, God. We have to stop,” she said, though the way she rocked herself against his pelvis belied her words.
“I could’ve sworn you liked it.”
“I did. I do.” When he covered the wet spot on her chemise with his hand and caressed her breast, thrumming her nipple with his thumb, her eyelids fluttered and she drew a shuddering breath. “But someone may come. Someone may see us.”
He claimed her mouth again, swallowing up her protests. She melted into him and even reached around to grasp his buttocks and pull him closer.
Little minx.
It would take very little effort to convince her to lie down with him in the fresh straw there and then. But however much he wanted her, he wanted her first time to be perfect even more.
With Herculean resolve, he straightened to his full height and looked down at her. “You’re right, Serena. Not here, not now.”
“Oh, you!” She pounded his chest with a closed fist once, and then let her head sink against it. “Why do you have to pick now to be so agreeable?”
He honestly didn’t know. If all he was after was finishing his commission for Mr. Alcock, he was going about things all wrong. He’d ought to just lift her skirts, unbutton the flap on his trousers, press her back against the stable wall, and show her what a good hard swive was like. His body applauded this idea with a solid ache and several pulses of his cock.
And if he wasn’t here to satisfy Alcock’s demands, what the hell was he doing?
His chest constricted. Whatever this thing was he was feeling for Serena, it wasn’t going to let him off easy.
“I’ll come to you by night.” The words poured out of his throat before they passed through his brain.
“No, it’s too risky.” She looked up at him, her eyes languid, her lips kiss-swollen. “There are too many people in Wyndebourne, servants and such. You might be seen.”
“I can be damn near invisible when I wish to be.” Jonah was a large man, but she had no idea how stealthy he could be when the occasion called for it. He’d evaded trained agents and covert operatives. The day he couldn’t outmaneuver a gaggle of servants hadn’t dawned.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Tomorrow the guests from London will start to arrive.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Very gently, he began to refasten the frogs on her riding habit’s bodice. “Then I guess I’ll have to come tonight.”
***
Serena walked back toward the great house, trying to convince her heart not to leap out of her chest. Jonah had stayed behind to see to the horses and to give her time to collect herself. As far as she could tell, putting a little distance between them wasn’t working. She was sure her cheeks were still flushed. And she was achy and wanting all over.
I’m becoming such a shameless hussy.
It was beyond foolish to agree to allow him to visit her chamber by night. Why had she not told Jonah no?
Of course, she really couldn’t blame him. She was the one who’d thrown herself at him.
She couldn’t even say why she’d done it. She was just so confused after everything that Mme. Nadya had said to her. The gypsy woman didn’t make her future any clearer. If anything, it was more hopelessly muddled than the backside of that intricately woven cloth.
How could she make a rational choice when every time she looked at Jonah all she wanted to do…was give herself to him? Of course, she was excited by the new and strange sensations that coursed through her body whenever he was near. And his kisses were a revelation.
“But it’s more than that,” she muttered as she crunched along the pea gravel path back to the house. It wasn’t just that she wanted Jonah’s strong body next to hers. She’d told him once that men feared him and women wanted to fix him. Serena wasn’t sure she was equal to the task, but she wanted to try.
After his confession at the castle ruins, she understood more about what needed fixing. Even in defense of the king, taking a life was no small matter. She feared for his soul. In the back of her mind, she remembered her vicar saying once that love covers a multitude of sins.
She stopped dead on the path. Love?
Was that what was causing this terrible jumbled up feeling inside her?
If it was, she was in even more trouble than she thought.
Because the day was fine and she needed to move in order to settle her body’s unruly urges, she strode all the way around the great house and came in by the front door. Mr. Honeywood greeted her and took her bonnet once she’d untied the bow beneath her chin.
“Your modiste requests another fitting this afternoon,” Mr. Honeywood said.
Serena rolled her eyes. Yet another round of pokes and pins. “Very well. Tell her to join me in my chamber in an hour. No, make it two.”
If Mme. Boulanger insisted on cinching the bodice of Serena’s ball gown another quarter-inch
tighter, she was ready to threaten to attend the ball in nothing but her skin.
She blushed as she imagined what Jonah would have to say about that.
“The post has come, my lady.” Mr. Honeywood’s round, honest face beamed at her. “Acceptance notes for the house party and ball are flying in.”
Serena shifted through the stack of envelopes and recognized her friend Lysandra’s ornate script. She tucked that one into her pocket, intending to pore over it later when she could fully enjoy her friend’s giddy mix of gossip and foolishness.
In the pile of acceptance notes, there was also an envelope addressed to Jonah.
The paper was fine milled, cream-colored, and of good quality. No fragrance wafted from it, so Serena decided it likely wasn’t from a former lover. Besides, the envelope was addressed with a masculine hand, the lettering bold and only slightly slanted.
Serena turned the envelope over. A red blob of sealing wax held it closed. She didn’t recognize the crest embossed in the wax, but when she slipped a thumbnail under it the entire seal lifted slightly. She wondered if this letter contained a clue to the identity of the man in Portsmouth. With very little effort, she should be able to pry off the seal, read the note, and then reseal it without Jonah being any the wiser.
Serena glanced around. Mr. Honeywood had left her alone in the foyer so that he might attend to other duties. She slipped Jonah’s note into her pocket and hurried to her chamber.
Her escritoire was well-stocked. Paper and pens, inks in several colors, and a sharp letter opener that proved equal to the task of removing the red sealing wax in a single intact blob. She pulled out the single sheet of foolscap and read:
My dear Sharp,
We wait anxiously for news. Have you located Sgt. Hammond Leatherby in Portsmouth? Remember that Colton and I stand ready to assist should you need us.
Unless we hear from you, expect to see us at the Wyndebourne ball. With any luck, all this unpleasantness will be done by then.
Your servant,
It was signed “Warrington” with such an elegant flourish Serena was certain this fellow didn’t consider himself anyone’s servant. Whoever Warrington was, he must have some doings with the Triad since he was interested in someone in Portsmouth just as Jonah was.
Some unfortunate named Sgt. Leatherby.
She wondered what sort of assistance this Warrington was offering. Several scenarios sprang to mind, none pleasant.
Serena was determined to help Jonah shake free of this shadowy part of his life. And the only thing that would truly help him was if the man could not be found. That way he wouldn’t have to kill him.
Serena refolded the letter with care and slid it back into the envelope. She spent a few minutes melting a drop of red wax onto the back of the original seal and closing the envelope tight again. Jonah would never know she’d intercepted his letter.
Then she rummaged through her jewelry case. She’d exhausted her supply of coin when she went to see the gypsies, and it wouldn’t have been enough at any rate. She needed to offer Sgt. Leatherby enough to take him to someplace in the Americas and see him set up in a new life.
“That should put enough distance between him and the king to remove all possibility of his being a threat,” she reasoned. And remove all need for Jonah to stain his hands again.
She decided on the emerald choker. It was more than generous and she’d never liked it much in any case. Then she went to find Mr. Honeywood.
He was refereeing a dispute between the decorators, who were festooning the ballroom with satin streamers, and the musicians who were trying to practice in the same space, without the pianist who was evidently foxed again.
“I need your help on a matter of some urgency,” she said once Mr. Honeywood joined her in the hallway.
“Of course, milady. I hope you know you may always count upon me.”
She flashed him what she hoped was a disarming smile. “I need someone who has a detailed knowledge of Portsmouth and the families who live there, someone who is capable of finding a person who may not wish to be found. Have we someone with those qualities in our employ?”
Mr. Honeywood’s eyebrows formed sideways question marks. “Yes, milady. One comes to mind.”
“Good.” Relief washed over her. She hadn’t known what she’d do if he’d said no. “This person must also be the soul of discretion who may be relied upon never to tell anyone what I ask of them. They must also be dependable enough to be trusted with no little amount of wealth, which they will have to hand over to another party. This person must then be capable of compelling this third party to remove himself from England forever.”
Mr. Honeywood nodded solemnly. “He is.”
He, a man then. Serena was glad because she feared this assignment might be dangerous for a woman since it was likely to involve slinking around some of the poorer quarters of Portsmouth. “And one last qualification. He must not ask why. About anything.”
Mr. Honeywood’s brows shot up at that, but he recovered quickly, adopting his usual pleasantly vacant demeanor. “Very well. He shall ask who then.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. “I’m your man. Whom shall I find for you?”
“You, Mr. Honeywood?”
“I would trust no one else for an assignment of this obvious delicacy. And our under-butler is more than capable of stepping into the breach here at Wyndebourne in my absence.” A shrieking brouhaha erupted behind them in the ballroom. Mr. Honeywood’s shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply.
“Very well. Come with me and I’ll explain all.” The assignment was likely to see him out of Wyndebourne until the house party and ball were over. When the squabbling between the decorators and musicians erupted afresh behind them, Serena suspected Honeywood might be relieved.
Eighteen
On the chance that His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent, will make an appearance at the Wyndleton ball (though we suspect that this is a rumor spread by those who have wagered in favor of Lady S.’s fortunes), acceptance notes have been flying from London to the lovely Wyndebourne estate. As a matter of record, it must be noted that the odds at White’s have swung markedly in Lady S.’s favor. However, as with any game of chance or romance, the slightest misstep by the principals involved can ensure they can swing just as quickly in the other direction.
From Le Dernier Mot,
The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know
Amelia Braithwaite put down her sewing and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes hurt from overstrain. She missed her usual room at Wyndebourne with its cozy appointments and much smaller bed. The tidy space always made her feel cosseted and safe. This new chamber seemed cavernous by comparison. When the marquis arrived, she’d ask to be switched back to her old room.
The table runner she was embroidering was a lost cause. Even with all the candles burning, it was too dim for close work. She might have better luck reading the second volume of Rob Roy that had arrived by post that day since the print was of generous size, but she wasn’t in the mood for Scottish angst.
Over and over in her mind, Amelia kept reliving the argument she’d had with Serena after her latest fitting. The girl was near tears over her ball gown, but she wouldn’t allow Amelia to comfort her. It wasn’t like her to be so weepy, especially over a question of fashion, something Serena usually considered inconsequential. But she refused to confide her true troubles, which was also out of character. No amount of cajoling would make her budge, and they fell to squabbling about place cards for the upcoming midnight ball, of all silly things. Finally, Serena had fled the room and then refused to come down for supper. She sent back the tray Amelia had sent up to her untouched.
Even when Serena had been mourning her mother’s death, she’d never shut Amelia out like this.
She put her hand over her eyes and sighed. She loved Serena as much as if she were her own blood, but sometimes the girl was a sore trial to her soul.
When she
heard a faint scraping noise, Amelia peered between her parted fingers. The wall opposite the fireplace seemed to be opening and a cloaked figure stepped from behind a previously hidden door.
She shot to her feet, her hand to her throat.
“Be easy, Amelia,” came a familiar masculine voice. “It’s only me.”
She might be sliding toward her fortieth year, but her heart leaped up as if she were a debutante. “Leonard.”
Amelia skittered across the room and melted into the arms of the Marquis of Wyndleton. His cloak was damp and his cheeks cold, but his kiss was warmer than the blaze in the grate.
“We weren’t expecting you till the end of the week,” she gasped between kisses.
“I couldn’t wait.” The usually staid marquis cupped her bum and pulled her close to his hardness. “Just got in. Hellacious trip from London. I’d have been here hours earlier, but the bloody coach broke an axel just outside of Liphook. Lord, you smell good.”
She parted her lips, surrendering to his questing tongue and letting his urgency wash over her in scalding waves.
“Like your new chamber?” he asked with a rakish grin when he finally let her come up for a breath.
“I do now.” She pressed another kiss to his neck and then helped him off with his wet cloak. “I had no idea that secret door was there.”
“No one has. That’s how it stays a secret,” he said as he stripped off his jacket. “This chamber is connected with my own by a clever little passageway.”
“Really? This is not the marchioness’s room.” That grand chamber had been closed off since Serena’s mother died. Amelia had never set foot in it, but she’d heard the servants nattering about the room’s gilt-edged furnishings fashioned in the French style and the dear Flemish tapestry that covered one wall.
“In times past, this room was set aside for the lord’s mistress.” He pulled her back into his arms. “It’s a good bit larger than your previous chamber and much more convenient for our purposes.”
