The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  “I don’t discuss my past lovers,” he said. “You’ll have to take my word for it that what you and I have are different.”

  “How is it different?” she persisted. “How am I different from all your other lovers?”

  You’re different because… I love you. Goddamnit.

  Aye, he was in love with Primrose. There was no denying it. As a girl, she’d had a piece of his heart; as a woman, she’d owned the whole bloody thing from the moment their paths had crossed again at the masquerade.

  He loved Primrose—and he also understood her. She wasn’t ready to hear those words from him. She was skittish about their affair as it was. Besides, experience had taught him that love didn’t necessarily change anything. He couldn’t help loving Primrose, but he also knew better than to expect anything in return.

  “You’re different because you’re you.” He traced the contours of her face, framing its delicate strength. “Unique, captivating—and a saucy little baggage. You need a man like me to take you on.”

  “I’m not a baggage,” she retorted. “And I don’t need any man.”

  “Don’t you?” In an easy motion, he rolled onto his back, hoisting her on top so that she straddled him, her knees bracketing his hips. He felt her shiver, the moist kiss of her cunny against his abdomen, and his erection reared against her bottom. “Could have fooled me.”

  “Wretch.” She sighed it.

  “You’re right, however. It’s not any man you need—it’s me.”

  Gripping his prick with one hand, he ran the engorged head along her dewy slit.

  “You’re mine, Primrose. Say it,” he instructed.

  “I’m yours,” she said breathlessly.

  Triumph blazed through him. “Bloody right, you are.”

  He hauled her higher, positioning her sex over his mouth. He ate her until she climaxed, her sleek thighs shaking around his face, her lips chanting his name. Only then did he don another sheath and bring them both to ecstasy once more, laying his claim on her the surest way he knew how.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the next day, Papa’s siblings had arrived in London, and the family convened at the Kent residence. Rosie received squishy kisses and hugs from her aunts’ offspring—an adorable and ever expanding lot—before the children toddled off with their nannies. The adults took advantage of the momentary peace to have tea in the drawing room.

  Papa’s siblings were actually half-siblings, their mama having married Papa’s widowed father. While they were technically Rosie’s aunts and uncle, they felt more like siblings to her due to their closeness in age. Emma, the eldest sister, was only eight years older than Rosie. She and the rest of the family—Thea, Harry, Violet, and Polly—were now crowded around the refreshment-laden coffee table, listening as Rosie gave an abridged version of her adventures.

  “We’re so sorry we didn’t make it here sooner,” Thea, the Marchioness of Tremont said. The gentlest of the Kents, she was an angel with golden brown hair and soft hazel eyes. “We couldn’t travel until Freddy was feeling better.”

  Frederick, Thea’s beloved stepson, was a robust adolescent who suffered from occasional bouts of a chronic ailment.

  With concern, Rosie said, “He’s fully recovered, I hope?”

  “Despite Thea’s fretting, Freddy just had a head cold.” This came from Thea’s husband, who stood behind her chair. Tremont was a stoic fellow whose cool grey eyes warmed whenever they were upon his lady. “Right now, he’s out in the garden with Edward.”

  Being the same age, Freddy and Rosie’s brother were best cronies and usually up to some kind of mischief.

  “Harry brought them a new toy. They’re experimenting,” Tremont added wryly.

  A loud bang came from the back of the house, followed by gleeful shouts.

  “Thunder ’n turf, what did you give them, Harry?” Violet, a lithe brunette, exclaimed from the settee that she shared with her husband, Viscount Carlisle. At the explosive sound, Carlisle, a strapping sportsman, had thrown a protective arm around her.

  Papa aimed an alarmed look at his younger brother. “It wasn’t gunpowder, was it, lad?”

  “Of course not,” Harry said, continuing to stack sandwiches onto his plate.

  At eight-and-twenty, he was tall and darkly handsome like Papa. His spectacles hinted at his scholarly bent while his rangy, muscular build showed his love of sporting. Harry spent most of his time at the university, and Rosie was surprised at how much he’d changed since his last visit. There was a new brooding quality to him—one that tempered his good-naturedness and gave him a harder and more jaded air.

  Has something happened to Harry? she wondered. She thought about asking—and decided against it. Despite his easygoing ways, Harry was notoriously private. Having grown up with five sisters, he knew how to keep feminine inquisitiveness at bay.

  “I’d never give them a saltpeter mixture; it’s too unstable.” He popped a ham and watercress triangle into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “They have a sample of a new compound I’ve been working on. All bang and no blast, I assure you.”

  A small explosion rattled the windows. Worried looks were exchanged around the room... followed by shrugs. By now, they were all accustomed to Harry’s experiments.

  “Well, then, let’s get on with the critical business: that of finding Rosie’s attacker,” Em said in her usual brisk manner. “Ambrose, will you brief us on the case?”

  A petite and buxom brunette, Em had an active interest in sleuthing. At one time, she’d wanted to join Papa’s firm, and it was during her first case that she’d met the Duke of Strathaven. Despite being a duchess and mama now, Em still liked to keep up her investigative skills, and His Grace indulged her in this hobby as he did everything else.

  Papa gave a summary of the facts, making note of Andrew’s contributions. He did so in a neutral manner, not commenting on the nature of Rosie’s relationship with Andrew. Relieved at the lack of censure, Rosie couldn’t help but think about her lover. When he left her bed this morning, he’d promised to have a special surprise for her tonight. She wondered giddily what he had planned. Who knew that having an affair would be so exciting and delightful?

  It wasn’t just the lovemaking—her belly fluttered at the memory of those steamy hours—but how free she felt in his presence. When he’d made her look in the mirror, she’d seen herself clearly for the first time. In the reflection, she hadn’t been wicked or bad. Andrew was teaching her to accept herself as she was.

  He’d given her so much… and what did she have to give him in return?

  The imbalance niggled at her. Looking around the room, she wished she had some special quality the way each of her family members did. She wished she had Em’s practicality or Thea’s gentleness, Vi’s agility or Polly’s goodness. All she possessed was beauty and passion, and, if Andrew were to be believed, certain madcap tendencies.

  What sort of offering was that to a man like Andrew? A man who was so worldly, powerful, and self-contained. What could she give to him?

  She couldn’t even offer marriage—if, indeed, he even wanted to marry her…

  She gave herself a mental shake. Why was she thinking about marriage? She had everything she wanted: a passionate relationship with a devastatingly attractive man and a position in Society… why rock the boat? Her journey was finally smooth sailing—with the exception of someone wanting her dead. Being targeted for murder did cause some choppiness in the waters.

  The reminder made her focus back on Papa, who’d just finished recounting the events.

  “Crumpets,” Violet said, her caramel-colored eyes wide. “I thought I was the hoyden of the family, but Rosie has me beat!”

  “That’s debatable,” Carlisle muttered.

  When his viscountess responded by elbowing him in the side, his rugged face creased in a grin.

  “Wasn’t Andrew Corbett the one who accused Revelstoke of that ghastly business last year?” Emma asked. She’d aided Papa in the inve
stigation that had cleared Polly’s husband of any wrongdoing. “Why has he gone to such lengths to protect Rosie?”

  Before Rosie could muster up an explanation, Mama said, “As it happens, Corbett is an old friend.”

  Em’s brows knitted together. “Why haven’t you mentioned that before, Marianne?”

  “Corbett is part of a past I’d wanted to forget. He assisted me during those dark times when I was searching for Rosie.” Reaching up, Mama squeezed the hand that Papa had placed on her shoulder. “Corbett knew Rosie when she was a child, and he was a friend to her then.” Mama’s eyes met Rosie’s, and the maternal understanding in those emerald depths clogged her throat. “He still is.”

  “Any friend of Rosie’s is a friend of the Kents,” Em declared. “Given his integral involvement in the case, why didn’t we invite him today?”

  Seated next to her, Strathaven, a darkly elegant man, murmured, “Discretion is in order, pet.”

  Em canted her head at her husband, her expression puzzled.

  That was the charming thing about Em—about all of the Kents, Rosie thought. Growing up in an unconventional, middling class household, none of them gave a farthing about things like status or social acceptance. How she wished she could be more like them.

  “Mama is right. Mr. Corbett has been a good friend to me,” she said quietly, “and a true gentleman, despite his profession. I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

  “How lovely that you’ve found a champion.” Emma beamed. “Speaking of which—what can we do to help, Ambrose?”

  Going to the hearth, Papa faced them all, his eyes somber. “Thanks to Polly and Revelstoke’s friends, the mudlarks, we’ve had several sightings of a man who could be the shooter within St. Giles. He’s evaded capture thus far, but we’ll have him soon.” Papa’s jaw tightened. “Which is a good thing because we’ve made little progress with Alastair James and Peter Theale.”

  “They’ve denied involvement?” Em inquired.

  “Vehemently. James was blasé about it, but his sort appears blasé about everything. Even last year, when he nearly killed a man in a drunken duel—a little known fact that Lugo dug up. So we now know James has a history of committing violence.” Papa’s fingers drummed on the mantel. “Theale, on the other hand, was all nerves. His hands were shaking like he’d been struck by palsy.”

  “Do you think this Theale fellow is the guilty one?” Harry said.

  “I don’t know that he’d have the nerve to hire a cutthroat,” Papa said, “but he, of all the suspects, is the one who stands to gain the most. And not just in terms of money. I delved further into the financial information Corbett provided. It appears that Theale recently received a large loan from Mr. Albert Brace, a tea merchant.”

  “Tea merchants have joined the usury business now?” Harry’s brows rose.

  “It’s not money that Brace is after but the social connection,” Papa replied. “He has a daughter who he’s apparently been trying to marry off for years. Her main attraction, according to sources, is her dowry. Apparently, Theale has been dragging his heels for months, and Brace’s loan is part of ongoing negotiations.”

  “So we have one man with a history of violence and another desperate enough for money to consider an unwanted match,” Emma mused. “What do we know about the female suspects?”

  Mama spoke up. “On that subject, I’ve made a few inquiries of my own. According to the drawing room talk, Antonia James’ husband has recently lost a fortune to bad investments, and they are in dire financial straits. Lady Charlotte Daltry, the dowager countess, has a modest stipend exceeded, at times, by her expenses. Her wards, Sybil and Eloisa Fossey, are both penniless. Thus, for any of the four, two thousand pounds per annum might be sufficient incentive for murder.”

  Em hopped to her feet. “Since female suspects are my specialty, I’ll go interview them straightaway.”

  “It is past calling hours, pet.” His Grace’s large hand circled his wife’s slender wrist. “Send a note requesting a visit tomorrow. And frame it as your desire to meet Rosie’s new family rather than your desire to hunt down a murderer.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a point.” Em plopped back onto the cushions. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll come,” Thea said.

  “Me, too,” Vi and Polly chimed in.

  “I’d like to meet with the ladies as well,” Rosie said quickly.

  Not only did she want to aid in the capture of the villain, she needed to start her campaign for social acceptance. She needed to get into the good graces of Mrs. James and the dowager—assuming they weren’t the ones who wanted her dead, of course.

  “Rosie should stay at home where it’s safe,” Papa said, frowning.

  “Actually, I think having Rosie there would be useful.” Em tapped her chin. “We’ll be able to monitor the suspects for any tell-tale signs of guilt in her presence. And safety won’t be a problem—Strathaven will accompany us.”

  “As will I.” The words boomed through the room: they’d been uttered simultaneously by the other husbands.

  “Excellent. It’s decided then.” A smile of satisfaction tucked into Em’s cheeks. “With all of us working together, we’ll capture the villain in no time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Taking the arm he offered, Primrose alighted gracefully from the carriage.

  “We’re at your club?” Her veil didn’t dampen the excitement in her voice. “Is this my surprise?”

  Andrew hid a smile. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  Steering her past his guards, he led her through his private entrance at the back of the club. She’d pestered him about her surprise the entirety of the ride over. When that hadn’t worked, she’d playfully attempted to seduce it out of him. She’d peppered his face with kisses, her bottom wriggling enticingly in his lap—and she’d done this knowing that a coterie of his men had been right outside, riding along for protection.

  Something had definitely changed in her since their lovemaking last night, he mused. Perhaps that mirror had helped her to see how beautiful and sensual she was, peeling away another layer of her inhibitions. He couldn’t wait to see what else lay beneath. His little minx was taking to sexual exploration like a duck to water, and anticipation simmered in him as he thought of the games ahead.

  “I need to fetch something from my office, and then we’ll be off,” he told her.

  “Off to where?” she said immediately.

  “That’s for me to know, you impatient wench.”

  Although she pretended to pout, she took the hand he held out to her, and they traversed the hidden corridor, sounds of the club filtering through the walls. Past midnight, the festivities were just getting underway.

  “I can’t stay out too late.” She’d pinned up her veil, her eyes luminous in the dimness. “I have plans on the morrow. I’m paying a visit to—”

  “Mrs. James and the dowager countess. Yes, I know.” He aimed a wicked look at her. “I’ll try not to tire you overmuch.”

  “How did you know about my plans?”

  “Kent told me.”

  “Papa?” She blinked owlishly. “You spoke with him today?”

  “Most every day, sunshine. To coordinate your protection.”

  He stopped, opening the panel that led into his office. As he led her into the room, she was uncommonly quiet. Pensive. He recalled her initial resistance to him contacting her father, his buoyant spirits deflating. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to minimize her family’s exposure to him. He wondered if she was embarrassed about having an ex-prostitute as her lover, and his gut balled.

  “The meetings are brief and address only the plans for your safety,” he said in clipped tones. “Your father and I discuss nothing personal. I have no wish for an appointment with him at dawn.”

  “I trust you.” Her voice was quiet as she removed her bonnet and veil, placing her woolen cape over the back of a sofa.

  “Then why a
re you disquieted?” Opening a drawer of his desk, he searched for the key he needed with studied carelessness.

  “I’m not disquieted; I’m surprised. Papa didn’t mention that he was meeting with you. Actually, I am glad that you and he are getting to know one another.”

  He gave her a swift look. “Are you?”

  “Yes. I imagine the two of you get along. Being so alike.”

  “You think your father and I are alike?” he said incredulously.

  Ambrose Kent was a gentleman, one who commanded respect due to his honorable character and pursuit of justice. Andrew was a bastard and a pimp.

  “Well, yes.” Primrose faced him across the desk, running a gloved finger over the polished edge. “You’re both men of honor. Both protective of those you care about.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you both like to tell me what to do.”

  Her words flooded him like sunlight, reaching into his darkest corners and chasing away shadows—ghosts that he hadn’t realized still lurked. Out of nowhere, Bartholomew Black’s voice emerged. Every man’s got a weakness. Beware o’ females, Corbett—they’re yours.

  Andrew couldn’t deny that he’d been used by women in the past. By Kitty, his customers, even his former employee, Nicoletta, who’d manipulated him as part of her nefarious plot against the Earl of Revelstoke. He had ample reason to be cynical, hardened toward the opposite sex.

  Yet with Primrose, he couldn’t form any sort of callus over his emotions. With her, he felt everything. She was different from other females: she didn’t just take from him… she gave.

  Rounding the desk corner, he caught her by the waist.

  “The difference is that you like doing what I tell you to do,” he said. “Admit it.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. With her dimples peeping out, she looked so adorable that his heart stuttered. “Perhaps I don’t mind that dictatorial side of you too much.”