by Julia London
“Really?” Anna asked, dropping her arms and moving closer to view it. “Why should he have such a horrid thing made for her?”
Grif shrugged as he touched the ruby eyes. “No one knows, really. Our great grandfather speculated that the beastie held some sort of meaning for them. Whatever its meaning, it is cast of gold and boasts two dozen rubies. ’Tis priceless, and has been highly desired by the English and the Scottish Lockharts for centuries. But it rightfully belongs,” he said, carefully wrapping it in her drawers again, “to the Scottish Lockharts.”
“Well, there now, you have it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You may happily trot back to Scotland with your booty.”
“Aye… thank ye, Anna.”
“Why? Why are you thanking me?” she demanded, feeling cross again. “We had an agreement, you and I, and you, well…I suppose you held your end, and naturally I did the same.”
“And thank ye for holding yer end of it. Women canna always be trusted,” he said, as if it were a scientifically documented fact.
“That’s absurd!” she exclaimed. “Women are no more or less trustworthy than men!”
“Ach, do ye truly believe that?” he asked as he stuffed the statue into the satchel.
“Of course I do!”
“Then I can trust that ye will honor yer word and marry Lockhart when he offers for ye?”
Why in God’s name that should make tears spring to her eyes, Anna could not say, and horrified by them, she abruptly whirled away from Grif and stalked blindly to the window.
“What is it now, Anna? Why should this make ye sad?”
“I’m not sad,” she insisted, squeezing her eyes shut to keep tears from leaking.
“Ye should be happy. Ye’ve earned his affection. Why, I can see ye now, bouncing a wee bairn on yer knee, yer new sister, Barbara, at the pianoforte, yer dear husband quietly reading. What a lovely portrait it would make.”
“Stop it,” she said through gritted teeth.
“But why? It is a lovely portrait, is it no’?”
She realized she was clenching her hands into fists, and her nails were biting into her palms as she tried to maintain her composure.
“Ah, ye are sad,” he said, at her back now, and put his hands on her arms, let his palms glide up to her shoulders, then down to her wrists. “Tell me, lass, are ye the sort of woman who enjoys the hunt but not the spoils?”
Whatever possessed her, she couldn’t say, but she abruptly twisted about and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his collar. “Yes! I don’t want him!” she cried into his collar. “I don’t love him!”
“Anna,” Grif said sternly, wrapping his hands around her arms and trying to pull them free of his neck. “I shouldna have—”
“But it’s too late! I think he’s already spoken to my father, and I can’t go back, I can’t refuse him!”
“W-what?” The surprise in his voice trickled into her ear and down to her heart, and rashly, boldly, Anna seized her last opportunity to know the man she loved. She raised her head, grabbed his face between her hands, and pressed her lips to his—hard and unyielding—and then, as tears began to slide from the corners of her eyes, she kissed him softly, her tongue feeling the seam of his mouth, her teeth grazing the flesh of his lips.
Grif’s hands stopped fighting her. They went round her, pulling her into him so tightly that she could barely breathe. His tongue swept inside her mouth; he began to caress her back, her arm, then, coming to her face, he cupped her chin and angled it toward him.
Anna knew nothing but the pleasure of his body against hers as he moved her away from the window, moved her backward, toward the settee. His arm held her easily as he lowered her onto the settee and moved over her. His mouth was everywhere—on her lips, her neck, the swell of her bosom. She could feel his erection hard between them, a pulsing, moving thing that awoke a throbbing in her.
He caressed her breast, molding it and shaping it to fit his palm, his thumb grazing her nipple, sending little pulses of fire down her spine and into her groin. The more he kissed her and caressed her, the more Anna’s body ached to have him. Caution flew out of her head; she could think of nothing, could see nothing but Grif, and in her eagerness she groped at her gown, pulling it up, up, and up, squirming beneath him, moving so that she could feel his hardness pressed against her.
But Grif suddenly broke the kiss and grabbed her wrist, stopping her from pulling her gown any higher. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “I hold ye in too high regard to ruin ye, Anna,” he hissed.
“You want me, I want you,” she whispered, her fingers moving featherlike across his eyes, his lips. “Let’s not leave it like this, please?”
“No,” he said again, his hand squeezing her wrist. “No.”
His rejection, no matter how justified, and so soon on the heels of what had happened in the arbor of Featherstone, humiliated her, and the days of frustration and fear seemed to all bubble up in her. She suddenly bucked beneath him, shoving her knee between his legs.
With a yelp, Grif let go of her hand, and Anna bucked with both knees, knocking him off of her and onto the floor.
She quickly stood up, shook her gown loose. “Very well,” she said, as Grif lay there, flat on his back, his arms splayed wide, blinking up at her. “You have your blasted gargoyle, so I suppose there is nothing left to say.”
She took a step, but Grif caught her ankle in a vise-like grip. “No’ so fast, leannan. First, for God’s sake, it is a beastie, and second, ye willna leave thus!”
“Ha,” she said, kicking her leg out. “You can’t stop me!”
He gave her a hard yank and a twist that pulled her foot from beneath her and sent her sailing to the floor. She landed with a thud right on her bum, and before she could move, Grif had, by some miracle, popped up and over her, had grabbed her arms and pinned them on either side of her head. “Ye wee diabhal,” he said with a dark grin. “How capricious and peevish ye become when ye canna have yer way.”
“Get off of me,” she warned him.
Grif laughed, lowered his head so that his lips were just a moment from hers. “I’ll get off ye when ye apologize.”
“Apologize! For what, pray tell?” she snapped, and tried to wiggle out from beneath him, but Grif held firm.
“For being so bloody cantankerous.”
“Oh!” she cried, fighting again. “There was never a more cantankerous person than you, and how you could possibly say that of me—”
“Uist, now, lass,” he said, smiling down at her. “I canna kiss ye when yer tongue is wagging so. We’ve a saying in Scotland: Binn beal, na chonai.”
She stilled, looked at him curiously. “What? What does that mean?”
“ ‘The mouth that speaks no’ is sweet to hear,’” he said, and laughed when she shrieked her disapproval as he lowered his head until she could feel his breath on her lips, could smell his skin… she took a deep breath, closed her eyes… but she heard the knocking, and her eyes flew open. Grif’s head was raised; he was as still as the night, his eyes on the door.
The knocking was followed by shouting.
Grif groaned with aggravation and bellowed, “God blind me, is there never a moment’s peace in this town?”
Twenty-seven
D rake Lockhart was uncertain as to which house belonged to Lady Dalkeith and had walked up Cavendish Street twice, looking at the distinctive window fans above the door for a clue. A shell of some sort, Garfield had said. As he didn’t see anything that looked like a shell, exactly, he turned round, retracing his steps.
He might have walked over Lady Worthall had it not been for her little dog, which attacked his boot as if it were a cat.
“Mr. Lockhart, is it?” she asked, peering inquisitively through her monocle.
“Lady Worthall, how do you do?”
“Quite well indeed, sir. And how is your lady mother?”
“Very well, thank you,” he said, trying to kick t
he dog off of him.
“Sirius! Stop that at once!” she cried, but the dog ignored her. Lady Worthall peered up at Drake again beneath the long bill of her bonnet. “No doubt you are in search of Lord Ardencaple,” she said.
He jerked his gaze up in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Why, it would seem the entire town is in search of him!” she exclaimed.
Drake forgot about the dog. “Does it seem so, indeed? Are you acquainted with him?”
“Acquainted!” she spat. “Hardly! He has taken up residence in my dear friend’s house. Of course I wrote straightaway to Lady Dalkeith in France and expressed how happy we were that her dear friend, Lord Ardencaple, had come to reside! And do you know that she wrote me in return and claimed to have no knowledge of a Lord Ardencaple, and that, in fact, the only Scot she had any contact with at all was her grandson, Mr. MacAlister, but neither had he written to request the use of her house!”
“Are you certain?” Drake asked.
“Of course I’m certain!” she snapped. “At last look, there are no bats in this belfry, sir!”
“Of course not—it’s just that I find it quite hard to believe that a man would simply steal someone’s home.”
“As do I, sir, which is why I took it upon myself to inform Lady Dalkeith. And she has written that she will return by the end of this week to have a word with Lord Ardencaple.”
“Which house is it, if you’d be so kind?” he asked.
Lady Worthall pointed to one in the middle of the block. “And best you call now, sir, for Miss Addison has been within far too long!” Lady Worthall sniped.
Drake’s blood ran cold. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, that impertinent Miss Anna Addison!” Lady Worthall said, and paused to stop down and pick up her awful little dog, which struggled to be set free. “She’s called on several occasions without benefit of escort! I shudder to think what unspeakable things must be going on behind closed doors!” she said, and closed her eyes and shuddered.
Drake couldn’t think. He could not think. It was impossible to believe that Anna would risk so much by coming here. It was impossible to believe that Anna would have desire or reason to come here! His cold blood was boiling now, and he turned sharply toward the house. “Which one again, that one?” he asked, pointing, wanting to make doubly sure he had it.
“Yes indeed, sir, that one,” Lady Worthall said, nodding furiously. “You’d best pay your call. I think well of Lord Whittington, and I would not like to see his name tarnished!”
“Quite right.” With a tip of his hat, Drake turned and strode purposefully toward Dalkeith House.
He took the steps in twos, banged loudly on the door. And when it was not immediately answered, he banged again, only harder. It was at last opened by a pretty woman with golden red hair, wearing an apron. She cocked one hip as she took him in. “Aye?”
“Lord Ardencaple. You may say Mr. Lockhart is calling.”
“Beg yer pardon, sir, he’s engaged just now.”
“Then I suggest you un-engage him, miss, for I will see him now!”
The woman moved to shut the door, but Drake slapped a hand against it.
“Ye canna come in here like this!” she cried. “Ye’ve no call to do it!”
“I’ve every call, and if you don’t do as I ask straightaway, I will have the authorities at your door before you can drop a hen in your kettle, wench.”
The woman gasped with shock, then suddenly whirled and went running into the house, shouting, “Milord, milord!”
Drake was on her heels, following her up the grand staircase and down the corridor to the last door on the right.
“Lord Ardencaple!” she screeched as she tried to reach for the doorknob.
Drake was too quick; he shoved past her, threw the door open, and strode into the room.
Ardencaple was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded, his legs braced far apart. He was wearing buckskins and boots, but no coat, only a waistcoat and a neckcloth that was partially untied.
“What in God’s name do ye think ye are about, Lockhart?” Ardencaple roared. “How dare ye push yer way in here!”
“I should ask the same of you, sir,” Drake said, forcing his way into the room. “It would seem you have commandeered a house as well as a title.”
“He forced his way in!” the wench behind him cried.
“That’s quite all right, Miss Brody. I apologize for his abominable behavior,” Ardencaple said calmly. “Ye best go on about yer work now.”
“Are ye certain, milord?”
“Quite,” he said, and walked to the door, held it open so that she might exit. She reluctantly quit the room, eyeing Lockhart with daggers in her eyes.
Ardencaple quietly shut the door and turned to regard Drake. “How dare ye come into me house like this,” he said low.
“How dare you come to London and masquerade as an earl! You don’t have permission to use this house!”
“I beg yer pardon! I’ve proper letters of introduction—”
“Spare me your bloody letters of introduction!” Drake shouted. “Lady Worthall has a letter from Lady Dalkeith in which she writes she has no knowledge of you or anyone like you, and that she will return by the end of the week to set the matter to rights! What will you say to that, I wonder?”
“Lady Worthall is sadly mistaken,” he said, very calmly. “And so are ye, Lockhart. Ye have no reason—”
“The hell I don’t, sir! I think it quite a remarkable coincidence that a precious family heirloom would disappear from my family’s home the last time a Scot was in London!”
Ardencaple lifted a brow and chuckled with amusement. “Now what could that possibly have to do with me? Would ye accuse me of stealing, sir?” he laughed again. “How ye must despise me.”
“I more than despise you. I desire to see you behind the bars at Newgate before the day is done.”
“Donna be ridiculous,” Ardencaple scoffed.
Drake was about to tell him that he was quite serious, but the door flew open and another man burst into the room, looking first to Ardencaple, then to Drake. “Is everything all right, milord?” he asked, eyeing Lockhart. “Cook was quite distressed.”
“And well she had reason to be. Mr. Lockhart has shown her an uncommonly vulgar side of himself. But I believe he was just leaving …are ye no’, Mr. Lockhart?”
“Not without Miss Addison,” he said through clenched teeth.
For a split moment Ardencaple seemed to freeze. He exchanged a look with the other Scot, then shifted his gaze to Drake. “I donna care for the implication of that, sir,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I’m not implying anything, you goddamn rogue! Miss Addison has been plainly seen entering this house on more than one occasion and including this morning, without proper escort! Do you think to make whores of our women while you plot your thievery?”
“Mind yerself, sir!” the other Scot exclaimed hotly. “Ye willna impugn the reputation of Lord Ardencaple!”
“I will do as I bloody well please. If he takes issue with it, then he may call me out,” he spat.
Ardencaple laughed derisively at that. “Ye’d welcome it, would ye no’? But there is no need for yer bravado, Lockhart. Miss Addison is no’ here. She’s never been here. Lady Worthall, for what it’s worth, is a doddering old bird with naugh’ more to do with her days than create scandals. Why, do ye know that she claimed The Prince Regent was paying uncommon court to a lass in the house on the corner, who hasna even come out? If there is no scandal to speak of, our Lady Worthall will create it. Only a bloody fool would believe her mutterings.”
That gave Drake pause—it was indeed possible that Lady Worthall was a mad old bird. He scarcely knew her, and what Ardencaple said made some sense, for he could not believe that Anna would come here, unescorted, and risk her reputation. But then again, there was nothing he wouldn’t put past this scoundrel.
What he needed was a constable
who could cart the bastard off as he so richly deserved.
He pointed a finger at Ardencaple. “You had best prepare yourself, sir, for I will bring the full force of the magistrate down on your head!”
Ardencaple laughed. “Be our guest, Lockhart. Bring whomever ye must. But be forewarned that everyone in London will know what a bloody goddamn fool ye are ere it’s all over.”
Drake turned sharply and shoved the other Scot aside as he strode out of the room and then out of that house.
He could have a constable here by late afternoon.
His head lowered, Grif looked at Hugh as he slammed the door behind the departing back of Lockhart.
“I should have put him on his bloody arse,” Hugh said. “What are we to do? He’ll return shortly, ye know he will.”
“Aye. We leave,” Grif said. “Just as we planned. I have the beastie.”
“She brought it round, then?” Hugh asked, his eyes lighting up. “Bloody hell, then, we’ll go! I’ve brought the coach out; we can be away from London by nightfall.”
A noise, much like a disembodied shout in the far distance, came from behind the bookcase. Hugh looked at the bookcase, then at Grif. “Right. But we’ve a wee problem yet,” Grif said, cringing a little.
“Diah,” Hugh groaned. “Miss Addison?”
“Aye. Do ye recall the hidden wall space Dudley discovered? I put her there when we heard Miss Brody’s shouts.”
Another muffled cry, which both men ignored. “Send her home, then,” Hugh said.
“What? To certain ruin? No.”
“Ach, Lockhart!” Hugh exclaimed, narrowing his gaze. “What do ye think to do? Ye canna take her to Scotland, of all places! That’d be kidnapping.”
“I bloody well know what it’d be, thank ye,” Grif muttered.
Another muffled shout was accompanied by some sort of scratching noise, which Grif assumed was a bit of kicking.
“Ye canna think to do so!” Hugh continued heatedly. “We must run for our lives now, do ye no’ realize that? We’ve already done enough to be hanged, and the English will certainly hang us if ye add kidnapping a lord’s daughter to our crimes. Do ye think yer cousin willna make good on his threat to see us in Newgate Prison? Ye canna bring her along, for we’d no’ go as far as Charing Cross before they were upon us!”
