If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  She bobbed her head once. “I’ll get the sketches. I have placed them in a box to protect them. You will want to consider how best to store them if you desire that they should last.”

  “At the price you extracted from me, can you doubt it?” Restell caught her beginning to chuckle before she made her retreat. It made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Pretty, he thought, and was not entirely displeased for noticing it yet again. It was not as if he’d been unaware of it. For all that it had been difficult to see past her bruised and swollen features at the time of their introduction, it had not been impossible. Her lower lip had cracked as often because she could not quite tamp her smile as because she was worrying it. What he remembered about that smile was that he’d nearly been undone by it, and he was not helped by the fact that she regarded him from the vantage point of her most excellent blue-green eyes.

  Restell exited the drawing room in favor of waiting in the entrance hall. Emma appeared in very little time carrying the box containing Sir Arthur’s sketches. The exchange was made with no fanfare, and she excused herself only long enough to put his bank draft safely away. When she returned a maid appeared with her pelisse and bonnet. Restell accepted his hat and walking stick from a footman.

  “Shall we?” he asked, inviting her to lead the way. The front door was already being opened for them. The only encouragement he offered was the expectation inherent in his single raised eyebrow. He watched her steel herself to leave the house, then march ahead with all the dignity of condemned royalty on their way to a beheading. Once she crossed the threshold, she seemed to embrace the idea of certain death because her feet barely touched the ground between the stoop and the carriage. When he joined her, she was flushed and a little breathless.

  “Are you all of a piece?” he asked. He rapped lightly on the roof with the crystal knob of his cane to alert Whittier that they were ready to go.

  “I wish you would not do that,” Emma snapped.

  Bewildered by her waspish tone, Restell frowned. “Do what? Inquire after the state of your nerves?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. My nerves are in a fine state for you have jangled all of them.” She reached across the gap separating them and wrested the walking stick from his hand. She slapped the knob sharply against the flat of her palm. “That,” she said firmly, beating out a series of staccato sounds. “Do. Not. Do. That.”

  Although each note was a dull thwap, he immediately understood her reference to the tattoo he’d made against the roof. “What is it about that sound that sets your teeth on edge?”

  If only that were all it did, Emma thought. Every hair on her body came to attention, and a rush of fear ran through her as quickly as the blood in her veins. She was left with a pounding heart and a thick head and little understanding of why it was so. “I cannot explain it,” she said. It was with some reluctance that she returned the walking stick to him. “I imagine it is much the same for the fox upon hearing the call to hounds. That creature, though, has his earth. I have nowhere to go. I know you did not do it of a purpose, but that has no bearing on how it makes me feel.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Dreadful. It fills me with dread.”

  He nodded, thinking it over. “Has the sound always caused you such distress?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is related to the assault and abduction. Does it seem that way to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were not bothered by the thunder yesterday. I noticed that.”

  “I have never been afraid of storms.”

  “But the sound, that doesn’t distress you?”

  “Not in the least. Why should it?”

  “It seems infinitely more threatening to me than the drumming of this stick against the carriage roof.”

  “Then I’ll offer you protection in a thunderstorm,” she said, “but I promise I will clobber you with that stick if you pound the pavement with it.”

  Restell’s eyes narrowed, while Emma’s did just the opposite. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it before any more ridiculous utterances escaped it.

  “I think you mean it,” Restell said.

  She lifted her hand a fraction but did not let it fall away. “I did when I said it.”

  Restell lay the walking stick along the bench beside him so it was partially wedged in the seam between the leather seat and back. “As a precaution,” he told her. “In the event I forget myself and you are compelled to act as you promised.”

  “Oh, but I wouldn’t.”

  “I think you would. You might believe you have no choice.” He raised his right hand and pointed to the angry bruise left by her teeth marks of only the previous afternoon. “I did not want to call attention to it, but it is perhaps better that I do. For my own well-being, I will accept you at your word.” He watched a series of hard to read emotions flit across her face. “What is it? Have I embarrassed you?”

  She offered him a faintly guilty smile. “Oddly enough, no. I am not embarrassed in the least, or rather I was, but I am no longer. The idea that you believe I can threaten you, even carry out that threat, well, it makes me feel strangely powerful…and a bit unsettled.” She regarded Restell squarely, looking to him for perspective. “What do you think of that?”

  “It seems to me that good will come of it. You will not put it about, will you, that I have uncovered the fierce, ruthless heart of an Amazon? I fear the collapse of society, or at least the society of men, when women come to embrace the power they have.”

  “Now you are having me on.”

  “Not as much as you think. Have you not read Wollstonecraft? Her Vindication of the Rights of Women is only marginally less frightening than her daughter’s Frankenstein.”

  It was the perfect gravity of his expression and the dryness of his delivery that made Emma smile. He made it difficult to know when he was amusing himself and when he was in earnest. “I have read neither,” she told him. “But I am sufficiently intrigued to begin both.”

  “I hope you will share your opinion. Now, what of the drawing of Kincaid? May I see it?”

  Emma pointed to the box on the seat beside him. “I placed them with the sketches.”

  “Them?”

  “There are four,” she said as he lifted the lid. “Marisol and I could not agree on the details. Uncle Arthur did his best to manage the debate, but we strained his patience. You can appreciate that he was not in the best humor at the outset. I’m certain he was relieved when Marisol finally retired for the night.”

  Restell nodded faintly as he sifted through the drawings. “The differences between them are subtle, at least I find them so, yet it is as if I am seeing four distinct individuals. I am left with the impression that one of them might be Jonathan Kincaid, while the other three are his brothers.”

  “I understand. I thought much the same.”

  His fingertips caught one of the corners so that it curled forward. It was then that he saw the small pencil mark on the back. “What is this? It looks like an E.”

  “You are looking at it upside down. It’s a three.”

  “What does it signify?”

  “I asked Marisol to place the drawings in the order she preferred. The first is the one she considers most like Mr. Kincaid. The one on the bottom least resembles him.”

  “There is another mark on this first one,” he said, tilting his head to examine it more closely. “It is a D; I am certain of it.”

  “I placed them in the order that I preferred. I used the alphabet so there would be no confusion.”

  Checking the back of each, Restell reordered the drawings according to Emma’s preference. “You have almost the opposite opinion.”

  She sighed. “I know. I was discouraged to realize it. Marisol admitted that she did not think the first two drawings that were done before she went to bed did full justice to Mr. Kincaid, but those are the ones she chose this morning as the best likenesses.”

  “I suppose it is understandable. She had
no say in the other two.” He studied the drawing that Emma liked the best. “He has a less pleasant countenance in your recollection than your cousin’s. Perhaps that’s what she objected to.”

  “Perhaps. She did remark that his ears looked like jug handles.”

  Restell chuckled. “There is that.”

  “May I look, please?” Emma asked. She took the drawing and examined it with a critical eye. “They are conspicuous, aren’t they? I could not see it when Marisol pointed out the same.”

  “I have observed that females sometimes enjoy disagreement for its own sake.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  “You are deliberately misunderstanding. It is your observation that is absurd.”

  He shrugged and accepted the drawing when she passed it to him. “I do not think it would hurt to ask Mr. Charters for his opinion.”

  “You do not think he will find it odd?”

  “Why would he?”

  “I imagine because he would expect you to trust my judgment. I am the one who formed an attachment to Mr. Kincaid, after all.”

  “So that is the story you wish to tell him.”

  “I promised Marisol.”

  “I did not.”

  “But you’ll do it, won’t you? Support me in this, I mean. There is nothing to be gained by sharing all of the truth with Mr. Charters. Marisol had already had it in her mind to end her flirtation with Mr. Kincaid. Where can be the harm in pretending there never was any affection between them?”

  “I don’t like it,” Restell said. “It rarely serves to advance a lie when one expects the truth in return.”

  “Please,” she said quietly. “If I am willing to pretend an attachment where none existed, it cannot be so terribly hard for you to say nothing to contradict me.”

  “If you knew me better you would not say that.”

  “I am serious.”

  “So am I. You are asking me to disregard my experience and my judgment.”

  Having it put before her so plainly gave Emma pause. “I will not renege on my promise to Marisol,” she said finally. “But you must do as you think best. It seems to me that is the nature of the agreement I have with you.”

  “I’m relieved you realize it.” Restell returned the drawings to the box and covered it. “Allow me to see how the interview unfolds, then I will know better what can be left unsaid. That is not my pledge to say nothing, only that I will consider it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Restell shifted his gaze to the window and away from her splendid blue-green eyes. He could have told her that his judgment was already impaired and that it had been thus since she raised her veil. She wouldn’t have believed him, so he might have said it without fear of being taken at his word, but he did the difficult thing and said nothing at all.

  Chapter 6

  Neven Charters impressed Restell as a gentleman who thoroughly enjoyed life’s finer offerings and made no apologies for it. It seemed quite purposeful, Restell thought, that he and Emma were shown to the gallery. The room had pretensions of being a museum, boasting works of art from all over the continent and from civilizations that no longer even had a living language. The walls were crowded with portraits, pastoral scenes, and medieval Madonnas. Egyptian artifacts shared space on the mantel with Greek urns and beautifully detailed Chinese vases. The tables—and there were four of them, all influenced by Roman design and realized by master craftsmen—were crowded with figurines of jade, porcelain, and gold. The rugs were Persian and Oriental. Rich, jewel-toned fabrics covered the appointments. Silk. Velvet. Damask. One wall was concealed almost entirely by a tapestry that told the whole of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in its threads.

  Restell caught Emma’s eye and pointed upward. She glanced at the vaulted ceiling and was unsuccessful in reining in her reaction. She gasped inelegantly.

  Restell bent his head toward her. “The twelve plagues visited upon Egypt,” he whispered. “As the subject for a mural, it is thankfully rather rare. I find the locusts particularly frightening.” He waved a hand in front of him, batting ineffectually at the air. “No, I beg your pardon. It was naught but a fly.”

  “You must stop,” she said under her breath. “Mr. Charters could walk in at any moment.”

  “And we will be caught with our mouths open as wide as fledglings. I tell you, he will be flattered.”

  “Flattered?”

  “That we are properly awed, of course. It will not occur to him that you and I are appalled.”

  “You cannot possibly know that.”

  “Would you like to engage in a wager?”

  “Do not be foolish.”

  “Do not be fussy. I can see you are intrigued. You are wondering what we might wager.”

  “I am not,” she said primly. Her eyes darted toward the door. “What would we wager?”

  Restell managed not to grin, but it was a narrow thing. His light shrug suggested that the thing won or lost was of little interest to him. “I have nothing in mind. A marker would suffice.”

  “But what would the marker be worth?”

  “You are mercenary,” he said. “I hadn’t realized. I was thinking of something you might do for me.”

  “Another favor? But then I would owe you two.”

  “Only if you lose. If you are so certain that will be the outcome, then you shouldn’t make the wager.” The regard of his clear blue eyes was faintly challenging. “On the other hand, if you think there is a chance you will win…” Quite purposely, he did not finish his sentence. She would complete it for him, he knew, if only in her mind. Watching her contemplate that he might be the one owing the favor caused Restell to wonder if losing would not be the better result for him. If he did not mistake the mischief in her eyes, she looked to be contemplating something at least moderately wicked. He could not help but support that.

  “Very well,” Emma said. “I will have your marker.”

  “You haven’t won yet. But the opportunity is upon us. Look up.”

  The door opened just as Restell and Emma returned their attention to the vaulted ceiling. Their mouths fell open of their own accord. The plagues were as shocking upon this second inspection as they had been upon the first. For Restell it was the subject matter that seemed grossly inappropriate for a painted ceiling. For her part, Emma could forgive the content but not the execution. The composition was poorly realized, and the choice of pigments could only be described as garish. The subjects, however, were rendered with enormous attention to detail. This had the unfortunate effect of lending the whole of it the irrational realism of a nightmare.

  “Perfectly dreadful, is it not?” Neven Charters strode into the room. “I have considered having it painted over, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I fear I should miss the thing, and it does amuse me to watch visitors struggle to find appropriate adjectives to describe it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Restell saw that Emma was finding it difficult to keep her own amusement in check. Although he had considered that there were worse things than losing the wager to her, he was hard pressed to enumerate them now. She was enjoying herself a bit too much at his expense. His mood was not improved when Neven Charters took both of Emma’s hands in his and regarded her warmly while he welcomed her.

  “It is a pleasure to have you here at last,” Neven said. “But the greatest pleasure is seeing that you are faring so well. Marisol spoke to me regularly of your progress, yet I find that seeing it for myself is infinitely more satisfying.”

  Emma carefully drew her hands from his. “You are good to inquire after me, and I hope you have not been inconvenienced by our visit. It is a poor manner of thanking you for your many kindnesses to me and my family. Please, allow me to make the introductions.”

  “Of course.”

  Emma performed the function calmly enough, though she was aware of a shift in the very air about her. Both men seemed perfectly at their ease, even politely interested in each oth
er, but she did not trust that it was sincerely felt. She did not think that either man had moved a fraction, yet Restell Gardner once again had the look of a Viking warrior, and Neven Charters seemed to be preparing to wave a cutlass and repel all boarders. Although Restell was as fair as Neven was dark, they were of a similar height and build. They held themselves confidently as men who were comfortable in their own skin were wont to do. She suspected they shared an interest in athletics, and she would not have been astonished if they had grappled with each other instead of exchanging courteous nods. To avoid just such an end, Emma quickly sought neutral ground and found it overhead.

  “Who is the artist?” she asked, indicating the ceiling.

  “My grandfather.”

  “Oh.”

  Neven’s green eyes settled warmly on Emma as he chuckled. “I did not mean to put you at such an awkward disadvantage. So few people inquire that I forget there is no politic response when I tell them the truth. Grandfather was an enthusiastic painter but not an accomplished one.” He looked at Restell. “You have formed an opinion, Mr. Gardner?”

  “Indeed, I have,” Restell said. “The politic response, I believe, is not to share it.”

  “Right you are.” Neven gestured to one of the velvet-covered sofas. “Won’t you be seated? I have already arranged for lemonade and sandwiches. I recall that you enjoy lemonade, Miss Hathaway.”

  “I do. Thank you. It seems absurd that you remember that.”

  “I cannot easily account for it myself. My interest is often caught by what others would find to be the most inconsequential of details.”

  “It must serve you well,” Restell said. “In the course of collecting your artwork. I am given to understand that an unsuspecting public or an overeager patron is particularly susceptible to fraud.”

  Neven nodded. “Most people cannot imagine the breadth of the problem. Victims are often unwilling to step forward because they do not wish it to be known they were duped.”

  Restell sat beside Emma on the sofa. He watched Neven choose a Queen Anne chair and place it within the perimeter of the Oriental rug but closer to Emma’s end of the sofa. He wondered if Mr. Charters would be interested in knowing that he also was often intrigued by what others would find to be the most inconsequential of details.