Beyond A Wicked Kiss

by Jo Goodman

  "Yes. I remember. You shall have it as soon as Miss Taylor can accomplish the thing."

  "Good."

  They fell silent again, not to draw the other out, but because each was reluctant to say the thing that was uppermost in their mind. It was West who finally spoke.

  "Last night... the last time we... you are aware that I did not..."

  "It was this morning," she said, taking pity on him. "And I am perfectly aware."

  "Just so."

  "If there are consequences, I will write." Ria reconsidered what the waiting would be like for him. "I will also write in the event there are none."

  He nodded once. "Thank you." Releasing her hand, he stood. "You will tread carefully if any of the governors visits the school."

  "Yes. Of course." She glanced toward the window. Sunlight was beginning to filter through a part in the drapes. "You must leave now, else you will be seen."

  West nodded again and turned to go. Almost immediately he paused, spun on his heel, and roughly pulled Ria from the bed. He brought her flush to his body and kissed her hard and long and deeply.

  Just as he meant her to, she felt the stamp of his mouth on hers long after he was gone.

  * * *

  From what West could determine, the French Ambassador's ball was a glittering affair, inside and out. A light snow covered the ground outside the grand residence. Carriages lined the street in front of the gate and filled the drive leading to the main entrance. Drivers, footmen, and young tigers, all splendidly turned out in their best livery, waited stoically in the cold January night to be of service again. Strains of music could be heard from the opposite side of the street where West stood taking up his post against a stone pillar. He wore neither the livery of the servants, nor a fine satin waistcoat or frock coat that was the uniform of choice for the ambassador's gentlemen guests.

  It was not West's ambition to be noticed this evening. He had accomplished what was to be done in the ambassador's very private study and was now awaiting the results of his efforts. He remained huddled inside his black greatcoat, leaning back against the pillar, the brim of his beaver hat tipped forward over his brow. If he drew someone's attention, it would be because he was perceived to be sleeping. No one who did not know him well would comprehend that he was alert to everything.

  His task had been made simple enough by the colonel's preparation and the ambassador's cooperation. He had only to make certain the ambassador had not changed his mind. West discovered upon making his undetected entry into the man's study, that he had kept his word. The documents and jewelry that were meant to trap the Gentleman Thief were still there as promised. He stayed in the small room that adjoined the library only long enough to glance at a few of the books that had been secreted away. It said something about the breadth of Beckwith's collection that the ambassador's own could not hold a candle to it.

  Now, standing at his post, his thoughts strayed back to Ria even as he watched the entrance. He wondered if she would have liked to have attended such an affair as this one and if she would have been made happy or less so to have attended it on his arm.

  It did not seem likely that there would ever be cause to escort her. His own invitation lay on a silver tray in his town house, left there because his work did not require him to join North and East inside. He did not have to mingle with the ambassador's guests to accomplish his task. That is what he told himself, but in this quieter moment he knew it was not the entire truth.

  Beneath this greatcoat, he fingered the letter he had received only that afternoon. Ria was not going to have his child.

  He should have been relieved, he told himself.

  What he was, was alone.

  Chapter 12

  Ria examined the drawings Miss Taylor had completed of three of the governors. She had engaged the teacher's cooperation by suggesting she had an idea for a special present of thanks to the board. The girls would write letters that described their experiences at Miss Weaver's and make their own drawings, but to assure that there was one to serve as a centerpiece, Miss Taylor's talent was required.

  "I am not certain that any of these quite captures the look of them," she said, glancing up from behind her desk. It was difficult to keep the disappointment from her voice, but she struggled to do so because she did not want to hurt Jenny Taylor's feelings.

  "You think they are not good enough," Jenny said. From the opposite side of Ria's desk, she was studying them critically as well. "They are not what I hoped for either. I am afraid none of them is an inspiring subject, though please do not repeat that I have said so. I should not want anyone to think I meant to be insulting."

  Ria forced a small smile. "No one would think that of you," she said, collecting the drawings into a pile. The one on top was Sir Alex's. "Allow me to keep these so I may begin to think of how to arrange them with the girls' letters and their own watercolors. If you should like to begin on the others, or even to make a second attempt at these, I would consider it a great favor. You did that very lovely drawing of Jane Petty." Ria was careful to offer her next suggestion tentatively. "Perhaps if you tried watercolors instead of ink, you would find you like the result better."

  "Perhaps."

  Ria did not think Miss Taylor sounded at all certain but did not press her. She held up the three sketches. "May I keep these?"

  "Of course." She started to go, but then hesitated. Her plump arms crossed in front of her, lifting the shelf of her bosom. The posture was not challenging, but uncertain. "Is there news from London?"

  Ria regretted that she had not conveyed more satisfaction with Mr. Lytton's report at the outset. She did not know if the teachers had sensed her uncertainty or if she had sensed theirs, but in the end it had not mattered, because she had informed them she would not let the matter rest. A few days after West had gone, Mrs. Abergast had stepped forward and asked somewhat diffidently if the duke might not exert some influence in the matter of finding Jane. Ria admitted that she had asked him and that he had agreed to help. She was aware of the excitement this engendered among the staff, for the news did not remain long with Mrs. Abergast. Miss Webster and Miss Taylor came to her in turn, followed by the housekeeper, Mrs. Jellicoe, and Mr. Dobson. What news she had for one went swiftly to the others.

  A full sennight passed and a letter arrived from Lord Herndon announcing the Duke of Westphal's appointment to the board of governors. Ria dutifully passed this along to the teachers, staff, and students, as she would have for any new member, but she understood the adults, at least, believed it had special significance.

  "There is nothing from London," she said. Because Miss Taylor's disappointment was a palpable thing, Ria added, "I will tell you as soon as I know something of import."

  Miss Taylor caught her lower lip in her teeth to keep it from quivering. When she could trust herself, she released it. "Jane was one of my best pupils. I miss her."

  Ria nodded. "I understand." She watched Miss Taylor turn sharply and hurry away, and then sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She rubbed them for a moment, thinking that West's continued silence made the passing of every day a little harder to bear. She knew she had his promise that he would write with news of Jane, but she could admit to herself now that she'd hoped he would write regardless.

  Penning the letter to him in which she revealed there would be no child had been difficult. She had begun the thing on three separate occasions and stopped because weeping had caused the ink to smear. Her tears surprised her. She had been truthful about not wanting to present him with a bastard, but perhaps less than honest about wanting a child. When her courses came, she could not reconcile the sense of loss she felt with the reality of her situation. Loss of what? she wondered. She'd had nothing but hope for a time. There was never any child to mourn, only the knowledge there would be none.

  Ria turned over all of her thoughts as though she were looking for the right and wrong side of a bolt of cloth. Right and wrong was not so easily established, however, an
d she came gradually to the realization that had the outcome been different, she would be crying as well. He would have insisted that they marry, and her choices then would have been narrowed to two, neither of which was likely to bring her happiness.

  She touched her fingers to her lips and imagined she could feel the impression of his mouth on hers. Since he'd gone, there were times she shuddered awake in the middle of the night, just as though she'd been pleasured. Afterward, she would lie awake for a time and wonder if the same ever happened to him, or if he had found release in a very real way in the bed of another woman.

  Those thoughts made her impatient with herself. It was never welcome to discover that after years of thinking she knew her own mind, she was merely out of it. Dark, self-deprecating humor was something else she'd learned from West, and she found a certain comfort in it.

  Sighing, she wondered how her circumstances might be changed if she'd told him that she loved him. What would he have done with that confession? Teased that he'd known for some time? Made his own confession? Kissed her quite breathless? Perhaps all of those things, but she would still be here in Gillhollow and he would be in London, and having said the words aloud, she would not just be alone, but lonely.

  There had been news from London, though not from West. Margaret and Tenley had come down from Ambermede to bring it to her. They had learned that the notorious Gentleman Thief had been caught and that Lord Northam—if one could depend upon the Gazette to have gotten the story right—had been shot. Whether the shooting had occurred during the apprehension was much less clear, but Margaret gave an account that touched on the threads of each tidbit of gossip she'd heard and repeated the whole of it as if it were fact.

  Margaret found a moment outside of Tenley's hearing to inquire discreetly after West, and Ria had admitted she'd heard nothing at all from him. She could tell that Margaret found this odd, though why that should be so was not discussed, as Tenley came upon them.

  The visit was a pleasant surprise, and Ria welcomed the diversion. Margaret was reasonably at ease; Tenley behaved himself. It seemed to Ria that something had been changed between them, and it made her wonder what West might have said on the occasion of his last visit to Ambermede, or whether he'd said anything at all. They must have been surprised by him again, arriving at the manor a second time without notice or invitation. What excuse had he given for taking his leave so soon after his arrival?

  The thought of it made Ria smile. She would have liked to have been listening at that door as West made his explanations to a curious Tenley and an even more curious Margaret.

  Ria leaned forward in her chair and farmed the drawings across her desk again. There was no disputing that they were not Jenny Taylor's best work, nor even her second best. Each of them bore a passing resemblance to the men who were their subjects, but none was quite right. Jenny had not been able to capture their features as well as she had done for Jane Petty. What had inspiration to do with this task? Ria wondered. Sir Alex, at least, was a handsome enough man, his piercing eyes and taste for young women notwithstanding. It seemed to Ria that Jenny might have been inspired by the look of him, if not by the others.

  There were five more drawings to be done to complete the current board, and Ria did not think she could press Jenny any harder to sketch these three a second time. Telling Jenny the real reason she needed the drawings was not possible. No one must know the suspicions that West, and now she, harbored. Not yet, not without proof.

  There was nothing for it but to send Miss Taylor's rendering of Sir Alex to West.

  * * *

  "The post has arrived," Mr. Blaine said. He raised the neatly tied bundle for West to see, then entered the library at his employer's indication he should do so. He set them on the table at West's side. "Will there be anything else?"

  West stopped sharpening his knife long enough to examine the blade. "Inform Mrs. Corbell I will be gone from home this evening, Blaine. Dinner at Northam's tonight."

  "Very good."

  Out of the corner of his eye, West watched Blaine make a slight bow and exit the room. He waited until the butler was gone before he set aside the whetstone and picked up the post. The knife was so sharp that it met virtually no resistance as it cut through the string. West placed it beside the stone and then sorted the mail. The letters he identified as invitations were tossed immediately back on the table for attention at another time.

  He riffled through the others, looking specifically for Ria's distinctively bold scrawl. It was there, the third from the bottom. He broke the seal on the small packet and unfolded the wrapping. A letter bearing his name lay on top of a lightly creased piece of parchment paper. He opened the letter first and began to read.

  Ria's missive was three pages. It described her visit from Tenley and Margaret, the girls' latest venture into Gillhollow to be measured for new shoes, and Mrs. Abergast's tumble from a stepstool which left her with a badly sprained ankle. It seemed that someone named Julianne Chester—a student, West surmised—had been moved to free the hens from the henhouse, and they were still searching for their best egg layer. Amy Nash had contracted chicken pox and was confined to the infirmary. The students were working on a special gift for the board of governors, one that included copies of the portraits in the entrance hall. What arrangements had His Grace made to add his own portrait to those at the school?

  West grinned as he read this last. His portrait in the hall at Miss Weaver's Academy? Not bloody likely.

  He finished the letter but read it two more times. Ria had painted vivid images of what was going on all around her, but gave no attention to herself at the center of it. He was left to wonder how she fared, and it troubled him that she was not forthcoming. Did she truly think he did not want to know?

  She closed by inquiring politely after his health and the health of his friends, most particularly Lord Northam. West supposed it was encouraging that she had not simply asked after his friends.

  * * *

  "Well," Elizabeth said, looking up from the letter. "She does inquire about your health. That is something, at least."

  West sighed. "It is hardly an overwhelming statement of affection." He held out his hand for the letter. "She evinces more concern for your husband."

  "He was shot," Elizabeth said crisply. "Whereas you were not."

  "A detail."

  "Which you are inordinately good at managing." She took the folded parchment he held out for her and opened it. "This is Sir Alex Cotton?"

  West nodded. "I do not believe it is a good likeness."

  "He could be anyone."

  "That is what I thought. The pen sketch does not give due attention to the color of his eyes." He watched Elizabeth as she studied it. "Will you take it to the dressmakers?"

  "Of course." She glanced at him. "Perhaps it will be enough."

  West hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You will be discreet in this? Much depends upon it."

  "Do you mean, will I keep this from my husband?" she asked, her dark amber-colored eyes narrowing a fraction. "Or will I refrain from waving the thing about on Firth Street."

  "I would not ask you to have secrets from North."

  "Good, because I cannot do it." She paused a beat and offered up a slightly guilty smile. "Or at least I can do it no longer."

  A consequence of the shooting, West thought, but probably not only that. "It will be enough if you refrain from waving the sketch about," he said. "I shouldn't like North's mother to get wind of it. I know you are often about with her. If the dressmakers can confirm this is the man who was in their shop with Miss Petty, it will help a great deal."

  Elizabeth nodded. A tendril of silky brown hair fell across her forehead, and she pursed her lips and blew upward, lifting it back into place on a puff of air. "I'm happy to do this small thing for you. Northam will not object, or at least he will not object overmuch. He cannot, can he? Not after he has made plans to ride with you and Eastlyn to Marlhaven."

  West chuckle
d. "Have you already forgotten that you were the one who pressed us to go after South? By my reckoning, it was only an hour ago that you were insisting we rush to his aid."

  "A small price for an excellent dinner, I think," she said. "And I believe it was East who suggested that following South was rushing to his aid. I am always for a plan."

  "There will be one. I'm certain of it." He stood. "You will have the information I need upon my return from Marlhaven?"

  "Yes. And you will deliver my husband safely to me."

  It was not a question, West noted. "Of course."

  "Miss Parr also."

  There was a slight inflection at the end of this, indicating that Elizabeth was not as certain this would be possible. West answered with more assurance than he felt. "If she is with South, then, yes."

  Elizabeth stood as well. "Will you say farewell to Northam and East, or shall I bid them good night for you?"

  "Make my excuses for me. If I am to leave for Marlhaven on the morrow, then there are things I must attend to tonight."

  "You will write to Miss Ashby?"

  He gave Elizabeth full marks for her perceptiveness. "Yes," he said. "It is one of the things I must attend."

  Elizabeth crossed the distance to West and touched him lightly on the forearm. "Will you write that I am desirous of making her acquaintance? After reading her missive, it seems to me that she is precisely the sort of person I should know better." Her pause lasted no longer than a heartbeat. "And I do not think it would come amiss if you told her that you love her."

  * * *

  "You will excuse me, girls," Ria told her class. She glanced toward the hallway where Mr. Jonathan Beckwith stood out of sight of her students. "Emma. Please review the map again. Trace the Roman campaigns across Europe from the reign of Julius Caesar to the assassination of Emperor Commodus." She gave Emma the pointer and slipped out of the classroom, pretending she did not see all the necks that were craning to have a look at what had captured her attention.

  "Mr. Beckwith," Ria said, dipping her head slightly in greeting. This small gesture of respect gave her opportunity to compose herself. "How good it is to see you. May I inform my class that you have come to pay us a visit?"