by Tessa Dare
She sat down and took Delia’s hand. “There’s something I must tell you. I’m worried about how you’ll take it.”
“Charlotte, you’re my dearest friend. You can always confide in me.”
A lump formed in her throat. Would she still be Delia’s dearest friend once she told her the truth?
A small crash from down the corridor drew their attention.
Then a larger crash drew them to their feet.
She and Delia hurried out of the morning room and followed the sounds of broken pottery to the entrance hall, where a shamefaced Edmund stood next to the remnants of a vase.
Accompanied by none other than Piers.
Each of them clutched a billiard cue in his hand.
Lady Parkhurst rushed down the stairway to join them, her cap askew and slightly breathless—as though she’d woken from a nap with a jolt.
“What on earth . . . ?” She took in the scene with a quick sweep of her gaze. “Edmund. I should have known you’d—”
“Forgive me, Lady Parkhurst.” Piers bowed. “The fault is mine. I was giving Edmund here a few lessons in the art of fencing.”
“Fencing? With billiard cues?”
“Yes. We were too enthusiastic, I’m afraid. Edmund is a quick study. My parry knocked over the vase.” His gaze slanted to another pile of broken bits in the corner. “And the cupid.”
“And the pheasant in the billiard room,” Edmund piped up. “That was him, too.”
Piers cleared his throat. “Yes. All my doing. I hope you can forgive my clumsiness.”
Charlotte bit back a smile. Clumsiness? As she knew well from their encounter in the library, Piers possessed lightning reflexes and full command of his strength. He was merely taking the blame for the boy. Just as he’d taken the blame for her.
“I will, of course, replace all the broken items,” he told Lady Parkhurst.
“Oh, please don’t,” Delia said. “They were dreadfully ugly.”
“Delia,” her mother said.
“Well, they were.”
Lady Parkhurst gave her daughter a look of motherly warning. “I will fetch the downstairs maid to sweep. Kindly take your brother upstairs.”
Delia obeyed, taking Edmund by the shoulders and steering him toward the staircase. The boy dragged his feet in protest. Before he reached the top of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder and whispered at Piers, “This isn’t over. I have my eye on you.”
She looked at Piers. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t ask.”
Charlotte knelt in the corner and began gathering the pieces of the cupid statue. It wasn’t so thoroughly demolished as the vase. Perhaps it could be reassembled.
Piers joined her, crouching low and reaching for the cupid’s plaster base and replacing it on the pedestal.
“You shouldn’t help,” she said quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a marquess. Marquesses don’t do this sort of thing.”
“Why not? If I make a shambles of something, I clear the mess away. That’s as it should be.”
She reached for a section of cupid feet and stacked it atop the base. “You don’t believe that. If you did, Edmund would be piecing this thing together. It was obviously his fault.”
“Not entirely.” He added the cupid’s plaster ankles. “Sparring requires two participants.”
Charlotte handed him the next piece of the statue—a pair of white knees and chubby cupid thighs. As he took it, his fingertips grazed the back of her hand. Just that mere brush of contact, skin on skin, electrified her.
She dropped her gaze, reaching for the rounded cupid bum and placing it atop their growing reconstruction. Her fingers must have been trembling. No matter how she swiveled it, the bit of plaster wouldn’t settle into place.
“Perhaps there’s another piece missing,” she said. “I can’t seem to make this one fit.”
“Allow me.” He took the piece from her hands and inverted it. “I believe it goes this way.”
Oh, Lord. She’d been holding the backside upside down, stubbornly trying to force it in place. All the while, the cupid’s stubby little penis pointed upward like a clock’s hand chiming midnight.
She ducked her head, mortified.
“And I believe the next bit is over there, behind your knee.”
She reached for it too hastily, then dropped it again when a sharp edge bit into her fingertip. A drop of blood welled at the site.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“It’s nothing.”
But he’d already taken her hand in his. After a quick appraisal, he lifted her injured finger to his mouth and sucked the pain away. The action was efficient, not wicked—but it sent her wits scattering just the same.
Then he cupped her hand in his, holding his thumb pressed against her tiny wound. His eyes, however, never left her face. Her heart pounded as though it was determined to keep her finger bleeding; as though it never wanted this moment to end.
She could grow accustomed to being looked after.
“Really, my lord . . .”
“Piers,” he corrected her.
“Piers.” She looked to the corridor for salvation. “The maid will be coming. We’re huddled on the floor, holding hands, surrounded by naked plaster. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen together like this.”
“On the contrary, it would be perfectly appropriate. We will be announcing a betrothal in less than two weeks.”
“That’s just what I’m trying to say. We won’t.”
His eyebrow arched. “Have you forgotten the events of the past few days?”
“No.”
She hadn’t forgotten his sly teasing. She hadn’t forgotten his strong arms around her. She certainly hadn’t forgotten that searing, passionate kiss.
She withdrew her hand from his. “What happened in the library was my fault. I should never have followed you there.”
“I should not have allowed you to stay. Sparring requires two participants.”
Charlotte melted inside. He was trying to do right by her, and she appreciated that more than he could know. But it only made her more determined to do right by him in return.
“I made the mess, and I’m going to clear it away.” She gathered the courage to smile at him. “I have a plan.”
Chapter Five
She had a plan.
Piers had noticed these impassioned statements of hers were falling into a pattern.
Don’t be alarmed.
I’m here to save you.
I have a plan.
She kept vowing to protect him. It hadn’t seemed to occur to Charlotte Highwood that he might be better placed to rescue her, rather than the reverse.
He couldn’t decide if she was purposely obtuse or sweetly deranged.
He abandoned the task of piecing together the cupid and helped her to her feet. “You have a plan.”
“Yes.” After a cautious glance about the hall, she lowered her voice. “I’m going to find the lovers. The ones who really had a tryst that night. Once I present the proof to my mother and Sir Vernon, we won’t have to marry at all.”
This was her grand idea? There were so many things wrong with this plan, Piers didn’t know where to start.
At the sound of the approaching maid, he waved her into the empty music room, where they could speak in private.
“I’m quite good at investigations, you know.” She drifted away from the open door. “When my sister Diana was accused of stealing things at the rooming house, I almost solved the mystery.”
“Almost.”
“Yes. I had the responsible person puzzled out. It was only her accomplice that took me by surprise.”
This record of almost solving a rooming house mystery didn’t particularly catch Piers’s interest. He was too busy noting how the room’s large windows and mirrored panels bathed her in sunshine. Golden light limned her delicate profile and set loose tendrils of her hair aglow.
Go
od God, listen to him. Golden light and loose tendrils of hair. He’d be scrawling verses of poetry next.
This wasn’t infatuation, he told himself. It couldn’t be. He’d cultivated a keen attention to detail, that was all. Sensitive information. State secrets. Loose tendrils. It all made perfect, rational sense.
“It’s simple,” she said. “Someone—or rather, two someones—had a torrid tryst in the library. We know it wasn’t the two of us. We just have to learn who they were and make them confess.”
He looked at her with skepticism. “Whoever had a torrid tryst in the library, they will not want to be found out. Much less confess.”
“Then we’ll compel them somehow. Or catch them in the act.” She made a dismissive gesture. “We have a fortnight to work that out, and I’m getting ahead of myself. First we need to learn their identities.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s quite possible.”
“We were behind the drapes. We never caught even a glimpse of them.”
“No, but we have all sorts of other observations. To begin, we heard them. If not their voices, at least their . . .” She made a face. “Noises.”
God. It was too close to luncheon to be reminded of that. “I’m not certain what grunting and squealing could tell you.”
“Well, at least it gives us reasonable certainty that the lovers were a woman and a man. Rather than two women or two men.”
He found himself at a loss for a reply.
“Am I not supposed to acknowledge such couples exist?” she asked. “Cupid parts notwithstanding, I meant what I said the other night. I’m innocent, but not ignorant.”
He waved a hand in invitation. “By all means, continue.”
This girl was full to bursting with surprises. He couldn’t wait to hear what she came out with next.
“We smelled perfume,” she went on. “It was a distinctive scent. I know I’d recognize it if I smelled it again.”
“Considering that ladies don’t wear such scents while paying calls or attending church, that seems unlikely.”
“I agree. But now we come to the most important clue. The garter.”
“It’s a garter. It can’t give you much to go on.”
“You must have little experience with garters, then.”
“I wouldn’t say that. But I do not wear them, I admit.”
She smiled. “To begin, it was scarlet red. Not only a sensual color, but an impractical one. The ribbon was silk, which is expensive. That indicates the lovers weren’t servants. At least, not both of them. If a maid were involved with a gentleman, it could have been a gift. The garter was also slightly large when I tried it on myself. That tells me something about the woman’s shape and form.”
“Does it,” Piers said absently.
He was momentarily lost in the image of Charlotte lifting her skirt and wrapping a scarlet ribbon about her smooth, pale thigh.
“All that, and we haven’t even discussed the best part. The garter was embroidered with the letter C.” With another glance around her, she withdrew a paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “I’ve drawn up a list of everyone in Parkhurst Manor that night. Family, guests, servants.”
“How did you manage that? From memory?”
“Not entirely. The servants and family I could name on my own, of course. For the guests, I stole into Lady Parkhurst’s parlor early this morning and copied her list of invitations. Then I scanned it for women with the initial C in their names or titles. Excluding myself, of course.”
He cocked his head and looked at her.
“Please don’t give me that disapproving look. I know it was wrong, but I’m trying to be helpful. Our futures are at stake.”
It wasn’t a disapproving look. Piers was impressed. He knew she was clever, but he wouldn’t have expected her skills of deduction to be quite this keen.
She continued, “Once I’ve narrowed the suspects, identifying the female lover ought to be simple. From there, it’s only a question of following the woman to find the man. With any luck, I should learn the names of the mystery lovers within a matter of days.”
“How do you know they were mystery lovers?”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
“To use the word ‘lovers’ suggests a degree of sentiment. There’s lovemaking, and then there’s . . .” He sifted through the possibilities before opting for the least shocking of the vulgar terms. “Tupping.”
“What’s the difference?”
What, indeed. “An unprincipled man might take that as an invitation to demonstrate.”
“Fortunately, you’re as principled as they come.”
She couldn’t have been more wrong on that point. “Suffice it to say, the tryst we overheard fell into the tupping category. It lacked a certain . . . finesse.”
“Perhaps you merely lack imagination.”
Piers shook his head, amused. He did not lack for imagination.
At that very moment, he was entertaining a vivid fantasy of pressing her against the mirrored wall. Watching the shafts of light gild her eyelashes and play across her lips. Kissing her slowly, easing her into a fog of passion. Then—only when she was pleading for more—lifting her muslin skirts, sinking to his knees, and tasting her sweetness. Taking his time about it. Giving her pleasure again and again.
And then again.
That, he would tell her, was how lovemaking worked.
He gave himself a mental shake. Enough. That idea would keep until after the wedding. There happened to be a mirror or two—or hundreds—at his estate.
And his estate was exactly where she needed to be. Once he had her wedded and bedded and tucked away in the country, he could get a firm grip on himself.
“You may call them what you wish,” she said. “I choose to believe they were lovers. And I’m going to find them.”
“You can’t traipse about Nottinghamshire playing at solving mysteries. It’s not only improper, it’s too late. We have an understanding.”
“We may have an understanding, but it is not too late. Not too late to find the lovers, and not too late for us.” Her blue eyes deepened with sincerity. “I want to marry for love. And I think highly enough of you to want that for you, too. You’re a decent, honorable man.”
Sweet, innocent girl. She had no idea. Her powers of deduction might be keen, but he must never allow her to deduce the truth about him. Decent? Honorable? Not even close. Try ruthless, darling. Deceitful, cold-blooded, heartless, and worse.
“Charlotte, I—”
“You don’t want love, I know. You think it will make you weak somehow, but you’re wrong. So wrong. Love with the right person makes people stronger. Better than they ever could have been apart. I know it. I’ve seen it. That’s why I’m going to solve this mystery. We both deserve better than a patched-up affair based on half-truths.”
“We are not marrying based on half-truths,” he said. “We are marrying based on the fact that I pulled you into a clandestine embrace in the window seat. That alone was improper enough.”
“Only in the strictest definition of the word.”
“Strict definitions are the ones that matter.”
He didn’t like the idea of Charlotte running about the neighborhood, sniffing ladies’ perfume and sizing up their thighs. But then, there might be a benefit: If she was occupied quizzing the local populace about their garters, she wouldn’t be asking probing questions of him.
Nevertheless, it was an imprudent plan—one that could go wrong in any number of ways.
“I can’t support this scheme of yours,” he told her. “I certainly won’t aid you.”
“I never expected to have your help.” She tipped a coquettish glance at him through her lashes. “I daresay it’s your loss, however. I think you could use a bit of intrigue in your life.”
Oh, Charlotte. You have no idea.
“Answer me this,” he said. “When you fail to find—”
She shot him a wounded look
.
He revised. “If you fail to find these mystery tuppers by the end of the fortnight, what then? Do you intend to refuse me and embrace ruin?”
She looked into the distance. “I’m not stupid.”
No, he thought. She wasn’t stupid. Far from it, in fact. She was clever, stubborn, and—as he was coming to appreciate—dangerously perceptive.
That was precisely what had him concerned.
Shortly after luncheon, Charlotte received a summons from her mother. She put off answering it for an hour, then two. At last she reasoned she might as well have done with it.
On her way to Mama’s room, however, Frances Parkhurst stopped her in the corridor. “A word, Miss Highwood?”
Charlotte couldn’t find any reason to refuse.
Frances spoke in a low voice. “I want you to know I care very deeply about my sister.”
“I care about Delia, too. She’s become my closest friend.”
Frances eyed her with suspicion. “Truly? Because you seemed to be making close friends with Lord Granville earlier today. In the music room.”
“You spied on us?”
“I didn’t need to spy. The door was open.”
“In that case, you should know that we were merely talking.”
We were merely talking.
How many times had she uttered that phrase in recent days? Charlotte was growing weary—not only of saying it, but of no one believing her.
“He would never have you,” Frances said. “You will only embarrass the marquess and yourself if you persist in chasing him.”
The nerve of her. At her side, Charlotte’s hand curled into a fist.
She thinks she’s protecting Delia, she reminded herself. You can’t blame her for it. She only knows you from the scandal sheets.
“I’m not chasing Lord Granville,” she said.
“Oh, please. Do you think I don’t know how you and your grasping mother think? I tell you, your hopes for an advantageous match are laughable. You are without accomplishment. Your bloodlines are nothing to boast about. Atop it all, you are utterly shameless. Once the rest of London grew wise to your true nature, you cozied up to my sister.”
“Did you stop me in the corridor just to insult me?” Charlotte said frostily. “Because charming as this is, I have other things to do.”
