by Candace Camp
“Why are you looking for the will now? Why not back when he disappeared?” Tom asked.
“Well, it wouldn’t have been any use to me back then, would it? Alistair was alive. But now that his son means to have him declared dead, it’s different. Besides, I didn’t know it even existed until that Blackstock fellow wrote me.”
“What did Blackstock’s letter say? Did he tell you what was in the will?”
“No. Only said that he’d sent it to Moreland’s business. Well, at first I thought he must have meant Alistair’s man of business, but he knew nothing about it. Then I realized he must have meant your agency. Makes sense, when you think about it.”
“Why?”
“There must have been something havey-cavey going on, wouldn’t you think? Otherwise, why not send the thing to Alistair’s heir? Clearly, he was suspicious that something would happen to the will if he sent it to Gregory. He’d kept it secret all these years. There must have been something he didn’t want out. And why else would the letter have all that about him dying and his guilt.”
“Blackstock was feeling guilty? Of what?” Tom asked.
Paxton shrugged. “He was very vague about it all. And his writing was little more than a scrawl, deuced difficult to read. But he said he was dying and he wanted to clear his conscience. There was something about betraying his word to his client.”
“Did you keep that letter?” Tom asked, remembering Paxton’s behavior with Alistair’s earlier letter.
“I did.” Paxton gave him a smug look. He stood up and left the room, returning moments later with a folded note, which he handed to Desiree.
Desiree read through the single page, frowning, and finally said, “He’s right. It is difficult to read. And that’s just about all Blackstock says. He wants to make things right before he dies. He’s sending it to the Moreland business. There’s another word or two in there, but it’s smeared so much I can’t read it.” She handed the note to Tom for him to scan it, as well. Turning to Mr. Paxton, she said, “You didn’t have a man follow us a few days ago?”
“No. I’d never even seen you before you popped up at my door asking questions. And what good would it do to follow you? Why would you have the will?”
“Why, indeed,” Desiree murmured.
Paxton stood up, holding out his hand for the letter. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go.”
“One last question,” Tom said. “Something you said the other day has been nagging at me. You said you talked to Alistair one evening, and the next day you went over to the house, and the housekeeper told you they had left.”
“That’s correct,” Paxton replied impatiently.
“But Mrs. McGee said that Stella and Alistair left the day before you came to the house.”
“Then she’s wrong. I’m certain I went there the day they left.”
“How can you be so sure? As you said, it was many years ago.”
“Because it was my birthday! Not something one’s likely to forget. That’s why I went to the house that day. We were going to celebrate my birthday. That’s what Alistair and I were talking about the night before. He didn’t say a word about going to the cottage. It was deuced peculiar. That’s why I was a bit alarmed at first. But then I got his letter. I suppose in all the excitement of running off, Alistair just forgot.” There was a wisp of hurt in his voice. He turned away and went to the door.
“Wait.” The steady, low twist of anxiety inside Desiree’s chest suddenly tightened. She hurried after Paxton. “The cottage.”
“Yes?” Paxton opened the front door and turned to her, raising a brow.
Desiree ignored his obvious impatience. This sudden insistent tug in her chest was too important for politeness. “The cottage where they were supposedly going—do you know where it is?”
“Oh, yes, Alistair and I went there sometimes after he married Tabitha. Alistair loved it, but I found it boring. Nothing much to do but sit up there on the cliff looking at the ocean.”
“Does his family still use it?”
“No, I think not. Tabitha despised it...stands to reason since he used to take Stella there. I don’t know, but my guess is it’s been abandoned.”
“Where is it exactly?”
Paxton gaped. “You want to go there? It’s not an inviting place.”
“Still, I’d like to see it.” Desiree gave him her most winning smile. “Please tell me.”
“It’s on the Dorset coast. Um, its name is... Sea View? No, odder than that—Sea Gift. That’s it. There’s a little village close by—I’m not sure, Red something, or maybe it’s something Red. Anyway, it’s not far from Abbotsbury. Sorry.” Paxton shrugged, looking faintly apologetic. “It’s been a long time. It was a dreadfully dull little place.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
They left the house, and Paxton hurried off down the street. Desiree turned to Tom. “I want to go to that cottage.”
“Why? What are you thinking?” Tom asked as they got into the carriage. “We’re not even sure they went there.”
“I know, but I still want to see it. When he mentioned the cottage, I felt something.” Desiree’s hand tightened into a fist, and she tapped it against her chest. “Here. That cottage is calling to me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“CALLING TO YOU?” Tom took her hand, seeing her obvious distress and wishing he could stop it. “What do you mean?”
“The feeling has been inside me for weeks, and it’s been building.”
“Your premonition.”
“Yes, urgency, nerves, dread...whatever you want to call it. It’s never gone away, only increased. It sits there in my chest, a constant hum underneath everything I feel. Like a banked fire. But this afternoon, it flared up when Paxton spoke of the cottage, and as I talked to him about it, that feeling burned hotter and brighter. It pulls at me.” Desiree gazed intently into his eyes. “It’s as if a hand has taken hold of my dress and is tugging at me, urging me to go with it.”
“What does it want?”
“I wish I knew.” Desiree sighed and slumped back against the cushions. “I’ve never felt anything quite like that before. I know none of this is logical or proof of anything, but I cannot help but feel it’s important.”
“Logical or not, I trust your instincts,” Tom said. “Let’s go back to the office and figure this out.”
Returning to the office hadn’t been what Tom had been anticipating doing with Desiree this afternoon. But he put aside the lustful visions that had teased at his brain all morning—they had all afternoon, after all—and when the carriage came to a stop in front of his building, they went to the agency office. It was much safer than his flat, with its nearby bed.
“I’m not sure going to the cottage will be of any help,” Desiree began, sitting down in the chair by his desk. “If this is a premonition, I wish it would be a trifle more specific.”
“That would be helpful.” Tom smiled at her. “But the cottage plays a part in the story. There’s something odd about your parents’ leaving. Mrs. McGee seemed very certain of the day your mother left. But Paxton says they couldn’t have gone that afternoon because he was with Alistair that evening.”
“I believe Paxton,” Desiree said. “He certainly was not lying, and though he doesn’t seem the most reliable man, a person does tend to remember his own birthday.”
“I believe him, as well. So why the discrepancy? Why would Alistair still have been in the city after Mrs. McGee saw them leave?”
“They could have spent the night in London and left the next day,” Desiree responded.
“Would you hang about in London an extra day if you’re planning to flee the country? Or even if you’re going to a cottage by the sea?” Tom said.
“Especially since you would run the risk of being seen by someone you know, like Paxton,”
Desiree agreed.
“Mrs. McGee didn’t really see them leave,” Tom pointed out after a moment’s thought. “What she saw was your mother getting into Alistair’s carriage. She only assumed Alistair was in it because Stella said she was leaving with him.”
“Yes.” Desiree perked up. “Alistair could have sent the carriage to take Stella to the cottage, and he went by train the next day.”
“But why would Alistair invite his good friend Pax to Stella’s house the next evening—for a birthday celebration, no less?”
A frown creased Desiree’s forehead. “It makes me wonder even more whether Mrs. McGee was right, that maybe Alistair did kill my mother. He could have planned to do away with Stella that night, and then the next evening arrive at the house when Paxton would be there and could attest to Alistair’s surprise at not finding Stella at home.”
“Then why didn’t he show up? Why set up an elaborate scheme and not finish it?” Tom countered.
Desiree nodded thoughtfully. “And there would still be another problem—Mrs. McGee saw Stella leave in his carriage.”
“And I’m not sure he would have had time to do all the running about that scheme would entail and still manage to get back to London to meet Pax at the appointed hour.”
“Maybe that is what happened. He murdered her and afterward realized that he couldn’t return in time to establish his alibi. So he ran,” Desiree said.
“Either way, if Paxton is right and no one’s been there since that time, it’s possible we could find something at the cottage that would prove your parents were there. If they left from the cottage, there could even be a clue as to where they planned to go.”
“There’s another thing,” Desiree said. “I know you don’t believe that my father has returned and that he was in the carriage that night, watching the house.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just think it’s unlikely.”
“I know. And you’re probably right. No one has seen him. He hasn’t tried to contact me or my brothers. But there’s his carriage. And the cuff links. Maybe he’s trying to hide from everyone. And where would be a more perfect place to hide than a cottage by the sea that no one ever goes to?”
“Why would he be hiding?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he killed my mother, whether accidentally or on purpose, and he fled. Or they ran away, and she has now died, and he wanted to come back, but he doesn’t want to have to face the mess he left behind. Or maybe the two of them wanted to return, but still want to live together in secret.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Tom admitted. “If he returned, it might explain why there’s suddenly a new will. Perhaps everyone has misunderstood that lawyer’s letter, and it was Alistair himself that Blackstock sent the will to. It all sounds like something out of Dickens, but then, this entire thing has been rather outlandish.”
“Maybe that’s the goal of my premonition. To find them or to find out what happened or where they went.”
“Then I’d say we need to investigate the cottage.”
“Do you have a map?”
“Con does.” Tom went to one of the cabinets and returned with a rolled-up map, which he spread out on his desk. “Here’s Dorset. We know the cottage is on the coast.”
“Near Abbotsbury,” Desiree added.
“Right, here’s Abbotsbury, near Weymouth. Where’s a village named Red something, or something Red...”
“Ha!” Desiree stabbed the map with her forefinger. “Redham.”
Tom grinned. “We can take the train to Weymouth, and from there we can hire a vehicle to drive the rest of the way.” He frowned up at the clock on the wall. “If we hurry, we might be able to still catch a train.” He stopped. “That is, I mean, if that is all right with you. We’d have to spend the night there.”
“I don’t mind spending the night there.” Desiree moved closer, a slow smile curving her lips.
“Your brothers might take exception to it.”
“My brothers have nothing to do with it.” Desiree curled her arms loosely around his neck, her eyes warm on his face. “But I think I’m not in favor of rushing off to Weymouth right now.”
“No?” Tom rested his hands on her waist.
“No. I have very different plans for this afternoon.” Desiree went on tiptoe to brush her lips against his.
“Really.” His hands slid around to her back, tugging her closer, and he returned her soft kiss. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh...something that involved your bed.” Her hands slid down his chest to the buttons of his waistcoat. “And nakedness.”
“Mm. Sounds like an excellent plan.” He kissed her again, his body instantly aflame. Tom sank back down into his chair, pulling Desiree into his lap, as they continued to kiss. With one arm around her back for support, his other hand was free to roam over her body. “Wait.” He lifted his head and drew a shaky breath. “We can’t—not here. Someone could walk in at any moment.”
“Lock the door,” she murmured, continuing her assault on his buttons.
“Con has a key.”
“Blast.” Desiree dropped her head to Tom’s shoulder with a sigh, then stood up. “I suggest we repair to your flat. As quickly as possible.”
“No argument here.” Tom followed her out the door and up the stairs. They stopped midway up for another kiss. This time it was Desiree who pulled away and started up again. He followed, enjoying the view from behind her.
At the door, there was a bit of fumbling with the key, exacerbated by the fact that Desiree was distracting him by undoing the diagonal line of buttons that slashed across the front of her dress. But the key finally went in and turned, and they hurried into the room. Tom had enough presence of mind to pull the key from the door and close it, though he could not take his eyes off Desiree.
Desiree turned to face him as she finished the task of unbuttoning her dress. Reaching behind her, she pulled open the sash. It was another of those marvelous dresses that wrapped around her, secured in the back by her sash, so that now the front fell apart, its loosened folds revealing a center strip of frothy white underclothes.
Tom shoved the door closed and strode to her, ripping off his jacket and tossing it aside. He slid his hands beneath the sides of her dress, pushing the cloth apart as his hands roamed over her. Desiree’s color was high, her eyes bright, and the signs of her passion stoked his own. His body throbbed with the need to be inside her, but Tom leashed that hunger, determined to take his time and enjoy every bit of pleasure possible.
He grasped the sides of her dress and pulled it down, letting it fall to the floor. The sight of her in the demure white underwear, edged with lace and held fast only by satin ribbons, stirred him beyond reason. Tom traced the circle of her nipples, thinly veiled by the cotton cloth, feeling them pebble beneath his fingers.
Desiree watched him, neither pulling away nor coming closer, her eyes darkening, her mouth turning heavy with desire, and he knew she enjoyed his eyes on her. She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the rich caramel strands fall one by one until her hair tumbled down over her shoulders and brushed against his fingers, sending a shiver through him. He had to fight back a primitive urge to rip the garment from her.
Instead, he took the end of the slick ribbon at the neck of her chemise and pulled the bow apart, feeling like a man opening a long-awaited present. Her chemise slipped down, revealing the top of her dark rose nipples and clinging to the hardened tips. Tom ran his fingers over the curve of one breast, and finally hooked his finger in the neckline and slowly slid the garment down, the material caressing her as it went.
Almost reverently, he cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs stroking lightly over her nipples. “Beautiful,” he murmured, then pulled the garment lower, sliding it all the way down to her waist. He went next to the ties of her petticoat and underpan
ts, undressing her bit by bit, his fingers lingering over the process as he feasted on her with his eyes, until at last there was nothing left but the last garments of her stockings and shoes.
Lust nearly choking him at the picture she presented, Tom went down on one knee to unfasten the ties of her half boots. She lifted her foot, putting her fingertips on his shoulder for balance, and he pulled off the boot, then rolled down the white stocking and removed it. He did the same with the other leg. He rose to his feet, his body aching from pent-up hunger.
But when he reached for her, Desiree put a halting hand on his chest and said, “Now it’s my turn.”
Tom swallowed. He hadn’t thought he could be any harder, but he was learning new capacities for desire, his flesh straining against the cloth of his trousers. He swept his arms out to the sides in a gesture of invitation. Desiree smiled and began to undress him.
She started in reverse order, kneeling at his feet to remove his shoes and socks. Tom clung to the rapidly dissolving tethers of his control as he watched her. She went to work on his remaining clothes, taking what seemed to Tom to be an inordinately long time to do so. He shrugged off his waistcoat as she went to work on his shirt.
“No, no,” she scolded in a teasing voice, pressing her lips to the bare skin that showed between the sides of his shirt. “Mustn’t do that.” She paused to look up at him, her eyes glinting. “This is all mine, remember?” She pushed his shirt back, exposing his whole chest, and kissed one nipple. “All mine.” She kissed the other.
Slowly, delicately, she worked her way across his chest, kissing, licking, nipping. Her hands went to his waistband, but instead of releasing the flesh straining against the cloth, she ran her finger down the line of buttons, making him swell even more.
