by Olivia Drake
How she longed to feel Gabriel’s hands on her body again; how she tossed and turned at night from hot, restless dreams of him. It was as if he’d opened the cage of a wild creature in her, a sensualist who craved him. Because of that, ever since their tryst, she had avoided his company. It wasn’t him she couldn’t trust.
It was herself.
“You’re just the person I’ve been wanting to see,” Sir Charles said, taking her hand between his smooth palms.
“I’m delighted to see you, too,” she said with determined charm, though she made haste to tug her hand free. Feigning a flirtatious smile, she went on. “I’ve discovered you’re hiding something from me.”
His fair lashes flickered over pale blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
She was right; his manner betrayed a faint tension. “I hear from my uncle that you’ve more treasures that you didn’t show me the other day.”
Chuckling, Sir Charles hung his head. “I confess, you’ve caught me in a fib. I do keep some other artifacts in several private chambers upstairs.”
Several chambers? Uncle Nathaniel had visited only the study along with the other gentlemen guests, and he had reported seeing many vulgar objets d’art. Much to Kate’s frustration, however, he’d found no golden goddess on display.
But if Sir Charles kept artifacts in other locked rooms, too... “I wish to see them. You did make a bargain with me.
The baron shook his head. “I’m afraid I must refuse. Those things aren’t suitable for viewing by innocent young ladies.”
“Why, I’m all of twenty,” she said lightly. “I promise you, I’m not so easily shocked.”
Except when Gabriel had put his hand on her privates. Shock had swiftly exploded into pleasure at the first stroke of his finger. Overcome by passion, she had behaved like a wanton, opening her legs to him, permitting him unspeakable liberties. The culminating waves of rapture that had surged through her seemed now like a glorious dream.
Sir Charles smiled benignly. “You’re pure in body and spirit,” he said. “I shan’t allow you to be sullied by improper sights.”
The experience with Gabriel hadn’t sullied her. That was her guilty secret, the reason she felt so alive now, awakened to the joys of physical love. No wonder young ladies were sheltered until marriage; they would hunger for the act as she did. Whenever she thought of Gabriel—and that was far too often of late—she felt her need for him as a warm, liquid throbbing in the place that he had touched.
Noticing that Sir Charles was staring rather oddly at her, she thrust her mind back to the statue. “My father was a professor of antiquities. I can certainly view any type of ancient artifact with a professional eye.”
The baron patted her hand. “No, my dear, it’s out of the question. Remember, it’s my sworn duty to protect you. I am your guardian, after all.”
She clenched her teeth against a denial. It wouldn’t do to anger him. “But you’re not a dull, conventional guardian. You’re so much more advanced in your intellect. Surely you can overlook the common proprieties.”
A slight frown marred his smooth brow. “Modesty in a young girl is a virtue beyond compare. I’ll hear no more talk of this inappropriate request.”
His patronizing refusal irked her. How was she to locate the goddess now? She could only hope that Gabriel had been able to procure a set of keys.
I nearly lost my head over you—and I’m not even sorry.
Dear God, how deeply his avowal had pierced her. What had Gabriel meant by those words? That he too had been swept up in the firestorm of passion? Yet he had stopped. He’d left her on the bed, and she’d seen him go to the window, his powerful body bowed as if in pain. Despite her naïveté, she had grown up in the country and seen her share of mating animals, enough to know there had been no consummation between her and Gabriel. He must have been wracked by the same cataclysmic urges as she had been, but had denied himself any relief.
She should be grateful for that. She could so easily have become a fallen woman, a subject of gossip, as Mrs. Beasley, their next-door neighbor at Larkspur Cottage, had whispered in scandalous outrage about poor, homely Mary Dutton who had trysted with a peddler.
That could have been her, Kate thought with a sickening lurch, left pregnant while the man went on his merry way. Yet she wasn’t sorry, either, to have known the stunning joy that Gabriel had aroused in her. To her shame, she wanted to experience it again.
Sir Charles sighed heavily, the sound echoing in the vast hall. “Dear me, I can’t bear to see you looking so glum,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to the grand staircase. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you something very special.”
Her senses sprang to the alert. “Special? What do you mean?”
“It’s a treasure I only recently acquired.” Teasingly, he shook his finger at her. “Now don’t ask any more questions. I want this to be a surprise.”
Anticipation bubbled inside Kate as she joined him in mounting the curving flight of stairs. A treasure, recently acquired. That could only mean one thing. Finally, Sir Charles would take her to the goddess.
“George. Psst, George!”
The whispering voice barely registered with Gabe as he stood in the library, trimming the last lamp and watching Kate. She and Damson stood talking out in the hall. The murmur of their voices carried to him, though he couldn’t make out their words. The baron sidled closer to Kate, and Gabe was sorely tempted to stride out there and throttle the lecher. Restrained by his role, he could only glower at them.
Or rather, at Kate.
Tall and proud, she wore a dress of flowing blue stuff that skimmed her fine figure. She stood to the side, and he feasted his eyes on her lovely profile. Her head was tilted, her attention focused on Damson. A primal possessiveness gripped Gabe. She belonged to him—no, she didn’t. Touching her didn’t mean he had to marry her. A nagging female would complicate his life and put an end to his freedom. Especially Kate with her sharp tongue and critical manner.
Kate with her tender kisses and passionate nature. The prospect of having her in his bed every night could almost make him welcome the noose of wedlock.
Then Damson took her arm. To Gabe’s fury, the two of them went up the stairs.
Leaning forward to watch them go, he tipped the oil can too far forward. Muttering a string of profanity, he mopped up the greasy puddle with a rag, only just catching the oozing mess before it dribbled onto the rug.
Where the hell had Damson taken Kate? The next floor held only bedchambers, and above that, the baron’s study. Another of the locked doors led to Damson’s suite of chambers, as Gabe had ascertained by asking around in the servants’ hall.
He threw down the oil-soaked rag. He couldn’t stand here, twiddling his thumbs, while Kate went upstairs with a murderer.
As he started toward the door, the voice came again, this time snapping him to his senses. “George Whitcombe!”
Pivoting on his heel, Gabe saw Mrs. Swindon making her way from the servants’ staircase. He compressed his lips. Much to his chagrin, the housekeeper had been as difficult to shed as a nasty rash. After three futile days spent attempting to get the keys, he had finally resigned himself to the chore of seduction, only to be saved by a last-minute reprieve.
Late yesterday evening, when he’d gone into the steward’s cramped room to do the lamps, he’d had the good luck to happen upon the man’s ring of keys lying on the desk. Quickly, Gabe had whipped out the softened lump of beeswax from his pocket and had made impressions of several keys. Although Nathaniel Babcock had reported not seeing the goddess in the study, Gabe wanted to search the other locked chambers.
Carefully wrapping the wax, he’d delivered it to Ashraf in the stables. Ashraf had departed at dawn, ostensibly to fetch ribbons for Lady Stokeford from a nearby village. Gabe expected the manservant to have returned from the locksmith by now.
Then tonight, while everyone else was at the final ball, Gabe would conduct his search.
<
br /> “There you are, my naughty man,” Agnes Swindon trilled. “I’ve been searching all over the house for you.”
He forced a smile. “I was tending to my duties, of course.”
Replacing the glass globe, he positioned the lamp in front of him. God help him if the housekeeper noticed the swelling in his breeches, his reaction to seeing Kate.
With the familiarity of a fishwife, she grabbed his arm and examined his hand. Black soot and oil smeared his palms. She made a grimace that drew attention to her mustachioed upper lip. “Trimming the lamps is Potter’s duty,” she fretted, naming one of Damson’s footmen. “Such beautiful hands as yours oughtn’t be dirtied. They’re better kept for...other things.” She winked lasciviously at him.
“Potter and I exchanged duties. He prefers polishing the silver.” While this task gave Gabe the freedom to move around the castle.
“Come downstairs with me,” Mrs. Swindon cooed, sidling closer and rubbing up against him, no doubt to give him a look at her bovine bosom. “Let me trim your wick.”
“I need to finish here.”
“Nonsense, there’s only this one lamp left to light.” She fetched a burning fagot from the hearth, lifted the glass chimney, and touched the tiny flame to the wick. “There, I’ve done it for you,” she said, blowing out the lighted twig with an exaggerated pucker of her lips. “Now, to return the favor, you may light my lamp.”
He’d like to give the slattern a swift boot in the arse, for she was keeping him from following Kate and Damson. “I’ll have to put my mind to the matter.”
“It isn’t your mind that interests me.” Mrs. Swindon waggled her eyebrows. “Come along, my handsome blade. There’s naught to keep you here.”
If only she knew. As Gabe reluctantly picked up his tray of supplies, he pondered yet another pretext to avoid her bed. Between her and the swarm of adoring housemaids, he couldn’t get a moment’s peace. But at least her crude seductiveness had had one welcome result.
He no longer had to worry about her stealing a glance at his breeches.
Beset by trepidation, Kate accompanied Sir Charles up the stairs. With his froth of fair curls and his pale, patrician features, he looked like a gentleman any mother would be thrilled to have court her daughter.
Yet he and his cronies were members of the secret sect known as the Lucifer League. Sir Charles would steal and kill to get what he wanted. And she was alone with him.
A window on the landing gave a view of the gray skies and the white-capped surf pounding at the base of the cliff, where the jagged teeth of boulders bit at the oncoming waves. Gulls screeched, diving for fish in the churning waters. Kate remembered that the Bow Street Runner had mentioned a pagan rite taking place there on the rocky shore.
“How do you get down to the beach?” she asked. “Are there steps?”
“Gracious, no. It’s far too steep.” Pausing on the landing, Sir Charles looked at her curiously. “Surely you don’t wish to stroll along the seashore in this gloomy weather, Miss Talisford. There’s nothing but caves and rocks down there, anyway.”
“Caves?”
“These cliffs are honeycombed with subterranean caverns. I believe they’re connected somehow to the dungeons.”
Kate suppressed a shiver. “I didn’t realize you’d built dungeons.”
He chuckled, seeming to enjoy frightening her. “I didn’t. You see, my castle was constructed on the ruins of an old medieval keep. The workmen reported seeing tunnels and such, though I don’t know where they all lead.”
She pondered that as they progressed up the stairs. Did Sir Charles know a route through the tunnels down to the beach? Was that how he and his cronies had made their way there?
As they reached the top floor, another sight drove that speculation from her mind. A lamp flickered in a sconce on the wall, shedding an eerie illumination over the plush crimson carpet and the gilded woodwork. Down the corridor, a man stood locking one of the doors.
He was a foxlike chap in a fine suit of clothing. When he turned around, Kate bit back a gasp. She recognized him from Gabriel’s sketch: the skull-like features, the misshapen nose and hollow black eyes.
Figgins. He had been there on the night of Papa’s murder. He had stabbed Gabriel in the back.
An impotent fury choked her throat. But he gave her no more than a glance, his groveling attention on Sir Charles. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I brought up the wine from the cellars, like ye ordered.”
“And the brandy?”
Figgins bobbed his head up and down. “Filled all the decanters.”
“Excellent. You may go.”
As Figgins scurried away down the corridor, Sir Charles drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “If you don’t mind, my dear,” he said to Kate, “please wait out here for a moment.”
Going inside, he pushed the door almost shut. Through the crack, she caught a glimpse of a spacious chamber with glass-fronted cases set against the walls. She could make out only a few shadowy shapes of curios.
This must be the study where Sir Charles met with the Lucifer League, Kate thought, taking a deep breath to clear her mind of anger. She tapped the toe of her slipper on the carpet. Would Sir Charles bring out the goddess? Perhaps he’d hidden the statue in a safe or strongbox, where Uncle Nathaniel hadn’t seen it.
The door swung open, and she stepped back. But Sir Charles held only a ring of keys. “I’m ever so sorry to make you wait. I misplaced my other key and had to fetch these from my desk. Come with me.”
He led her farther down the corridor to an ornately gilded door. Selecting a key, he stuck it in the lock and turned it with an audible click. “Now,” he said, his eyes dancing with dark mysteries, “if you’ll be patient just a moment longer.”
His secretive manner alarmed Kate. “What is this chamber?” she asked. “Why is it kept secured?”
“It’s my private sitting room. As for the locks, it’s all the fault of thieves.”
“Thieves?”
Tut-tutting, Sir Charles nodded. “You see, a few years ago, a servant made off with a number of valuable objects. They were recovered, of course. And I watched the blackguard hanged by the neck.”
Was he giving her a warning? Or was she just imagining that hint of relish in him, as if he were anticipating her aversion? “You’re wise to be cautious, then.”
“Do have a seat, if you will.” He waved at a rush-bottomed chair across from the door. “I’ll be back straight away.”
The door began to close behind him, and unable to restrain her curiosity, she moved forward to steal a glance inside. Abruptly, the painted panel flew open again, causing her to stop dead.
Sir Charles poked out his head, his urbane features showing a boyish glee. “No peeking now,” he admonished. “Lest you spoil my surprise.”
“You’re a dastard for keeping me in suspense.”
He grinned. “I am indeed a devil.”
As he went back inside, the door clicking shut, Kate seated herself on the edge of the chair. A tomblike silence spread over the deserted corridor. Then a muffled screech made her jump.
She pressed her hand to her thumping heart. Had that inhuman noise come from behind the closed door of the sitting room? Had Sir Charles hurt himself? With any luck, it was a fatal injury. Not that fate had been so kind thus far.
Thinking caustic thoughts, she waited, her fingers knotted in her lap. If he brought out the goddess, she mustn’t let her wild agitation betray her. She must be prepared to school her face into an expression of polite admiration, even though he would be handing her the means to his downfall.
When the door opened again, Kate stood up gracefully, a civil smile pasted on her mouth. Sir Charles walked out, fairly beaming with merriment. For a moment she stared at him in confusion.
His manicured hands were empty. He carried no golden goddess.
Then someone stepped out from behind him.
Kate froze in absolute, dumfounded shock. There in the door
way, her dainty chin jutted defiantly and her hand clutching Jabbar’s, stood her foolish, disobedient sister, Meg.
The Purloined Key
Petrified with horror, Kate gripped the folds of her skirt. This was her worst nightmare, seeing her sister here at Damson Castle. Questions tumbled pell-mell through her mind. How had Meg eluded the Rosebuds? What had she told Sir Charles? And dear God in heaven, what was Kate to do with her?
“Won’t you even say hullo?” Meg asked, a little wobble to her voice. “Jabbar and I have traveled a very long way.”
Jabbar. That explained the screech Kate had heard. Aware of Sir Charles’s watchful eyes, she walked forward and jerked her sister into an embrace, her dismay intensified by Meg’s trusting warmth.
“What are you doing here?” Kate said in a raspy whisper. “I’m astonished...”
“So you are,” Sir Charles said, rubbing his palms together. “She is my recently acquired treasure. I must say. Miss Talisford, the expression on your face was priceless.”
As the baron stepped closer, Jabbar emerged from behind Meg’s skirts and hooted a warning at Sir Charles. With leathery fists, the chimpanzee beat on his small, hairy chest.
“Pray excuse his behavior,” Meg said to Sir Charles. Scooping up the animal, she hugged him close. “Quiet, dearest. Sir Charles won’t hurt you. He’s a very kind gentleman to take us in at short notice.”
The baron chuckled. “I daresay, the little nipper is jealous of me.”
Clinging to Meg’s neck, Jabbar lowered his complaint to a mutter as his dark eyes continued to glower at Sir Charles.
The little interlude had given Kate a chance to hide her trembling dread. She had to ascertain if any damage had been done. “How long have you been here?” she asked her sister.
“Not half an hour before you came upstairs.”