The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  “Yes, that’s it.” His voice was serrated with desire. “Fuck me.”

  A cry tore from her lips, and she tilted her hips again, pushing back. He answered her silent plea by thrusting into her at the same time. A spark of white-hot light shot across her vision. Then he did it again, and again, moving in a controlled rhythm that matched the stroking of his hand. He attacked her with pleasure from both sides. All too soon she was trembling, her breath coming erratically as she cried out into the blankets as wave after wave of gratification broke over her.

  Only then did he falter in his pace. He fell over her, holding himself off her with one hand while grabbing a handful of her hair with the other. He pulled her head back and took her mouth in a kiss, his hips losing their rhythm to become erratic and fitful. “Violet.” He whispered her name over and over as he pressed his face to her shoulder. Finally, his own cry filled the room, and he found his release with short, quick thrusts of his hips.

  I love you. The words tumbled over and over in her head as she lay there with him, both of them struggling to catch their breath. She wouldn’t tell him yet. It was still too soon and he was too skittish. But she would soon.

  He pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rising. She could hear him pulling off the sheath as she hurried into bed, shy now that it was done. When she rolled to face him, he was climbing under the covers without having bothered to put his drawers back on. She liked that. Pulling her into his arms, he smiled down at her. “Did I hurt you? Are you injured?”

  “No.” The truth was that her ribs and shoulder had begun to ache, but she dared not tell him that for fear that he would refuse to touch her again. Shaking her head, she kissed his jaw, his chin, and then his mouth. He kissed her back, and when they parted, the look in his eyes was so warm and soft that she knew he loved her, too, whether he knew it or not. “You were perfect.”

  I will marry you. She almost said the words out loud but decided to wait, lest she scare him away. He was so intent on being honorable that he might not believe her.

  He pulled the blanket up over them and settled his arms around her. “I fear for Mrs. Mitchell’s sensibilities if she comes barging into our chamber in the morning.”

  She smiled as she imagined such a scene. Something told her Mrs. Mitchell would keep her distance come morning.

  Chapter 18

  He knew that when the reckoning came, it would be harsh and just.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  THE NEXT DAY

  BERKELEY SQUARE

  Max took in the white stone facade of the fashionable town house. It stood three windows wide and four floors tall, narrower than most other homes on the street. Despite the fact that every window boasted a window box full of pink and yellow tulips, there appeared to be no one at home. The drapes were pulled closed, and the front stoop had not been swept in days. Leaves, sticks, and other debris clung to the steps, still wet from the recent rains.

  He glanced back down at the address on the note that had been delivered to him earlier that morning. “Are you certain this is forty-three?” he asked the hackney driver.

  “Forty-three,” the man agreed. “Shall I wait for you?” The driver did not seem particularly thrilled by the prospect. His gaze was already scanning the traffic as he readied to pull away from the curb.

  “No, not necessary,” said Max, stepping up onto the sidewalk, especially when he had no idea what this meeting was about or how long it would take.

  He had arrived in London late last night only to find his parents not at home. They had been out at a ball, apparently enjoying themselves while their daughter was God-knew-where. His interrogation of them this morning had led to little information. They had decided to tell everyone that Violet had fallen ill and been sent to Bath to recover. The strong insinuation had been that she had succumbed to a case of nerves. Keeping her disappearance quiet and minimizing scandal was, regrettably, their upmost concern. Instead of reporting her disappearance to the Metropolitan Police, they had chosen—with the help of their friends Lord and Lady Ashcroft—to hire a retired detective. Mr. Spencer was even now combing the countryside, looking for clues. The only information he had reported back to the family was that he had been unable to find Ellen Stapleton, Violet’s maid who had disappeared on the same day, and that no one had reported seeing a woman matching her description on any of the trains.

  His father had run off to a meeting with Lord Farthington, while his mother prepared for a luncheon, leaving Max to attempt to parse clues from the letter Violet had left. Thankfully, the note had arrived soon after, leading him to this address. Short and succinct and written in a feminine hand, it simply stated: Come alone. Leave immediately. 43 Berkeley Square.

  Half believing this was someone’s idea of a jest, half believing he might find Violet hiding within, he hurried up the steps and rang the bell. After several moments had passed, an ancient man in livery with stooped shoulders and bushy gray eyebrows answered the door.

  “Good morning. I am Maxwell Crenshaw. Someone sent me this note.” He held up the small scrap of parchment.

  “Of course, Mr. Crenshaw.” Without further explanation, he stepped back and allowed Max passage.

  He vaguely wondered if perhaps he was being led to some nefarious purpose, but curiosity won out. Max stepped inside, declining when the butler offered to take his gloves and hat. The house was stylishly appointed in muted tones of cream, gold, and green. It wasn’t overly cluttered in the way his mother preferred to decorate. Everything was orderly and minimal, but in a manner that emphasized the elegance of each item.

  “With whom am I to—”

  “Follow me, Mr. Crenshaw.” The butler turned, leading him down the corridor beyond the stairs. A single light fixture lit their way, leaving the rooms they passed in shadow. Finally, the little man stepped into the room in the back. “Mr. Crenshaw,” he announced to whomever waited there.

  Max turned the corner to see a woman standing before the cold hearth. She wore a charcoal gray traveling costume embroidered in maroon, complete with hat and gloves. A traveling case sat on the floor near him by the door. He couldn’t tell if she had only just arrived, or if he was catching her as she was leaving. She was stunningly pretty in a very untouchable sort of way. Delicate nose, high cheekbones, and pointy chin. Buttery blond hair pinned up in an elaborate roll beneath a hat that perched high on her forehead. Her eyes were a light color, but he could not tell if they were blue, green, or gray from the distance between them. He could only tell that they were expressive, shining with intelligence and censure as they looked him over. Apparently, he had been duly inspected and found lacking.

  “Good morning, Miss . . .”

  “Lady Helena March.” She spoke in the crisp, clipped tones of someone who had already decided something and was growing impatient for everyone to reach the same conclusion. “You are late, Mr. Crenshaw.”

  The clock on the mantel behind her showed half past ten. He glanced to the butler only to find the little man had abandoned him to face the hoyden alone. “Did we have an engagement I missed?” he asked, walking farther into the room. The drapes were open to reveal a small but neatly kept walled garden that faced the mews beyond. Gray morning light filled the space. “My apologies. Back home we use calling cards and invitations, not cryptic messages left unsigned.” He held up the note, and her lashes flickered in acknowledgment of his pique. “I’ll have to become accustomed to the way you do things here.”

  “Thank you for coming. I regret that I could not reveal more in my note, but I could hardly take the chance that someone might see it.”

  “Someone? Do you mean my parents?”

  Her pretty, pink mouth turned down in a frown as she thought over her answer. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, I regret to say.”

  Interesting. “Lady Helena March, if I recall correctly, you are the one my parents claim acc
ompanied my sister to Bath.”

  “I think we both know that story is contrived.” Her eyes flashed in temper. They were blue. Blue like morning glories. “And Lady Helena is sufficient.”

  “Do you know where Violet is?”

  “No, but I have a good idea. If you please, we should get going.” She gestured to her travel bag. “We can talk on the way.”

  “We’re going together?” He glanced to the bag and back to her.

  She glared at him as if she wanted to bodily pick him up and tuck him into a carriage herself. “Yes, we have no choice. Huxley has sent for the carriage to be brought round.”

  “Lady Helena, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must insist on you telling me what the hell is going on before I go anywhere with you.”

  Her lips pursed in irritation, she rang the bell that sat on a small, spindly table next to the delicate-looking settee. Huxley appeared as if he had been hovering outside the room. “Please have a pot of tea brought in.”

  Huxley nodded and slinked back out again as soundlessly as he had entered. With a sigh, she tugged off her gloves in efficient movements—he noticed her fingers were long and slender—and perched on the edge of the settee as if she intended to go charging off at the slightest provocation. “Please, have a seat,” she offered belatedly, indicating the adjacent chair.

  Max eyed the piece of delicate furniture warily. At six feet three inches, he wasn’t a small man, and he ran solid rather than wiry.

  Noting his scrutiny, she said, “A Chippendale original from 1773.”

  Uncertain what he was meant to do with that information, he simply said, “Impressive.”

  “I meant that it has held countless men, most of them with conceit considerably larger than your own.”

  He frowned, uncertain if he was meant to take that as a compliment or if he had been handed the most well-placed insult he had ever received. He mulled it over as he sat, gratified when the chair did not so much as utter a creak of protest.

  After he was settled, she asked, “Mr. Crenshaw, could I speak plainly with you?”

  “You haven’t already?” If this was her being nice, he would truly hate to be the object of her wrath.

  She nodded, and he noticed how long and graceful her neck was. “Perhaps I owe you an apology. I am afraid that I have made assumptions that are possibly unfair.”

  “What sort of assumptions?” He noted she only mentioned the potential existence of an apology without actually issuing one.

  She took a moment to answer, looking him over as if trying to divine his character from his face. Instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Do you know of your parents’ plans for Violet, and if so, what do you make of them?”

  “If you are asking me if I support their plan to marry her to this earl or viscount or whatever he is, then no, I do not. I was here in London only weeks ago to save August from a similar fate. Believe me, I have better things to do with my life than spend it continuously crossing the Atlantic Ocean to save my sisters. When I find Violet, I am taking her home with me and to hell with their marriage plans. Does that answer your question?”

  Instead of being offending by his plain speaking, she actually smiled, a charming little uptilt of her lips that seemed more mysterious than joyful. “I could not agree more. I was beyond shocked when I heard the rumors that he had made an offer and been accepted. I hoped I was wrong, but then Violet confirmed it to me.”

  “When did you last see her?” Both his sisters had mentioned Lady Helena to him in their letters home, but he hadn’t known how deeply their affections for her ran. If Violet had taken this woman into her confidence about the engagement, then perhaps she had shared something of her plans with her.

  “She visited me the day before she left. That’s when she told me of Lord Ware’s attempt on her.”

  “His what?” His voice came out harsher than he had intended.

  She blinked at him but did not seem overly perturbed by the outburst. Waving a hand, she said, “He came to visit and tried to get her alone so they would be caught together. She was able to thwart him, but in hindsight, I think it was the impetus for her plan.”

  That fucking bastard. After he found Violet, Max would find Ware and make sure he had a few minutes alone with the man.

  “When she came, she brought a Gladstone bag and asked me to keep it until she retrieved it. She said it contained copies of her manuscripts and she needed a safe place to store them.”

  “You didn’t think that odd?” he asked.

  “Now, yes. I suppose at the time I thought it strange, but I really didn’t think much of it. I was packing and our visit was cut short. You see, I was leaving the next morning for my cottage in Somerset. My housekeeper there had fallen ill. She’s elderly and meant a great deal to my husband. I had to see to her care personally.”

  Huxley returned bearing a tray with tea and cookies. As she filled their cups, Max found himself watching her, mesmerized by the graceful movements she had undoubtedly performed hundreds of times. He shook his head no to her offer of sugar and milk. He didn’t know why the idea of her having a husband surprised him. Because of her bearing, she seemed older than August, perhaps closer to his own age. Of course, she would be married. The knowledge caused a strange heaviness in his chest.

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the cup and saucer from her. “My condolences on your housekeeper.”

  Her brows drew together as she brought her own cup to her lips. “Oh, she’s made a full recovery.”

  But she had used the past tense; he was certain he hadn’t misheard her. Did that mean she was a widow? “About the visit?” he prompted.

  “Yes. According to Huxley, Violet retrieved the bag the day she left.”

  “You mentioned you might know where she had gone.” He took a sip of his tea, the hot liquid coating his tongue.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I must have your word that you will allow me to accompany you before I tell you.”

  He grinned at that, imagining being confined in a carriage with her and her sharp tongue as they tracked Violet down. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you are a man of honor, I hope, and also because you hold great affection for your sister. Anyone can see that.”

  His grin broadened. “And why would you insist on coming along? Don’t you have . . .” He glanced around, uncertain exactly what it was she did with herself every day. “Ladyish things to do?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have plenty to do, but I am setting it all aside because I care deeply for Violet. There is no telling in what situation we might discover her, and she will be in need of a soft shoulder, not your, frankly”—she glanced at his shoulders—“brutish ones.”

  He was a brute now, was he? She was the one issuing edicts and commands. Gritting his teeth, he said, “Fine. We will go together. Now tell me what you know.”

  She nodded, accepting his word. “I believe she may have left in the company of the Earl of Leigh. He was a friend of my husband’s.”

  The name had a ring of familiarity about it, but he couldn’t place it.

  “You might know of him. He is a close friend of Rothschild’s. They own Montague Club along with Mr. Jacob Thorne. He seems to have disappeared around the same time as Violet.”

  Ah, now he remembered. “Why do you suspect a connection?”

  She swallowed and glanced down at her tea. “I saw them kiss at a ball.”

  He tensed. “You don’t think he forced her?”

  “No.” She shook her head, emphatic in her denial. “I think it is more that he seduced her, or perhaps he was even forthright in his offer. He can be . . . charismatic with the fairer sex when he so chooses.”

  “You think Violet fell under the spell of this scoundrel?”

  She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “I know nothing wit
h certainty, but I believe it possible. There is a rumor that he approached your father for Violet’s hand and was rejected.”

  “Why would someone think that?”

  “To be fair, the rumor is that he approached with the intention of courting Violet. He was seen leaving the home, and with no other known business with the Crenshaws, tongues wagged. I am the one who made the leap to marriage because I saw the kiss.”

  Max dropped his cup back into its saucer and placed both on the table. His parents had not mentioned that once in their morning talk. Had the detective, Mr. Spencer, even considered that connection? Anger drove him to his feet. “Where would he take her?”

  “To marry her in Scotland, I assume. Your family is fairly notorious here, and it would be known they do not consent to the marriage. Perhaps Scotland offers a refuge if the marriage is challenged.”

  “To Gretna Green? Doesn’t that only happen in Gothic novels?”

  “No, not Gretna Green. There is a residency requirement now for marriage. He owns property there, and I assume coin can ease any other restrictions they may encounter.”

  Scotland. It would take—“How long will it take them to reach Scotland by carriage?”

  “They should be there now.”

  “Now! Why have you done nothing up till now to stop this?”

  She rose and put her hands on her hips. “Your parents were only kind enough to inform me of Violet leaving a few days ago. I wasn’t even aware they were using me as her alibi until that time. Had I known earlier, I could have done something. I only returned to London yesterday, and when I called on your mother, she mentioned you would be arriving last night. Forgive me for not trusting her—someone who is highly suspect in her reasoning—with this information. I hoped you would prove vastly more rational.”