Nowhere Near Respectable

by Mary Jo Putney

  “The credit for that goes to my mother, who incarnates the goddess of desire.” Then language deserted Kiri entirely as his skilled mouth descended to a shockingly sensitive part of her body. Waves of sensation emanated through her, separating body and soul and whirling her into mindless bliss.

  As she began to float to earth again, he sheathed himself in her heated flesh. To her amazement, sensation began building again, engaging her so profoundly that she could not tell where she ended and he began. She felt powerful and empowered, protected and worshipped.

  As she convulsed around him, she knew it had been worth traveling halfway around the world to find this man and this time of utter rightness.

  Mac gasped for breath, Kiri secure in his arms. He’d recovered from the horror of thinking her dead, but at what price?

  “I hope you don’t feel dishonored,” she whispered against his shoulder.

  “For accepting the gift of your honorable and generous spirit?” He pressed a kiss between her lovely breasts. “Not to mention your magnificent body. But I’m having trouble defining honor now. Even if my intentions are honorable, in the eyes of society I’ve failed utterly.”

  She sighed. “‘Honorable intentions’ is a code for marriage, isn’t it? That is what the world sees. I do not see marriage as the only honorable estate.” After a silence she added, “It’s respectable, but that’s not the same thing.”

  “At the moment, neither of us is anywhere near respectable.” His lips twisted. “And the hell of it is that even if I proposed marriage, that wouldn’t really change matters.”

  “Pardon?” She raised her startled face to him. “I thought you were not the marrying kind.”

  “You make me think impossible thoughts, Kiri.” He toyed with her hair, twining a glossy strand around his forefinger. “There is a romantic tradition that declares the world well lost for love, but that’s fantasy. If you were foolish enough to marry me, how would you feel if your family cut you off?”

  She looked appalled. “My mother would never do that!”

  “But your stepfather might,” he pointed out. “General Stillwell is one of Britain’s great military heroes, but generals tend to see truth as black and white. I’m a middlin’ shade of gray at best. He’d see me as black and you as white.”

  She laid her hand on his arm to show the contrasting tones of their skin. “I’m a pleasant shade of tan, while you look a trifle undercooked.”

  “You’re right, I was taken out of the oven too soon,” he said with a laugh. His brief humor faded. “Marriage joins not only two people, but two families. You are an heiress and the daughter of a duke. I’m the bastard son of an actress. The disparity between us is enormous, and horrifying to anyone who believes that there is a natural order to society. And most people do believe that.”

  Reluctantly she said, “In India, the caste system is a social order much more rigid than here. One thing I like about England is that it’s freer.”

  “But far from completely free.” He searched for an example. “If you and my brother fell in love and wished to marry, there would be general approval. You might be seen as marrying a bit beneath your rank since you’re the daughter of a duke. Will is merely a baron, but that’s close enough because he’s a peer, so a marriage would be quite acceptable. Your family would welcome him gladly. I’m quite a different matter.”

  “You and Adam are friends, are you not? Surely that would help.”

  “We’re friendly and we went to the same school, but we’re not close friends like he and Will.” He hesitated before admitting, “I’ve always felt that Will was most of the reason I was accepted among Westerfield students. Everyone liked and respected him, so I was accepted on sufferance.”

  “Nonsense,” she said flatly. “The Westerfield Academy is famously accepting. Just about every boy who’s ever gone there has had good reason to believe that he was an outcast. You might have had to overcome more than most, but you succeeded and were accepted for yourself. You are very well liked.”

  He shrugged. “More liked than respected. It’s one thing to banter with the owner of a gambling club. Quite another to let him marry your daughter.”

  “Again you mention marriage.” Her eyes were narrowed like a cat’s. “Is this only philosophy or are you thinking more personally? Marriage would solve your worries about your tarnished honor.”

  Wondering what was going on behind that lovely face, he retorted, “I’m no philosopher. I like the idea of marrying you, but think, Kiri! No matter how much we care for each other”—he stroked a slow hand from her shoulder to her knee—“and desire each other, would you choose me over your whole family? If you say yes, I won’t believe you. Passion is powerful, but it cools over time. That’s why marriage needs a broader foundation.”

  “Which is where family and friends come in.”

  He nodded. “I would be . . . very upset if Will cut me off. Which he might do if he felt I’d ruined Ashton’s sister.” Mac would be more than upset if he lost Will. He’d be devastated. “You have a larger family, so you have more to lose. You can’t throw them away for passing passion, no matter how intense it is now.”

  She sighed, her eyes closing. “I have known this all along. Hindus are very fatalistic and accepting, and that part of me knows that marriage between us is unthinkable. That is why I have wanted what few nights we can have.” Her eyes opened again, blazing with intensity. “But the Englishwoman in me wants to break rules and make it possible for us to be together openly in the eyes of the world.”

  “A warrior queen in truth.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close against his heart. Though wise beyond her years, she was young and privileged, and that made her optimistic that they would find a way to overcome the disapproval of family and society and be accepted.

  Mac wasn’t optimistic at all. He’d experienced too much of the world’s dark side.

  And he didn’t believe in miracles.

  Chapter 35

  No rest for the wicked. Though the plot against Britain’s royals was at the top of Kirkland’s priority list, he had other investigations almost as urgent, other agents who needed to be answered and cared for. And large numbers of papers that must be read, pondered, and answered.

  It was near midnight when he finished. He swayed a little when he got to his feet. Fatigue? He analyzed how he felt, and came up with the description “wretched.” He was developing a cold or some such ailment. Minor, but enough to multiply his fatigue.

  He left the building that housed his small, secret organization and headed for Damian’s. He tried to stop by most evenings since he was now the nominal owner. Plus, the club had been the site of the attempted kidnapping, and perhaps he’d see someone or learn something.

  His breath showed in white puffs in the frosty night air. It was unusually cold for mid-November, but he guessed it would warm up again by the time Parliament opened.

  He dozed off as his carriage carried him to Damian’s. He really must try a full night’s sleep to remind him what it was like. But not tonight. He had far too much to do.

  He dismissed his carriage when he reached the club since he wasn’t sure how long he’d stay. He would have Damian’s porter summon a hire carriage when he was ready to leave.

  The club was fairly busy, though perhaps quieter than it would have been before Mackenzie’s reported death. Baptiste wasn’t visible, and a footman directed Kirkland to his office in the back of the building.

  The club manager got to his feet when Kirkland entered. Baptiste seemed to have lost ten pounds and gained ten years since the night of the shootings. “My lord.” He gave a half bow. “I trust all is well.”

  “As well as can be expected.” Since Mackenzie’s death must seem authentic, Kirkland had cleared his desk and office of all personal items. The room seemed very empty with the only signs of the late owner being a neat stack of unopened letters on Mac’s desk. Baptiste left them there for Kirkland, since he was Mac’s executor
.

  Kirkland ruffled through the stack. A perfumed note from a lady who must not have heard of the death, a few business letters, probably invoices. “I’ll take care of these. How are the supplies of wine and spirits holding up?”

  “Luckily we received a shipment just before . . . before . . .” Baptiste swallowed, unable to finish the sentence. “I will go down to Kent soon to talk to our suppliers.”

  Naturally the word “smugglers” wasn’t mentioned. “You know the way to the suppliers’ headquarters?”

  Baptiste nodded. “He took me there once and introduced me to their . . . man of business so that I would be prepared in case anything . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “That was foresighted. See if you can get more of that new claret.”

  “I shall try.” Baptiste frowned. “You look less than well, my lord. You should get some rest.”

  “That’s next on my agenda. Good night.” Kirkland tucked the letters inside his coat and left, going out through the main gaming hall.

  As he headed toward the door, a man rose from the roulette wheel and came to greet him. It was Lord Fendall, one of their “persons of interest” in the assassination plot. Kirkland’s wandering attention snapped into focus. “Good evening, Fendall. Glad to see you here.”

  “Town is filling up as gentlemen arrive for the opening of Parliament,” Fendall explained. “Will there be some kind of memorial service for Mr. Mackenzie? If so, I should like to attend.”

  “I’m awaiting instructions from his brother, who is in Spain,” Kirkland replied. It was bad enough to declare Mac dead, but he really did not want to go through a false memorial service. “My guess is that Lord Masterson will choose to have Mackenzie buried at the family estate.”

  “Put him amongst all those Mastersons despite the bar sinister?” Fendall’s brows arched. “His brother is generous.”

  “They were close,” Kirkland said briefly. Which was why he’d written Will the morning after the kidnapping and sent the letter to Spain by fast government courier.

  Fendall sighed as his gaze moved across the room. “Damian’s is not the same without Mr. Mackenzie. Baptiste is my friend, but he is not so good at creating a welcoming atmosphere. Do you know if the club will be sold or closed?”

  “That hasn’t been decided yet.” Kirkland inclined his head. “I wish you a good evening of play. But not so good as to break the bank.”

  Fendall laughed. “The evening has been amusing so far. The play is the thing. Winning is a pleasant bonus when it occurs.”

  A good thing his lordship had that attitude, because he’d dropped a small fortune at Damian’s. Kirkland bid him good night and headed to the exit at a quick pace, not wanting to catch anyone else’s eye and have to talk.

  The fresh air cleared his head a little. He turned right and walked next door to Mac’s house. Personal letters were delivered there and must also be checked. Then he could finally go home.

  He used his key to enter. The house was silent. Not really empty, but the two servants had gone to bed. They were used to Kirkland’s comings and goings and wouldn’t panic if they heard him.

  He headed to Mac’s study and lit a lamp, discovering more letters on the desk. Two were from Will Masterson. Kirkland hoped that his own letter of veiled explanation had arrived before the news of Mackenzie’s death. Though Kirkland had done his best, communications to the Peninsula could be unreliable.

  Another letter stood out because of the coarse paper and unschooled handwriting. It had been forwarded from a mail drop Mac used rather than coming directly to the house. Curious, Kirkland slit the seal. Got a strange shipment from France you should know about. Best you come down here. Nightfall at the new moon. Hawk.

  Kirkland’s brows arched. Mac’s smuggler chief thought it necessary to write? Very interesting. This must go to Mac first thing in the morning.

  Feeling dizzy, he stacked the letters on the desk. He needed to skim through them, but he was so weary he could barely read handwriting. He also felt wobbly from whatever he was coming down with.

  He hated being sick.

  But there were limits to willpower. He’d go up to the guest room and lie down for a few minutes. Or maybe longer than that since he barely had the strength to make it up the stairs.

  In the guest room he was hit by chills, and abruptly realized that he wasn’t coming down with a cold, but a flare-up of malaria. He hadn’t thought of that because he hadn’t suffered an attack in years.

  Or maybe he’d preferred to deny the possibility. So much for being a tough-minded spymaster. On the verge of collapse, he crawled under the covers, boots and all.

  Kirkland gave up the struggle to think and sank into merciful darkness.

  Kiri came down to breakfast with demurely downcast eyes, though she suspected that with a house full of spies, it would be almost impossible to hide an affair. At least spies were used to keeping secrets.

  Mackenzie hadn’t come down yet, though Cassie was reading a newspaper while she ate. She glanced up. “The rose bath oil was wonderful. I slept so well after.”

  “Rose oil is good for many things, including calming emotions when one is stressed.” Kiri caught a waft of rose scent as she passed the other woman.

  “Then everyone in the house can use some,” Cassie said. “Do you think we could convince Mackenzie and Carmichael to bathe with rose oil?”

  Kiri grinned. “They would probably rather die.” Though men used cologne, rose would be considered much too feminine.

  A letter from the general had been waiting for her in the foyer. She hadn’t noticed the night before, having been distracted by concern for Mackenzie. After serving breakfast, she broke the seal and started reading. His first sentence produced an involuntary, “Oh, lovely!”

  Cassie glanced up. “Good news? We can use some.”

  “Very good news, though nothing to do with saving England from the ungodly. My family has been staying with my brother at the Ashton estate, and my stepfather has decided to buy a manor that shares a boundary with it. So we’ll all be close and able to see each other often. I only met Adam this past spring, and we have years to catch up on. He and my mother can’t get enough of each other.”

  Cassie smiled wistfully. “It sounds wonderful. You are fortunate in your family.”

  “I am indeed.” She continued reading the news as she ate, and was halfway through her breakfast when Mackenzie joined them. She glanced up, and for one searing moment, she felt as connected with him as she had the night before when their bodies had been joined. She saw a matching blaze in his eyes before he forced his gaze away.

  “I smell roses,” he said cheerfully. “Since they can’t be in season, it must be one of you ladies.”

  “Kiri gave me some rose bath oil, which she says is very calming,” Cassie explained. “Would you like to try some tonight?”

  He looked horrified. “I’d rather die.”

  Kiri and Cassie broke into laughter.

  “What am I missing?” he asked warily.

  Kiri shook her head, refusing to explain their amusement, but she was grateful for the change in subject. By the time Mackenzie had served himself breakfast and taken a chair at the far end of the table, Kiri had her emotions under control again.

  Or at least, she could keep them from showing. She’d thought herself resigned to the fact that her affair with Mackenzie must be short. Yet since he’d mentioned marriage the night before, she found she was no longer so fatalistic. The situation hadn’t changed, all the barriers still existed—but might there be a way?

  Hope was cruel.

  Chapter 36

  Kiri was on her second cup of tea when Rob Carmichael entered the breakfast room, expression grim. Cassie smiled at him. “I see that the lure of a good breakfast has drawn you from your lair.”

  “I won’t turn that down, but it’s not why I’m here.” Carmichael belatedly removed his hat. “I got a message this morning from one of your servants, Mac. They found
Kirkland fully dressed and burning with fever in your guest room.”

  Mackenzie swore under his breath. “A flare-up of marsh fever?”

  “Probably,” Carmichael said. “A bad one.”

  “Did the servants send for a physician?” Mackenzie asked.

  “I hope so.” Carmichael poured himself a mug of tea and added a serious amount of sugar. “I haven’t seen him yet. Thought I should stop here and let you all know.”

  Cassie drained the last of her tea and got to her feet. “I’ll go with you, Rob. It sounds like Kirkland will need nursing, preferably by someone who can be trusted with his secrets if he talks when he’s feverish.”

  “Are you a nurse, Cassie?” Carmichael asked with mild surprise.

  “Aren’t all women sooner or later?” she replied dryly.

  “Marsh fever? That’s malaria, isn’t it?” Kiri hadn’t thought that anything could bring down the tireless Kirkland. “Do physicians here use Jesuit bark?”

  Carmichael looked blank. “I have no idea. What is it?”

  “The bark of the cinchona tree, which grows in South America. The Jesuits learned from the natives about its use to cure fever. There are many fevers in India, so my parents always keep a supply on hand. I don’t know if it’s as well known in England, since there are fewer fevers here than in hot countries.”

  It was a fever that had killed Kiri’s father before she was born. The general had learned about Jesuit bark from an army friend who had visited Peru, and he had procured it for his household. Unfortunately, the word “Jesuit” usually horrified Protestant Englishmen. The bark needed to be renamed. “I know an apothecary that usually has Jesuit bark. I’ll buy some and take it to Kirkland.”

  “Good. You can show me how to dose him,” Cassie said.

  “A cup of boiling water poured over a pinch of bark.” Kiri used her fingers to demonstrate about how much. “Let it steep for ten minutes or so, then strain and pour it down him. Give him four or five cups a day. I’ll prepare the first dose to show you.”