Hopefully Innes enjoyed his last five minutes of employment.
Another brisk knock sounded. “My lord?”
“Send him away,” whispered Caroline, one thumb rubbing across his knuckles. “Send them all away for the rest of the day. And the night, too.”
His cock surged again, in complete agreement with her very tempting plan. For some reason she’d been remarkably sweet since his arrival home, no war of words or quiver of caustic arrows approaching from all directions. One might say rather wife-like, with her gentle and then delightfully not-so-gentle hands. Caroline’s touch had been award-worthy through his trousers, he could only imagine what it would feel like to have her soft fingers teasing and stroking him directly. Or her mouth.
Stephen grimaced. Full chamber pots. Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room. Prinny without a shirt.
Thankfully his wayward cock subsided at such gruesome thoughts and he sighed in relief. “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? You are the earl, are you not? The man in charge? Emperor of all you survey?”
“All that and more. But Innes would have suspected exactly what was going on in here, and wouldn’t dare interrupt unless it was vitally important.”
Her lips twisted. “Captain Martin already saved your life, I can’t think of anything further. Perhaps he wants to play cards. Compare boots. Or tell you about his latest purchase with your money.”
Annoyance simmered as his shoulder’s dull ache morphed into a steady throb. “Don’t start such nonsense. After the day I’ve had, I’m absolutely not in the mood.”
Caroline sucked in a harsh breath, clearly about to launch into a full-blown attack. But something in his gaze must have warned her how close to the edge he was, because she tightened her lips and nodded instead. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” he muttered, gently lifting her off the desk and smoothing her gown. Yet another mistake. As if he needed reminding exactly how soft and lush her backside was. How easy it would be to push aside piles of correspondence, bend her over the desk and plunge inside her scalding wetness again and again…
Oh hell.
Full chamber pots. Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room. Prinny without a shirt.
Stephen collapsed into his chair. Damned form-fitting trousers. “Tell him to come in, Innes,” he called.
Seconds later Taff limped into the room, an anxious expression on his damaged face.
“My apologies, Westleigh, and to you, Lady Westleigh for disturbing your private time, but I wanted—needed—to see that you were all right. Such a commotion with the cart.”
“What?” said Caroline sharply, one hand coming to rest on his uninjured shoulder. “You were there, Taff?”
“No, ma’am. But, Westleigh, the coachman told me what that stranger did to you and I hope you are going to press charges. Have him transported or some such thing. Even though the reprobate failed, he must be punished.”
The hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck lifted. “What exactly were you told?”
“After you came out of that building, a well-dressed man followed you. That when you jumped back to get out of the way of the runaway cart he pushed you back in its path.”
“No!” Caroline gasped, her grip turning painful. “Somebody pushed you? You never mentioned that most relevant detail!”
Stephen drummed his fingers on the desk and sent Taff an irritated look. For this exact reason he hadn’t mentioned his lucky escape, there were some things wives just didn’t need to know. “I was jostled in the melee, yes.”
Instead of following his lead, Taff scoffed. “Jostled? Hardly. Who were you visiting in Piccadilly? Why would someone there want to hurt you?”
“The group,” cried Caroline. “That terrible society. The one your mother tried to warn you ab—”
“That’s quite enough!” Stephen said furiously, all his anger from the morning returning with a vengeance. “Mama is one hundred percent mistaken about them. They do charity work for Christ’s sake! Not one of them has a single reason to harm me. In fact, they invited me down to see their offices on the Thames in a few days’ time. Why would they do such a thing then attempt to have me killed minutes later?”
“I don’t know! But you leave a meeting with them and nearly die. What a coincidence!”
He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. Either that or he would shake his wife and throw Taff from the window. Yes, at first it felt like he’d been pushed, but there was no mysterious man. He’d definitely have known if someone followed him from the Piccadilly address, the street had been crowded but not overly so. Besides, the facade of the buildings provided plenty of sheltered and shadowy spots for someone to crouch in and leap out at the best time.
Reaching up, Stephen patted his wife’s hand. “No, my dear. I’m certain it was an accident, someone overcome with the chaos of the moment and only trying to save themselves. Wouldn’t you say that was more likely, Taff?”
His houseguest blinked at the frigid tone, one hand shoving awkwardly into a pocket. “Er…I seem to be making things worse. Perhaps I should leave.”
“Perhaps permanently,” Caroline muttered under her breath.
“Excuse me, Lady Westleigh?”
“Nothing at all, Taff. But my husband has had a very trying day and I think he needs to rest and recuperate from his, ah, accidental injuries.”
Taff inclined his head. “Certainly. My apologies again. I didn’t mean to distress you, Lady Westleigh, only to converse about the situation.”
“Thank you, Taff,” Stephen ground out. “We’ll see you at dinner, shall we?”
“Yes. Yes of course,” Taff replied, his limp even more pronounced as he tried to hurry from the room.
Damnation. What the bloody hell was wrong with everyone?
Chapter Fourteen
Exhaling heavily, Stephen sat back in his chair, the padded leather’s smooth coolness a welcome balm to his bruised and battered body. “That went well.”
Caroline folded her arms and glared at him. “Don’t you dare attempt a joke. Or any more jostle nonsense. Why didn’t you tell me somebody pushed you?”
“Because I didn’t want to worry you.”
“But that person, whoever they are, tried to kill you. It was only sheer luck you weren’t brought home in pieces! A constable…the Runners…the government…need to be informed!”
“But that’s the thing. I can’t be at all sure they were trying to kill me. I don’t know if the person did it deliberately, or was trying to get out of the way of the crates and barrels…besides, I didn’t see anyone. What exactly would I say to a constable? I want to report that an unknown man or woman may or may not have pushed me in the middle of a noisy, precarious situation? There are far too many unknown variables to do any kind of reasonable analysis, Caroline.”
She snorted derisively, pacing back and forth several times before finally settling on an embroidered chaise. “Well, Mr. Mathematics, you may not see a pattern but I do. In the space of two weeks your life has been in grave danger twice. A little unlucky for one person, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“To my great misfortune. You’ve said some foolish things in your time, but that truly takes first prize.”
“Really? What part of my statement didn’t meet your stringent factual standards?”
“You are twisting information to suit and you bloody well know it,” he snapped. “Those poachers had no idea who I was. They merely saw the easiest of targets, a rich man with no weapons escorting several women in a secluded clearing. Besides, the two men were foolish amateurs, if I’d actually had a pistol at the time they would both be limping in the colonies for the rest of their lives. If they were true assassins, I’d be dead.”
“Stephen—”
He held up a hand.
“No. Listen. As for today, you cannot be serious. How could anyone arrange a Piccadilly cart to take a corner too fast? I saw the driver’s face. He was doing his level best to avoid hitting me, even yelled at me to get out of the way. And he lost all his produce, too. Who would do that?”
But his wife wasn’t appeased. In fact she continued to glower at him, her expression the very portrait of righteous stubbornness.
“There are men who will do pretty much anything for a pile of guineas. Maybe even perform a rescue in the middle of nowhere.”
His jaw dropped. “Good God, woman, enough. I mean it. You’re starting to sound as unhinged as Mama when she talks about Gregory’s group of friends.”
“Very well then. Tell me all about this society if they are so innocent.”
Stephen picked up a pen and flipped it between his fingers. Never mind poachers and runaway carts, it was far more likely to be a blonde countess who caused his death. Haranguing him into an early grave, either that or causing his brain to explode with their insistence on feelings over facts.
“There are four remaining members,” he said patiently. “Baron Michael Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe, Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne and Major Lionel Rochland. As I said earlier, they have a number of business interests, as I do, and also undergo some admirable charity work.”
“They told you this?”
“Yes. Along with enough detail to let me know it is all absolutely above board.”
For the first time Caroline hesitated, looking down as she fiddled with a bow on her peach-striped gown. “Jane spoke of something very different. She was most concerned. No, quite afraid.”
“Exactly what did she say to you?” he asked, picking up his abandoned glass of whisky and taking a large gulp.
“That your father investigated the group and found out nothing, so he then got in touch with some friends in a discreet government department who told him all sorts of horrid stories. Late night sex rituals. Respectable girls being lured away from their families and put onto slave ships travelling to the continent and beyond. And perfectly healthy men being found dead.”
Stephen kept drinking. Even as the whisky burned a trail of fire down his throat and his stomach roiled in protest, he kept going until the glass was empty to avoid an immediate, explosive response. Christ Almighty. No wonder men like Rochland were on the irritable side, those remarks were nothing short of slander.
“Perhaps,” he said eventually, “the reason my father found nothing, perhaps all his government friends had were tall tales was because my brother’s friends and their activities are entirely innocent and praiseworthy? Did she think about that as a possible scenario? The gentlemen in question did admit to a fondness for parties hosted by Sir John Smythe, but no word on bloody crosses, chants or virgin sacrifices.”
“What about the missing girls?”
“There are no missing girls. Gregory instigated a program to rescue unfortunates from the streets of London:—lightskirts, criminals and orphans. Fed them, clothed them, taught them their letters and numbers then helped them escape by ship to a new life in places like Brussels or the colonies. The other Society members are merely carrying on what he started.”
Caroline finally looked up, her cheeks bright red. “Really?”
“Really.”
“But Jane…she sounded so…so convinced.”
“I need to say something about her.”
Getting up from his chair, he walked around the desk and sat next to her on the chaise. To his surprise, Caroline shuffled over and scooted onto his lap. Instinctively he tensed at the unexpected intimacy, but when she flung an arm around him and buried her face in his neck, all soft, warm, citrus-scented woman, he decided in the circumstances he’d allow it. Just this once.
“What do you need to say, Stephen?”
“Mama has been through a lot in the past few years,” he began, not wanting to reveal the true extent of his mother’s private grief, all the days she refused to eat, get dressed or bathe, the hours of wrenching sobs behind locked doors he’d had to force open. “I thought after her initial breakdown she was able to manage her grief, but lately I’m not so sure. The things she has been doing and saying…you know she is leaving for Westleigh Park tomorrow?”
Caroline’s gaze narrowed. “Yes.”
“Don’t give me that look, it’s for her health. Not a punishment, but to help her rest and get better. I’ll arrange for an excellent doctor to care for her, soon enough she’ll be back to her old self and more than welcome to return to London and prop up the merchant economy.”
“But how do you know for sure she is wrong?”
“You said yourself there is no evidence to suggest what she believes is true. None at all. And it’s a measure of the men involved that they haven’t taken legal action against those spreading such vicious lies about them. Look, I’m going to see their offices at the docks in a few days’ time. Come with me and meet them. You’ll see for yourself how legitimate and civic-minded they are.”
Caroline tilted her head back and looked at him, her jade eyes huge. God, but his wife really was an extremely attractive woman.
“You mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it,” Stephen replied, finding himself cupping her cheek in a brief caress. Bloody hell. He needed to end this before he turned into a complete milksop and started spouting sonnets. “Now get out of here and leave me in peace. Go visit your mother or that book-loving friend of yours, the redhead.”
“Louisa Donovan.”
“That’s right, Louisa. Doesn’t she need to find a decent husband? George needs a rich wife, I’m sure they would be perfect for one another.”
Caroline burst out laughing as she climbed off his lap and shook the creases from her gown. “Please. Lulu’s got so much money there are noblemen crossing seas and queuing for miles to marry her. Besides, I wouldn’t wish the Cretin on my worst enemy, let alone my dearest friend. For the sake of your continued health I won’t mention your suggestion of a decent husband to her.”
“Good. I’m rather fond of my health.”
“As am I. Finding another husband taller than me would be entirely too difficult.”
He laughed and leaned carefully back on the chaise, feeling the tension in his body ease away for the first time all day.
“Until dinner, then, my lady.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she replied pertly, sauntering away. Then she pivoted, hurried back and kissed him lingeringly on the lips before bolting out the door.
Stephen yawned and stretched, rubbing his mouth in an attempt to remove the stupid grin from his face. Obviously Milksopton was far, far closer than he realized.
Damned infernal woman.
***
“All right. Tell me everything about marriage, Lady Westleigh. No, strike that, I’m only truly interested in the bedchamber parts. You may proceed with enough graphically detailed description to turn my hair white, it’s an entire hour to Aunt Edith’s town house.”
Caroline stifled a grin as she arranged herself on the luxurious pale brown leather carriage squabs opposite her best friend. Instead, she schooled her features into what hopefully might pass for a matronly frown. “Soil the ears of an innocent, Lulu?” she said severely. “I think not. Your dear mama will have the honor of enlightening you on that particular subject matter at the appropriate time, not me.”
“Ha. You mean spend five minutes circling the issue with scarlet cheeks and averted gaze right before I’m shoved in my new husband’s direction. I honestly don’t know how my parents managed to conceive me. I think Papa handed Mother a jar of his, ah, you know what, and instructed her to pour it in the right place.”
“Lulu!”
“Ugh. Thank you for the remarkably accurate rendition of the dulcet tones I hear on a daily basis. Except if you really wanted to be precise, you would have cried ‘Louisa El
eanor Donovan! Can’t you be a lady for just one minute! Oh, Mr. Donovan, I wash my hands of her, I really do.”
“Your mother calls your father Mr. Donovan?”
Louisa nodded. “Yes. It is my firm belief she doesn’t actually know his first name.”
“What does he call her?”
“Dear. As in yes, dear. No, dear. Three bags full, dear. Come to think of it, perhaps he doesn’t know her first name either. Maybe I’ll do them a service at dinner tonight and make some long overdue formal introductions. According to the family bible she is Margaret and he is Bertram.”
“Bertram?” said Caroline, shaking with laughter. “Oh dear. I’d probably prefer Mr. Donovan as well. Never Bertie and Peggy?”
“Good heavens no. But cease trying to change the subject. You were going to reveal all the swoon-worthy particulars about the marriage bed.”
“Was I indeed?”
“Come on, Caro, I know you’re dying to. There is a disgusting air of smugness about you that tells me his lordship is not altogether clueless in the art of love.”
“Er, well…” she mumbled, practically feeling the smile slide from her face as she instead fixed her gaze on the cobblestone streets whooshing past outside.
The art of love.
Now that was an interesting way to phrase it, considering Stephen’s actions of the night before had very little to do with love. Even if it had been beyond spectacular. What on earth was she supposed to say? My husband is indeed talented and generous, oh, did he use his fingers and lips and tongue to great effect. However afterwards he fled the room and this morning the house without so much as a word, ripping my heart to shreds. And if that pattern continues, I don’t…I don’t know how long I can pretend I understand and accept it when I want so much more. Like this afternoon when I brazenly leapt onto his lap in the library and wound myself around him like a kitten. I could have stayed like that forever and when he cupped my cheek I nearly cheered. But he doesn’t enjoy or want that kind of intimacy. How fast he sent me away made that perfectly obvious…
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 17