"Right," the man said, full of determination.
Aidan dashed across the street and up the stairs. "I am the Earl of Wessex. Perhaps you will recall my accompanying my brother-in-law, the Duke of Glenbroke, on the premises."
The watchman searched his memory, but unwilling to anger a duke and earl the man said, "Yes, I do recall you, my lord. What can I do for you?"
"I need to be given admittance."
The gangly man hesitated. "My apologies, my lord, but I’m afraid I must ask why."
Aidan gave the watchman a friendly smile. "Well, it involves a lady, but I’m afraid I cannot say more."
The man flashed a licentious grin. "I’ve got women problems meself. Seems me wife has found out about the other women." Aidan laughed his understanding and the watchman added, "Just let me know if I can be of assistance."
"I will, and thank you," Aidan responded, and then slipped past the man and into the hallowed halls of the Foreign Office.
Aidan did not know where to begin, but he surmised the woman would need light to conduct her search. He glanced at the floor as he rushed down the long corridors, but when he saw a door was ajar he rushed in the room and nearly slipped as his boots slid across the wooden floor.
He looked down, stunned by the massive pool of blood, and then he saw him. John Elkin lay on the floor, his face a ghostly gray. Aidan fell to his knees and gathered his lifelong friend in his arms.
"John!"
His eyes flickered opened and Aidan saw the recognition in them. "John, who did this?"
Lord Elkin struggled to get breath, but only managed to gurgle as blood settled in his lungs, the sound pulling Aidan back to the peninsula. He clutched his friend to his chest, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save him.
He grasped John’s hand, lending him his strength as they held one another’s gaze, and then…
"No! No, John!"
John’s eyes dimmed, and Aidan knew that he was alone.
He held his friend until the warmth disappeared from his hand, replaced by the cold that now settled in his own chest. Aidan closed his friend’s lids over empty blue eyes and set him gently on the floor. Tears streaked down his face, and he swiped at them, welcoming the rage that replaced his sorrow.
Where is she?
His jaw pulsed as he made his way through the maze of corridors to notify the night watchman. The man gasped when he saw the blood covering Aidan’s shirt and buff buckskins.
"Lord Elkin has been murdered. You will find his body is in his office." His tone became fierce. "And as you failed to protect him in life, I expect you to protect his body in death."
"Yes, my lord," the man said, terrified.
Aidan took the stairs two at a time and stood before Mister Brown with fists clenched at his side.
"Where is she?"
The man stared at the blood on his garment and hesitated when he saw the rage hardening Aidan’s eyes. "The lady…is in your conveyance, my lord. She came out just after you went in."
Aidan’s hand was opening the carriage door with the last of the runner’s words, his thoughts on the traitor inside. He flung the door open and slammed it shut. Lady Rivenhall was startled, but when she took in his appearance and looked into his burning eyes she became alarmed.
"You bitch!" he said, and in one swift move he had her by the hair at the nape of her aristocratic neck. She cried out, more from fear than pain, and as he stared down at her, Aidan realized that she was not the only one to blame for John Elkin’s death.
He was equally culpable.
He had known what the lady was and had not watched her closely enough, had not contained her enough. The heat of his anger was replaced by a chilling numbness. He reached down and removed her knife and retrieved the pistol from her reticule, then fell to the opposite side of the carriage, shouting "home" to his driver.
The carriage lurched forward, but Lady Rivenhall did not stir, sensing like a cornered rabbit that any movement on her part would trigger his wrath. She sat up with deliberate fluidity, and Aidan could feel her staring at him. He ignored her, keeping focused on the passing buildings and not his overwhelming guilt.
They traveled the remaining distance to his home in silence. Aidan dragged her out of the carriage by her wrist, and then they were in his entryway. He ignored the distress in his butler’s eyes as his man viewed his blood-soaked clothing. "Have a bath drawn."
His foot hit the staircase, and the woman balked. "What--"
"I advise you to remain silent, Lady Rivenhall," he growled, "as I am very close to striking you." Aidan continued up the stairs and when she stumbled, he did not even pause.
She scrambled to her feet and followed him to his bedchamber, unable to do anything else. Aidan opened the door and dropped her to the carpeted floor, her chambermaid costume tangling around her. He removed his cravat and gazed at the blood-soaked silk.
John’s blood.
He threw it at her, wanting her to feel the evidence of what she had done. The deceitful woman picked it up, her brows furrowed with feigned confusion.
"What happened?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Spare the theatrics, Lady Rivenhall," Aidan ripped off his jacket, followed by his waistcoat and shirt.
He lifted his arms and stared at the lines on his wrists where the blood had stopped covering his skin in favor of soaking his jacket. His gaze traveled to his hands, completely covered with John’s blood. His responsibility. Aidan removed his boots and finally his bloody buckskins.
The traitor averted her eyes, angering him further. He wanted her to see John’s blood and wondered what she had seen when she shot him, wondered how John had reacted. He would have been surprised, no doubt. Aidan reached down and grabbed her upper arm, hauling her to the smaller room.
"You will bathe me," he commanded and then sank into the steaming water.
Lady Rivenhall reached for a cloth, knowing better than to question him. The water turned a sickly pink as he submerged his hands in hopes of loosening the blood that had dried beneath his fingernails, but when she reached for his face, he pulled away.
"You have…blood…on your face." Aidan stared at her as she pressed the white muslin to his cheek. "Where did…the blood come from?"
The woman was the consummate liar, and he hated her for what she had done. But hated himself more for not having stopped her.
"My garments were soiled when I held the man you shot, as he died in my arms." Her face paled, and he had to admit that she was very convincing.
But he knew better.
"Who? What man?"
Aidan’s eyes cooled to green shards of ice. "John Elkin."
The woman jumped to her feet and placed both hands over her mouth to stifle a cry of distress.
"No," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
"Save your performance for court, Lady Rivenhall." Aidan rose with an angry splash and stepped toward her. "We both know what you are."
The treacherous woman turned to face him, her golden head shaking in adamant denial. "No, I--I’m not responsible," she protested, closing her eyes.
Aidan could feel her chest pounding with fear as he grabbed the bodice of the disguise that had given her access to Lord Elkin’s office.
"And I suppose you were at the Foreign Office just tidying up?"
A tear rolled down her cheek as she whispered, "I never saw him."
It was more than Aidan could bear. He pushed her against the wall and stared deep into her black soul. "Don’t you dare pretend to grieve the man you’ve just murdered."
"But I didn’t," she breathed.
Aidan snapped. He pulled back his fist and swung, smashing the mirror to the right of her head."
He did not look at her, could not look at her when he lifted the woman and threw her in the water, saying, "Bathe in John’s blood."
He retrieved a silk bathrobe from his bedchamber and walked back to the woman. Lady Rivenhall had her arms wrapped around her legs and her f
air head rested on her knees. She was crying.
Sickened by the performance, and more so with himself, he said, "Here," throwing the robe at her feet.
She stepped out of the tub and removed her wet garments as she dried herself. Aidan tried not to notice how her nakedness affected him, and concentrated on how she used her body to lure men like John.
"Get in bed," he ordered, indicating his bedchamber with a toss of his head.
The lady complied and Aidan followed, not bothering to bind her for he knew he would not sleep. He blew out the candles and stared at the darkness for hours, listening to every tick of the clock.
The blame for John’s death could be placed squarely on his shoulders, but it would not happen again. Come morning, Lady Rivenhall would be unable to do more harm.
***
Celeste lay on her side pretending to sleep, but she was awake and watching the turbulent earl through shuttered lashes. He lay on his back with his powerful arms bent at the elbow as his hands cradled his head. She could not see his beautiful black hair, but his eyes were open, and he stared at the brocade canopy that covered the enormous bed.
She watched him for an eternity and when she saw his stunning eyes shimmering in the dark, she could bear it no longer. Celeste reached out and touched his chest gently, but he grabbed her wrist, and even in the dim light of the moon she could see his forehead drawn with suspicion.
But he needed comforting, so she sat up on her knees and placed her free hand on his face. He encircled that wrist as well, leaving her with but one option. Celeste leaned her head toward his, knowing that he could stop her and knowing also that he would not.
Her mouth covered his in the most tender of kisses, and slowly he released her arms. Her hands fell to his lean shoulders as she stretched the length of his muscular body, but he did not touch her. Celeste relinquished his lips and pressed her mouth to his neck, then his chest. Each caress was meant to comfort and soothe. Her hands skimmed his body, and when next she lay atop him, he returned her kiss with equal tenderness.
His arms slid around her waist and with one smooth motion she was on her back. The earl covered her mouth and then shifted to her neck. Celeste was thankful to the dark for giving them this respite, and she arched against him when he took her nipple in his mouth. His large hands covered the expanse of her ribcage, reminding her of his masculinity, his power.
One hand slid down her belly, his fingers searching her feminine folds, and he groaned when he felt how ready she was to receive him. He returned to her lips, and when she spread her thighs and offered herself, she could hear his breath catch.
The handsome earl eased into her with one long stroke that she thought would never end. He withdrew with equal leisure, and she heard herself moan with disappointment.
The Earl of Wessex bent his head and kissed her as he stroked again, his tongue mirroring the movements of his hips. He continued his easy rhythm until Celeste could tolerate no more. She lifted her body to meet his thrusts, but he refused to increase his cadence. Celeste wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper.
"Please," she begged, but he was unrelenting.
And then she felt the wave that stole her breath as she built toward an enormous crest. Celeste dropped her arms to her sides so she could enjoy the pleasure washing over her. He plunged deeper, faster, and she was begging him with each cry to end her torment. He did, thrusting home and she exploded with white lights streaking across the dark.
Celeste could feel her body reach for him, and it was then that he lost control. She could hear it in his masculine moans that were coming now with each powerful thrust he made, and then he shouted, and she could feel herself being filled as he came into her.
She could feel his heart pounding in his chest when he collapsed atop her. Celeste ran her fingers through his thick hair and kissed him on the neck, tasting the salt from the layer of sweat that covered them both. He tightened his arms around her and held her close until his breathing slowed.
And with a suddenness that startled her, Wessex raised himself off of her as if she had burned him. He stared down at her, but it was too dark to see his features. Then he was gone, off the bed and pacing the room. He snatched a robe and fumbled for the dressing room door, leaving her alone in the cold darkness of his cavernous bedchamber.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Earl of Wessex returned an hour later, bathed and, as always, impeccably dressed. He held a large box in his hand, which he tossed onto the bed.
"I want you ready to leave in half an hour," he said with apathy, scarcely looking at her before he withdrew the way he had entered.
A maid came into the room with a breakfast tray and announced, "A bath is ready, my lady."
Celeste blushed and knotted the tie to the silk robe. Mortified, she followed the girl to the bathing room and saw steam rising from the lavender-scented water.
"You’ll need to wait a moment, ma’am, the water is a trifle hot at present."
Celeste stuck her foot in the water and gritted her teeth. "I’m afraid I do not have the time. The earl expects to leave in half an hour." Where they were going, she had no idea.
She sank into the water and hissed in pain, but the distressed maid grabbed the pitcher from the washbasin and poured the entire contents into the bath. The cold water swirled around her and Celeste smiled in gratitude as the bath water became bearable.
The maid lathered her hair with lavender soap as Celeste bathed her body, and within moments the task was complete. She rose from the tub, and the girl’s eyes widened when she saw how red Celeste’s skin had become.
Lady Rivenhall grabbed her hand, saying, "It’s all right. It’s not your fault. Now fetch the undergarments in the pink box on the bed and assist me in dressing."
The girl bobbed a curtsy and rushed from the room. She returned with an exquisite chemise adorned with silk roses and Chantilly lace. The man certainly knew how to purchase women’s clothing, Celeste thought with cynicism. The gown the earl had provided was a bit too large in the bosom, and she could only imagine whom he had peeled it from. But it was a flattering shade of blue, and she was just thankful to have something to wear.
Celeste glanced at the clock, fear clutching her throat. She had eight minutes remaining.
"Do what you can with my damp hair and pass the toast, please."
Celeste reached into the desk she was seated in front of and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She dipped a pen in the inkwell and wrote a short note to Marie, saying that she was well and that she would contact her as soon as was possible.
She sealed the communication before the ink had dried and handed it to the maid, who was still fussing with wet strands of gold. Celeste lifted the teacup and swallowed a large sip of tea to wash down the dry toast, and was in the entryway with one minute to spare.
Wessex looked at her with sunlit eyes, but there was no warmth in them. His ebony brows pulled together, and he walked toward her and gazed at her chest.
"You’re all red."
It was a statement, not a question, and she was not sure if he wanted an explanation, but she gave him one anyway. "Yes, my lord, I’m afraid I did not have time to allow the bath water to cool to the appropriate temperature."
His eyes flashed greener, but she was too tired to try and interpret his mood. Lord Elkin’s murder had been weighing on her all night, and she was feeling the effects. She brushed past him and stepped into the carriage without benefit of his assistance.
Aidan Duhearst settled opposite her and shrugged off his greatcoat as the carriage rocked forward. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him in a black jacket and gold waistcoat adorned with large emeralds studs that perfectly complemented his striking eyes.
The young earl sat erect, and Celeste was reminded of the first time she had seen him emerge from the prison at Albuera. His jaw held the same determination that she had seen that morning, and Celeste could not help but wonder why.
"Where are you taking me
?"
His eyes were as cold as the gems they resembled. "I’m handing you over for questioning to Colonel Lancaster at the Foreign Office."
Celeste could not breathe as panic seized her lungs.
"No!" she said, but the earl dismissed her with a turn of his noble head.
Lady Rivenhall stared at his profile as she searched for a way to stop him. If she were in jail, the traitor would go unchecked. Her years of work in France…the men that would die…she was too valuable an asset for Britain to lose.
Celeste dropped to her knees and placed her hands on his thighs.
"Please, I beg you not to do this. I will warm your bed every night if you desire it." Her mind focused on the only explanation he might accept, the only explanation that might soften his resolve. "Please, my lord, I do not want to die."
The earl was clearly appalled at her undignified display as she groveled before her capture. Celeste’s mind was racing. She thought to seduce him, but rejected the idea in favor of his pity.
"Please, don’t do this. If last night meant anything…"
A mistake. His face hardened, and the man seized her arm with punishing force.
"Get up," he said in disgust, throwing her on the squabs.
The carriage slowed, and he was on the ground before it had come to a full stop. The earl offered his hand so as not to cause a scene and then propelled her up the wide steps of the Foreign Office.
"Please, you’ve no idea what you’re doing," Celeste said in desperation.
The earl stopped one step above her and looked down with regal authority. "I know precisely what I am doing, and if I had done my duty long ago Lord Elkin would still be alive."
Her heart ached for him. "I had nothing--"
"Don’t." He grated his teeth.
When they entered the busy corridors of the massive building, Celeste tried to appear an ornament at the handsome earl’s side. She averted her eyes and hugged his arm as they proceeded forward, but they had not gone far when a familiar voice caused her heart to leap to her throat.
"Wessex," the old man said with a jovial smile. He walked forward and offered the earl a shaky hand. "Well, well, well, haven’t seen you since, when…the Duke and Duchess of Glenbroke’s wedding ceremony?"
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