He prowled toward her, a wicked smile curving his lips. “You begin to understand me, ma belle.”
“No.” Her hands lifted to press against his chest as Raoul wrapped one arm around her waist and lifted the other over her head, dangling the mistletoe from his fingers. “I do not believe you have ever allowed anyone to truly understand you, Mr. Charlebois.”
His head dipped downward, brushing a devastating path of pleasure down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.
“Raoul,” he teased.
“Mr. Charlebois.”
He chuckled at her stubborn refusal to give into his command, stealing a short, possessive kiss.
“Someday,” he said against her lips.
“You are very confident.”
His tongue tenderly outlined her lips. “Very determined.”
“Why?”
“I am not entirely certain.” He pulled back to regard her with a rueful expression. “You are beautiful, but I have known many beautiful women.”
The pang that clenched her heart was not jealousy. It was…pique. Nothing more than annoyance that he would feel the need to toss his vast experience in her face.
“I think we have already established that fact.”
His lips twitched, as if he saw far more than she wanted.
“You are also intelligent, but I am not at all certain why that would stir my fantasies. Clever women are always so difficult.”
“Because they have enough wits to avoid notorious rakes?”
He ignored her taunt, his gaze following the path of his fingers as they drifted down her neck and along the line of her bodice.
“It can only be this.”
She tried to pretend she wasn’t melting beneath his touch, her fingers clutching his lapels as her knees went weak.
“My cameo?” she husked, as he reached the brooch she used to fasten the lace tucked modestly into her neckline. “I assure you that while it is precious to me it…oh…heavens…”
Her words stuttered to a breathless halt as he replaced his fingers with his warm lips, moving over her exposed skin with slow, savoring strokes.
“Your heart, ma belle.” He lingered over the frantic pulse at the base of her neck. “That generous, sweet, kind heart.”
Chapter 6
December 14
Baxter Lodge
Polishing off the last of the cured ham and coddled eggs, Raoul tossed aside his linen napkin and rose from the table he had requested be set beside the fire in the library. Raoul preferred eating in this room to the small but formal dining room; and he regarded his valet with a jaundiced gaze.
He wasn’t particularly surprised that Nico had taken it upon himself to begin investigating Lord Merriot’s past. The damnable man was loyal to a fault, but he was as overprotective as a mother hen.
“I should have suspected you could not trust me to question Mrs. Horton,” he grumbled.
Nico leaned against the mantel, a dark, lean predator.
“It’s not a matter of trust,” he countered.
“No?”
“It’s knowledge of human nature. Mrs. Horton might be eager to share the wicked foibles of Lord and Lady Merriot with a fellow servant, but she would never speak ill of the family with one of its members.”
Raoul’s lips twisted. “I am a bastard, not a member of the Merriot family. Thank God.”
“Your blood still runs blue.”
Having spent a great deal of time among the blue bloods, Raoul found no comfort in Nico’s assertion. Actually, Fredrick Colstone was the only nobleman he could stomach, and only because he’d been raised with the belief he was a bastard.
“Clearly the color of my blood is meaningless,” he mocked. “The old man did not even bother to give me his name.”
“True.” Nico paused as he considered Raoul’s words. “I presume that Charlebois is your mother’s name?”
“So my father always claimed.”
“You have reason to doubt him?”
Raoul wandered toward the window, surveying the landscape that was charmingly swathed in a layer of snow. Far different from the grimy slush that he’d left behind in London.
A pity he was not in Cheshire to simply admire the view.
“I have traveled throughout France on several occasions, and while I have discovered any number of those with the name of Charlebois, not one can claim knowledge of a female family member who was acquainted with Lord Merriot, let alone close enough to bear his bastard,” he confessed, recalling his early attempts to discover his mother. At the time, he had dismissed his inability to discover something of the woman who had given him birth to the confusion and natural distrust that permeated France after the bloody revolution. Now he began to wonder if it was something more nefarious.
Nico absently toyed with a delicate figurine placed on the mantel, his expression brooding.
“It is odd that your mother has not made an effort to acquaint herself with such a renowned son.”
“Or at least to acquaint herself with my fortune,” Raoul added dryly.
“Precisely.” Nico lifted his head to regard Raoul with a cynical gaze. “If it were known I had a few quid rattling in my pocket, I would have a half dozen relatives arriving on my doorstep.”
“Perish the thought,” Raoul retorted, not entirely teasing. The mere thought of a dozen of Nico’s relatives running wild through the streets of London was enough to make any English native shudder. “Did Mrs. Horton speak of my mother?”
“Nothing more than her own fancy that she must have been an aristocrat.”
“Why the devil would she believe such a thing?”
A slow smile curved Nico’s lips. “Because no commoner could possibly have created such an exquisite angel.”
Raoul laughed. “Angel bedamned. Still, I am pleased to say I bear no resemblance to my father.”
“That is not entirely true. You both possess an appreciation for a lavish existence. The cook mentioned your father receiving a large inheritance. Do you know where it came from?”
Raoul frowned. In truth, he had never considered the matter. In those days, he had been far too occupied with the task of avoiding Lord and Lady Merriot’s ill-concealed distaste for his presence to notice more than the hordes of workmen invading the house.
“Some relative who was thoughtful enough to pop off while they were still flush in the pocket, I suppose.”
“Yes, but which relative?” Nico pressed. “After leaving your father’s estate this morning, I nosed about the village.”
Of course he had. Raoul resisted the temptation to ask if he was allowed to have any part in the search for his father’s secret.
“I presume the nosing was accomplished at the pub?” he demanded instead.
Nico arched a raven brow, a wicked amusement smoldering in his dark eyes.
“It bloody well was not at the church. Such a frigid day demands a warm fire and cheap ale.”
“And willing barmaids?”
“They are never unwelcome.”
Raoul raised a hand in defeat. “So what did you discover?”
“Nothing.”
“A day well spent, it would seem.”
“What I mean is that no one knows the identity of the relative who was so generous as to leave his fortune to the Merriots,” Nico clarified. “Your grandfather and his two brothers were prolific gamblers who all perished deeply in debt, while your various cousins were known as loose-screws who either drank themselves to an early grave or married into the merchant class and were shunned by your father.”
The revelations were far from shocking to Raoul. He’d always sensed a weakness of character in his father. It was in his sharp, disdainful treatment of those he felt beneath him, and his habit of neglecting the local merchants’ bills until they were forced to arrive at his doorstep, hat in hand, to plead for a measure of relief.
And, of course, there was his tangible dislike for his own son.
Still, it did beg the questi
on of where such a vast inheritance would have come from.
“Perhaps the money belonged to Lady Merriot’s family. Females cannot inherit entailed property, but it is not unheard of for some settlement to be set aside for them.”
Nico shook his head. “From what I could discover, her father was the younger son of a minor nobleman who fled to Paris to escape his creditors, and stayed when he married the daughter of an English diplomat. In fact, there was a mighty dustup when your father arrived from his travels abroad with a near penniless bride. It was expected he would do his duty and wed a large dowry.” Nico regarded him with a questioning gaze. “Do you remember anything as a child?”
Raoul shrugged. He had devoted the past years to forgetting his childhood beneath Lord Merriot’s roof.
“I recall when the workmen descended on the Great House. Mon Dieu, you could not enter a room or walk through the gardens without tripping over the crews.”
“Were the Merriots in mourning at the time?”
“No.” Raoul stilled. Sacrebleu. Why had he never before considered his father’s sudden windfall? “Quite the opposite. There was not a week that passed without a deluge of guests arriving. And of course, there were the inevitable journeys to London.”
“Rather odd if they had lost a family member close enough to leave them such a tidy fortune. They should have been in black for at least a few weeks.”
“I need to discover where that inheritance came from.”
“I will…”
“Hold, Nico.” Raoul swiftly interrupted. “This is a task perfectly suited to Ian Breckford. There are few who can match his understanding of finances. Besides, since taking over his uncle’s investments, he has cultivated precisely the sort of connections among solicitors and bankers that will allow him to trace my father’s wealth far easier than either of us can do.”
Nico thinned his lips, but wisely didn’t bother to argue. Even he had to concede that Ian possessed an uncanny skill when it came to matters of money.
“Then I shall investigate the French nurse,” he announced. “She must have knowledge of the mysterious secret if someone was willing to finance her London shop. Such a thing would take considerable capital.”
Raoul folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, I believe that I will request Fredrick to track down the elusive Francine. Older women tend to dote on him with nauseating delight.”
Nico narrowed his gaze. “I see your devilish plot. You are determined to keep me stuck here in the wilds of Cheshire.”
“You can’t expect me to suffer alone?”
“You do not appear to be suffering.” The all too shrewd gaze searched Raoul’s countenance. “In fact, you look disgustingly pleased with yourself.”
Raoul smiled wryly, his thoughts instinctively turning toward the womanly temptation of Miss Sarah Jefferson.
“Trust me, I suffered the entire night. And if I do not mistake matters, I will continue to suffer many more nights.” He paused, startled to realize that despite his raging frustration, he was pleased with himself. Or rather, pleased with an erotic spinster who claimed far too much of his thoughts. Stupid when he had no assurance the woman would ever offer him more than a stolen kiss or two. And then there were those brats, Willie and Jimmy. Raoul gave a shake of his head. He was clearly well on his way to bedlam. “Besides, what would I do without my faithful valet?”
Nico rewarded this fine compliment with a roll of his eyes. “What is it you truly desire of me?”
“Discover what you can of Polly Andrews.”
Nico stiffened at the unexpected command. “Does she have a connection to your father?”
“No, she is the mother of Willie and Jimmy. Miss Jefferson has been told that the woman disappeared with a groom and traveled to Wallingford, but I wish to know for certain.”
“Good God, why?”
Raoul leveled a steady gaze at his companion. “Does it matter?”
“Wallingford?” Nico grimaced at the thought of traveling near twenty miles over bad roads in the frigid weather. Especially when the village promised little in the way of entertainment. “Why not just banish me to the gates of hell?”
“With your skills, it should only take a day to discover her whereabouts.”
Nico was far from appeased. “And what should I do once I locate her? Haul her back here to take care of her brats?”
Raoul shook his head. “No. Just discover what you can of her. If she’s wed, if she has a new family…if she is in need of funds.”
Nico threw his hands in the air and headed for the door. “I am beginning to wonder if your retirement has made you batty.”
“Just beginning?” Raoul muttered at his retreating servant before turning back to the snow-covered countryside.
Aimlessly drawing a pattern on the frosty pane with the tip of his finger, Raoul tried to concentrate on his purpose for coming to Cheshire. He would have to send messages to Ian and Fredrick without delay. They could be depended upon to discover the information he desired. And there were one or two locals he still intended to question.
His thoughts, however, soon turned traitor and instead of setting about his business, he remained at the window brooding on his peculiar behavior.
Why was he sending his valet to hunt down Polly Andrews?
Because of the haunting fear that had flared through Sarah’s eyes at the mention of having the boys taken from her care?
Because the thought of Willie and Jimmy being wrenched from the stability of a loving home to be returned to an indifferent parent reminded him of his own fear as a child at being taken from Dunnington?
Because the rapscallions brought out that protective urge that he had felt toward Ian and Fredrick?
He was still standing at the window when the sound of raised voices had him crossing out of the library and into the foyer.
“Sacrebleu,” he muttered, studying the wide girth of his housekeeper’s back as she attempted to bar the way of an unwelcomed visitor. “Is there a problem?”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, her chubby face surrounded by a frizz of red hair.
“Sorry, sir. It’s the Andrews boys, thinking they can just arrive on the doorstep and be shown in like they be royalty. I told them…”
“It is fine, Mrs. Dent. I will see them,” he said, firmly overriding her condemning words.
The woman sniffed, her estimation of Raoul clearly plummeting.
“It’s not my place, sir, but you shouldn’t encourage them. Miss Jefferson does her best, but them two are a handful.”
Raoul swallowed the urge to tell the grating woman that he damned well preferred the company of the boys to her and her bird-witted daughter.
Nico would slice his throat if he ran off the only household servants they currently possessed.
“Do I smell something burning?” he inquired, his voice deceptively mild.
As expected, the woman gave a small shriek of alarm. “Oh lordy, my shepherd’s pie.”
He waited until Mrs. Dent had waddled off with surprising speed before turning to regard the two urchins grinning at him from the doorway.
Both were swaddled in heavy wool coats with knitted scarves wrapped around their heads. They also sported what appeared to be new boots that were currently covered in snow.
Miss Jefferson obviously had conceded defeat in attempting to keep two rambunctious boys locked in a cottage, and instead armed them to endure any weather.
His blood heated as the image of the raven-haired beauty flared through his mind, and it was only with effort that he managed to focus his concentration on his unexpected guests.
“Told you he was a right one, Jimmy,” Willie said, elbowing his younger brother in the ribs.
“Hmmm.” Raoul refused to be swayed by the flashing dimples and rosy cheeks, folding his arms over his chest. “Does Miss Jefferson know where you are?”
Willie cleared his throat. “We are on our way home from the vicarage now, sir, and I was thinking as we
walked past the lodge that you are the perfect solution to a problem that’s been nagging at me and Jimmy.”
Raoul arched a brow. “I must admit I have always been much more likely to be considered the problem rather than the solution. I wonder if this means I am getting old?”
Jimmy regarded him with his big blue eyes. “If I say nay, will you offer your help?”
Raoul tilted back his head to laugh with genuine amusement. “Brat. Mrs. Dent was right, I should have allowed her to run you off.” Knowing he had been outgunned by a pair of shameless imps, Raoul stepped back with a wave of his arm. “Come in and tell me what you want.”
Leading his guests into the library, Raoul took spiteful pleasure in the trail of snow left in their wake. Mrs. Dent deserved to have her nose tweaked.
Raoul pointed the boys toward the low settee near the fireplace, and hid a smile as they both perched on the edge of the cushions, clearly discomforted by their surroundings. The Lodge might be modest to Raoul, but to two boys raised in a cramped cottage, it must seem a mansion.
With casual motions, he crossed to the breakfast table and collected the plate of jam tarts he’d left untouched.
“I have a vague recollection of being constantly hungry as a lad,” he murmured, setting the plate between the boys. “Help yourself.”
As hoped, the lads forgot their unease and swiftly demolished the tarts. Then, licking his fingers, Willie regarded his host with the expression of a true connoisseur.
“Good enough, but not so fine as Miss Sarah’s tarts.”
Raoul sucked in a deep breath as the vivid memory of Sarah, her cheeks dusted with flour, her luscious body wrapped in an apron, flared through his mind. She had tasted of gingerbread and he had ached to devour her.
He still ached to devour her.
“She does possess a magical touch in the kitchen,” he murmured.
Thankfully unaware of his less than pure thoughts, Jimmy flashed a sudden grin.
“Miss Sarah says I’m allowed to believe in magic even if the Vicar frowns on it. She says the world is too beautiful not to be enchanted.”
“Jimmy likes reading books about Camelot,” Willie swiftly explained, almost as if afraid Raoul would mock the young boy’s innocent belief.
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