Lady Whistledown Strikes Back

by Julia Quinn

  He considered this a moment, then shook his head. “You’d scream and they’d drop you. Gypsies do not like loud noises.”

  A faint quiver passed over her face, a flash of humor that she quickly suppressed. “You are incorrigible. I am certain I have John to thank for leaking my confidences within your hearing. As underhanded as it is, I will accept your offer simply because I have no choice. I must speak to Brooks.”

  She told her coachman of the change in plans as Max tied off the reins and lightly jumped down to open the door to her carriage. She stood and leaned forward, ducking her head to avoid the low roof. He grinned up at her, holding out his hand. “I knew you’d see reason. Your calm logic has ever been one of your strong points.”

  She placed her hand in his, her fingers tightening as she stepped to the edge of the doorway. “Trying to turn me up sweet, are you? Now I am worried—”

  Max tugged on Sophia’s hand. She gasped and lurched forward, falling out of the carriage to land right in his arms, her blonde hair golden against his black greatcoat.

  He stood there a second, smiling down into her astonished face, achingly aware of her soft curves pressed against his chest. It took all of his control to gently set her feet on the ground and step away. A pity there were so many prying eyes about; he would have enjoyed another kiss or ten. Hell, he’d have enjoyed tumbling her to the damp grass then and there, tossing her skirts, and having his way with her, society be damned.

  Tightening his control over the flood of heated lust that raged through him, he assisted her into the seat of his curricle.

  “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” she muttered, her color high.

  He climbed in beside her and loosened the reins. “Indeed you might. But just think of the fun you’ll have on your way to that regret.” Without giving her time to mull over that remark too closely, he set the curricle in motion, and they were soon on their way.

  Sophia and Max arrived at the Tewkesberry Musicale just as the performance began. Sophia was rather sorry to arrive as, for once, Max had been everything most pleasant, talking at his ease of people they both knew or used to know, several times surprising a laugh from her. But beneath the quiet, friendly attention hummed a current of sensual awareness that left Sophia hot and restless.

  Soon they were seated side by side in the Tewkesberrys’ grand salon, listening to a pretty Italian aria performed very creditably by Lady Maria Townsbridge. Sophia barely heard a note, for sitting only two rows away from her and Max sat Brooks. He was an unimpressive man, with little to recommend him other than a decidedly weak chin.

  The musical performance ended promptly at seven. Lady Tewkesberry announced that refreshments could be had in the green salon. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophia saw Lady Neeley’s nephew exchange a nod with someone in the back of the room.

  She leaned toward Max and whispered, “Who is he gesturing to?”

  Max glanced behind her. “Lord Afton.”

  “Ah!” Sophia said, excitement stirring. Lord Afton was a barely accepted member of the peerage known for his eccentric hobbies, which included collecting lewdly decorated snuffboxes, raising rare birds, and designing waistcoats for fribbles. In his spare time, he was also renowned for leading well-heeled sprigs of fashion into the worst gaming hells to be found. Rumor said he was personally responsible for the ruin of Lord Chauncy Hendrickson, who blew out his brains after losing his entire fortune at the faro table a full ten days before his nineteenth birthday. If Brooks was embroiled with Afton, there was a chance he was deeply in debt, which gave him the perfect motive.

  She watched as first Lord Afton and then Brooks began to ease their way toward the door. Caught by the press of people, Sophia could not move. She watched in silent frustration as her quarry slipped out the door to join Lord Afton in private speech. She fairly itched to hear the conversation. If she could just get to the hallway, perhaps—

  A hand clamped about her elbow. She glanced down and sighed. She knew that elegant, masculine hand. “Max, let me go. I must get to the hallway.”

  “You are determined in this, aren’t you? I suppose I shall have to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help.” And she didn’t. Though she did have to ask herself why she cared so much when he obviously did not. Was it because Max’s name was partly her own? Could that be it? Or was it something else? Something that had to do with the fact that standing here beside Max, his hand warm on the bare skin of her arm, was the most natural, the most right-feeling thing she’d ever experienced?

  As she wondered about it, a tall, elderly matron in an orange turban tapped Max on the shoulder with her fan. “Easterly! So you have indeed returned.”

  Max had to reply, and when he did, Sophia made her escape. She turned a little, tugged on her arm and was gone, threading through the crowd before Max could do more than give a startled glance her way, the matron immediately recalling his attention.

  Sophia slipped out the door, but found no sign of either Brooks or Afton. On silent feet, she made her way down the hallway, stopping now and then to listen. Finally, she heard it—a faint murmur of male voices from behind a large, oak door.

  She glanced right and left, assured herself that no one was nearby, then pressed her ear to the cool wooden panel. There she stood, perfectly still, straining to distinguish words while the coldness of the marble floor seeped through her slippers. She could hear the aggravating buzz of male voices, low and intriguing, but very little else.

  It was maddening. She pressed her ear closer, plugging up her other ear with a finger in the hopes of increasing her hearing, but to no avail. The door was just too thick.

  Something brushed against her arm and she jumped.

  Max glinted down at her. “It works much better if you use a turned-over glass,” he whispered. He held out a glass and positioned it on the door. “Press your ear to it and see if it works.”

  She whispered back, “I don’t need your glass, thank you.”

  “Are you certain?” His silver eyes laughed down at her. “Give it a try.”

  She had to glance at the glass he held against the door in such an inviting fashion. It would work better. With a sigh of exasperation, she took the glass from him and positioned it on the door.

  He grinned, leaning against the wall to one side of the door to give her better access. “I don’t understand why you are going to all this trouble, though I must admit it is rather flattering.”

  She ignored this sally and held her ear against the cool, smooth bottom. Inside, she could hear Brooks’s distinctive voice. “She would kill me if she knew,” he said.

  “Surely not?” Afton answered.

  “After the hue and cry she raised when it went missing? Are you sane?”

  Sophia blinked. He had to be talking about Lady Neeley and the bracelet.

  “My aunt is like a hound with a bone once she decides she is fond of something,” Brooks continued. “That’s why I had to find a fake one, one that matched the original perfectly.”

  Sophia’s heart tripped a faster beat. The fake one? Had there been two bracelets perhaps? Had Brooks meant to switch them, but something had gone awry?

  Max moved closer, bending his head so that he, too, could listen.

  Brooks sighed heavily, so close to the door that Sophia almost jumped. “Are you sure that box is well hidden?”

  “Oh yes,” Afton said, a soothing note in his voice. “On my honor, no one will ever find it. I buried it in Hyde Park, behind that copse of trees on the south end.”

  “And you’re sure no one saw you.”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Good. If my aunt ever found out about this, she’d cut me out of the will before you could count to two. Which is something my cousin Percy would love to witness.”

  “Your aunt will never know. Just put the fake one in front of her and before you know it, she will think as highly of it as the other.”

  “If she doesn’t discover the difference. I
’m sorry I’m so worried—in truth, I am indebted to you, Afton. I’m not sure how I can repay you.”

  There it was! Sophia almost gave a little hop of joy. Brooks did owe money to Lord Afton! “It’s hidden in Hyde Park,” she whispered excitedly. “Buried behind some trees on the south end.”

  Max’s hand gripped her elbow. “Someone is coming.” He nodded down the hall. The faint slap of leather shoes sounded, coming closer. “It’s Tewkesberry.”

  Sophia took a step away from the door just as it began to swing open. Her gaze met Max’s—they were trapped. Quick as a wink, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway to a narrow doorway. He yanked open the door, revealing a closet of some sort. Without a word, he stepped in, pulled Sophia against him, and closed the door behind them.

  It was dark, unlit except for the line of light under the door that outlined their shoes with gold. The space was limited and they were pressed together, hip brushing hip as Afton and Brooks paused in the hallway to talk to Tewkesberry.

  “Blast it,” Sophia whispered. “We’ll be in here for hours.”

  Max glanced down, unable to make out more than the faint outline of her cheek. He’d been with Sophia for over three hours now, three hours of torture. His body was already primed, his blood simmering. And now, here they were in the dark, the faint smell of lemon lifting through the air, Sophia’s hair tickling his nose. He leaned down and took a deep breath, letting the richness of her scent wash over him.

  She stirred restlessly, her hip brushing his and causing him to wince. She had no idea what she did to him. None at all. It was maddening and as seductive as hell.

  “Oh no,” Sophia whispered into the silence. “I—I think I’m going to sneeze.”

  “That’s just because you don’t want to. Stop thinking about it.”

  She was silent a moment more before bursting out in an impassioned whisper, “I know I’m going to sneeze! We’ll be caught and they’ll want to know why we’re here and—”

  Max tipped her face to his and kissed her. It wasn’t a tentative, explorative kiss like the first one, but a wild burst of passion, of wanting and needing. He molded her to him, holding her tight, the kiss exploding into something more. And Sophia, his darling beloved Sophia, responded with all the wanton passion he remembered, clutching at his coat, moaning softly. She was ruining his cravat. He was rumpling her gown. And he didn’t give a damn. Deeper and deeper the kiss pulled, tugged. Further and further he went, his tongue slipping between her teeth, his hands cupping her breasts through her gown. He ran his thumbs over the tight nubs. She gasped out his name and ached against him, falling back.

  Against the door. The unlocked door.

  One moment they were standing in complete darkness, their senses raging, the next they were staggering into the hallway, mussed and squinting in the light.

  Afton, Brooks, and Tewkesberry stood looking at them, blinking in astonishment.

  Sophia waited for a sense of embarrassment to hit her, that shrinking, pulling feel of humiliation. But for some reason, all she felt was a glorious warmth from Max’s embrace.

  He moved to stand in front of her, his hands already smoothing his coat, adjusting his cravat. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just stumbled out of a broom closet. “We were looking for the lady’s dressing room. My wife has torn her flounce.”

  Tewkesberry pointed down the hall past them.

  Max bowed, took Sophia’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, then escorted her to the dressing room, out of sight of Afton and Lady Neeley’s dissolute nephew. The silence grew tenser. Sophia stole a look up at Max and was dismayed to see his stern expression. “Max, I—”

  “Go inside and fix yourself.”

  “But—”

  He placed his fingers over her lips, his fingers warm on her skin. “There’s nothing to be said. You had to sneeze. I helped distract you. That was it.” His hand dropped to his side. “I understand that. There is no need for further explanation.”

  Of course that was all it had been. How silly of her to think otherwise. Suddenly bereft, she nodded and went into the dressing room, pausing when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her lips were swollen, her hair half tumbled down, her gown askew. But for some reason, the sight reassured her. She looked like a woman who had been loved. And she almost had been.

  She straightened herself as well as she could, then went to rejoin Max. They left shortly after that, Max handing her into his curricle and then taking the reins.

  He was strangely silent, so she attempted to make conversation. “It will only take a moment for me to throw on an old gown and collect a shovel from the stable.”

  He lifted a brow. “You are mad if you think we’re going to Hyde Park this late.”

  “We have to get the bracelet and—”

  “Tomorrow,” he said abruptly. “I will pick you up at eleven.”

  “Eleven? That’s so late! How about eight?”

  “I am not getting up at eight just so I can dig a hole in the ground.” He slanted a hard look down at her. “And you, madam, are not to go without me.”

  “But if we go so late, there will be scads of people about!”

  “Not in that copse of trees. And even if there were, what difference would it make? We will tell them we are gardening or some such nonsense.”

  She sniffed her disappointment. He was taking all of the romance out of the affair, which was a great pity. They soon reached the house and Max walked her to the door. Sophia held out her hand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He held her fingers lightly. “Thank you for allowing me to accompany you.”

  Sophia searched for the words to set him back at ease, to regain the warm companion he’d been before the musicale, but none came to mind. The door opened, and bright lamplight spilled over them. “Well. Tomorrow then. At eight.”

  “Eleven.” Max bowed, then stepped back, making his way to his curride. He jumped in without pause and gathered the reins.

  “How about nine?” she called.

  “Eleven,” came the ringing answer as he hawed the horses into motion. All too soon, the curricle clattered down the cobble street and disappeared around the corner.

  On arriving home, Max found that he couldn’t sleep. His blood was still heated, his mind alive with the sensations of holding Sophia, his body still tight with need. Worse than the lust that poured through his veins was the realization that, had the door not fallen open when it had, he would have made love to his wife right there in a stifling closet. A wife who had attempted to lure him home with a threat of blackmail only to ask for an annulment.

  The more Max was with Sophia, the more he wanted her. He sighed as he went to his room, realizing that there would be no sleeping tonight. So he did what he always did when sleep evaded him; he painted. He lost himself in the images that appeared on the canvas, on the colors and the shadows and lights, on the wind stirring a leaf, or the curve of a blade of grass. He worked feverishly, so caught up in his work that the sun was cresting over the city before he realized it. Suddenly exhausted, he staggered to bed, his mind awash with the memory and taste of Sophia.

  Max awoke some time later, stretching in the darkness of his room, the heavy curtains blocking out all but the smallest slice of light. Sighing, he looked at the clock on the mantel—and bolted straight upright. It was ten minutes past eleven. God knew what Sophia was into. He threw back the covers, calling for his valet. He washed and dressed in a matter of moments and dashed down the steps, buttoning his waistcoat as he went.

  Max went straight to the park, finding Sophia’s carriage beside the small copse of trees on the south side. He hopped down, tossed the reins to his groom, then made his way into the trimmed brush. He found Sophia not far away, already digging a hole. She was facing away from the road and was dressed in an older gown and sensible shoes. Her hands were encased in leather riding gloves, and holding a long-handled shovel. A brilliant smile burst from he
r on seeing him. “There you are!”

  He refused to acknowledge the flicker of warmth that touched his heart at her unchecked greeting. “I overslept.”

  “Oh, I had only one shovel, so it wouldn’t have mattered if you were here or not.”

  He reached for the shovel, but she didn’t move. She merely looked at his hand and raised her brows.

  He had to smile. “I suppose you are telling me you are Mistress of the Shovel.”

  “I do think I should be allowed to dig, since I am the one who found the clue as to where the bracelet was hidden.”

  “I see. If you get to dig, what do I get to do?”

  She leaned against the shovel and considered this. “You can be lookout.”

  “Lookout? What a paltry position that is, to be sure. What am I on the lookout for?”

  “For Brooks or Afton.”

  “You think they might return to get the bracelet? Now? In broad daylight?”

  She scrunched her nose as if considering this. “I suppose you are right.”

  Max crossed his arms and leaned against the tree. “I feel as if I should do something. Perhaps I should direct you.”

  She paused and pushed her hair from her face, leaving a smear of dirt on one cheek. “Direct me? I hardly think I need it.”

  Max hid a smile and said in his best head groom’s voice, “Hey there, dig lively now!”

  “Oh that’s lovely,” she said, sending him a scathing look, though there was laughter hidden behind her grimace. “I do hope I’m digging in the right location. It was the only place with freshly overturned dirt.”

  “That must be it then—”

  “Hello there!” came a voice from the other side of the brush. John stepped into the small clearing. He was dressed for riding, a fashionable hat set jauntily on his head, his nose a little red from the sun. “I thought that was the two of you.”

  “You can see us from the path?” Max asked.

  “You can from a horse. I thought you might be having a picnic or something.” John looked around. “I could have sworn I smelled lemon custard.”