Bewitched by the Bluestocking
The Perks of Being an Heiress
Book One
By Jillian Eaton
© Copyright 2020 by Jillian Eaton
Text by Jillian Eaton
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
[email protected]
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition December 2020
EPUB Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
Chapter One
London, England
August 19, 1870
The Office & Private Residence of Mr. Thomas Kincaid, Private Investigator
Many people—and things—had shown up on Kincaid’s doorstep seeking help during his three years as a private investigator. Wives wanting to know if their husbands were having an affair behind their backs. Husbands wanting to know if their wives were having an affair behind their backs (fidelity, it seemed, was not exceedingly common these days).
Occasionally, someone would come searching for a missing relative, and this past winter he’d solved the mystery of a missing cow. His first bovine case, as it so happened. Then there was the time he’d arrived home to discover two tiny kittens on his doorstep; both of whom now happily resided in the flat above his office.
But in all those years, he’d never—not once—opened his door to find a blue-eyed American heiress with hair the color of fire and a plump mouth that immediately brought to mind all sorts of wicked, carnal thoughts. Until one rainy morning in the middle of August, when he proceeded to do precisely that. Truth be told, Kincaid would have preferred more kittens.
“Can I help you?” he asked warily, his dark brows gathering above thin wire spectacles. A light mist fell from the gloomy London sky, coating the lenses of his glasses and causing him to squint at the woman perched on his doorstep.
She wasn’t wearing a cloak, leaving her slender arms exposed to the rain. Kincaid had a primal urge to throw his jacket over her trembling shoulders and draw her into the warmth of his chest, but he’d learned long ago to be leery of beautiful women. And this one, with her thick, auburn lashes and high cheekbones and soft, soft lips, was absolutely stunning.
“I hope so.” Her husky voice—smoke and velvet wrapped together—hit him like a punch to the gut. “Are you Mr. Thomas Kincaid?”
He gave a curt nod. “Kincaid is fine. Might I inquire as to who is asking?”
“Joanna Thorncroft.” Without waiting for an invitation, she slipped past him, the side of her breast leaving a burning path along his forearm as she marched into the foyer and turned around. “Well?” she said impatiently. “Are you going to take my case or not?”
Kincaid blinked at her, then slowly closed the door. It was clear from the hard inflections of her words—and her sheer audacity—that his unexpected visitor was an American. Heralding from somewhere in Massachusetts, if he had to guess. Coupled with a keen sense of observation, he also had an excellent ear for dialects. It was what made him good at his job. Something else that made him good at his job was knowing when to recognize trouble. And it had just walked through his door dressed in rain and smelling of violets.
“I am afraid I am not taking any new clients at this time, Miss Thorncroft.” The world around him blurred as he took off his glasses and wiped them dry on the cuff of his sleeve. He’d worn spectacles since he was a young boy at the orphanage, and had been teased mercilessly for it. Those cruel taunts were what had prompted him to become a peeler as soon as he came of age.
Named for their founder, Robert Peel, the peelers were Britain’s first—and only—organized police force. Kincaid had worn his blue coat with pride, and quickly climbed the ranks from constable to sergeant. Five years in, he was named an inspector and given his own division.
With nearly twenty-four men under his command, he’d earned a reputation as a demanding, but fair leader. From sunup to sundown, and often late into the night, his career had consumed him.
It was gritty, exhausting, and dangerous work. Work that often exposed the darkest, vilest underbelly of human existence. But it had given him purpose. It had given him the opportunity to stand up against the bullies and the bruisers. It had allowed him to protect the vulnerable and save the innocent. To rescue the boy he’d been. The boy no one had ever stood up for. The boy no one had ever cared about.
The boy no one had ever loved.
Some might have taken all of that pain and anguish and drank themselves to death with it. Kincaid had used it to fuel his grueling ambition to make London a better place. A safer place. A place where babies weren’t abandoned by their parents and children weren’t beaten by those charged to keep them safe.
He hadn’t always succeeded, and sometimes those bitter failures weighed heavier on his soul than the triumphs. But he had made a difference. He’d been making a difference.
Then he met her.
Lady Lavinia Town
send.
The conniving bitch who had cost him everything.
His position. His career. His good name. She’d taken it all from him because she could, and laughed gleefully while she’d done it.
But she’d also taught him a valuable lesson.
Because of Lavinia, he knew what happened when the lines between his professional life and his personal life blurred. Because of Lavinia, he knew never to trust another woman with his heart. Because of Lavinia, he knew he couldn’t help Miss Thorncroft.
He wanted to. A single glimpse into those luminous blue eyes and he was tempted to move heaven and earth to give her whatever she asked of him.
But he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Kincaid had learned in the hardest possible of ways to avoid temptation. And Joanna Thorncroft had temptation written across every inch of her damp, delectable little body.
Sliding his spectacles back into place, he cleared his throat. “There are several investigators I could recommend. Good men, all, and—”
“I don’t want them.” Joanna stepped closer to him, her leather boots leaving small, muddy footprints on the wooden floor. Her tantalizing perfume lingered in the air between them, causing his nostrils to flare. “I want you.”
Steeling himself against the urge to reach out and trace the sharp curve of her cheekbone, then bury his fingers in her hair, Kincaid shoved his hands behind his back and disguised his desire behind a clipped, businesslike tone. “As I said, Miss Thorncroft, I am not accepting new clients at this time.”
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Then you’ll have to make an exception, Kincaid, because I have come a very long way, I am very tired, and I am not leaving here unless you agree to help me.”
He’d missed the stubbornness in her chin before, but he saw it now. Along with a tiny freckle in the middle of her collarbone.
He wondered what it tasted like.
He wondered what she tasted like.
Scowling, Kincaid squeezed the back of his neck where the corded muscles were as hard as granite.
They weren’t the only part of his anatomy that had gone hard.
“Miss Thorncroft, I must insist—”
“Kincaid,” she interrupted smoothly, “I can see that you are reluctant to hear me out. I can understand. I am a stranger, after all. And an American at that.” A wry smile twisted those plump lips. “However, I am sure that after I’ve had the opportunity to tell you why I came here, you will agree that my case is of the utmost importance. Do you have an office?”
“Yes, it’s through there.” He nodded at a door across the foyer that was partially ajar.
Originally, the room had been a parlor, but now housed an old desk cluttered with papers, shelves cluttered with books, and chairs cluttered with cats. There was also a bed shoved into the corner and his jaw clenched taut when his mind conjured a vivid image of Joanna sprawled across the mattress while he peeled off her wet clothes…with his teeth.
He ran a hand across his mouth.
This would not do.
This would not do at all.
But before he could put his foot down and demand Joanna get the hell out, she flitted past him and into his office, leaving him staring after her in stunned, stormy silence.
“Oh, you have a cat!” she exclaimed, pointing to the top of a bookshelf where a sleek, black feline lounged on its side.
“Two,” he managed in a strangled voice. “I have two cats. That’s James. Jane is most likely upstairs.”
“I’ve always wanted a cat, but my sister seems to be allergic to them. Well?” Joanna’s head canted. “Won’t you come in, Kincaid? Do have a seat. You’re looking rather…flushed. Are you feeling all right?”
The irony of being invited into his own bloody office was not lost on Kincaid as he stalked through the doorway, sat down at his desk, and selected a pen from the jumbled pile of writing utensils jammed inside the top drawer.
It was clear Joanna was not leaving until he listened to what she had to say. It was even clearer he was dangerously close to yanking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Since he obviously couldn’t do the latter, he would grit his teeth and do the former. Then he’d escort her out, tear up his notes, and go on with his day as if she’d never walked through his door.
“I am fine,” he said curtly as he flipped to a fresh page in the leather-bound journal where he kept track of all his various cases. Not that there were very many to keep track of at the moment. Business always slowed when the ton flocked en masse to their estates in the countryside. As it stood, his only other case regarded another missing cow. The poor things must have had a dreadful sense of direction. Ordinarily, he’d be reluctant to take on work involving farm animals, something which never would have been asked of him as an inspector, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He hadn’t earned much as a peeler. Certainly not enough to compensate him for all of the long hours, nor the life-threatening danger he’d found himself in more often than not. But part of his salary had included an allowance for rent, and clothes, and food. It hadn’t been much, yet he had gotten by. And there’d been a certain security in knowing that at the end of every week he would have money to bring to the bank.
As a private detective, he earned more quid outright, but it came in sporadic bursts that were dependent on the number of cases he took on. In the beginning, not a single person had dared darken the door of a disgraced policeman. By sheer will and persistence, he’d managed to secure a handful of clients, who had then discreetly spread his name to their friends. Now that he was nearing the end of his third year as a detective, he was turning a respectable profit. But he still had bills to pay, and a house in need of repairs, and cats to feed.
Traitorous little buggers that they were.
Abandoning his perch on top of the bookshelf, James leapt onto Joanna’s lap as soon as she sat down. Purring loudly, he kneaded her thigh before turning in two circles and curling into a ball. If Kincaid didn’t know any better, he would have sworn the damned cat smirked at him before James yawned, exposing a mouthful of pointy white canines, and closed his eyes.
“He’s absolutely charming,” said Joanna, stroking his back. “And soft.”
Kincaid had endured low points in his life. A beating at the orphanage that had left him black and blue for weeks. The betrayal of the woman he loved. But never—not once—had he sunk so low as to be jealous of a cat.
Before now.
Forcing his gaze away from James (you and I will discuss this later, he told the feline silently) he jabbed his pen into an open inkwell and held it poised in midair. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to why you are here, Miss Thorncroft?”
“I’d be delighted.” Her hand paused in the middle of James’ back. “But first, I believe I should be upfront about something. I do not—as it currently stands—possess the necessary monetary funds to pay for your services, Kincaid.”
In Kincaid’s experience, most women—hell, most men—would have stuttered and hemmed and blushed their way through such an admission. Money, particularly the lack of money, was never an easy subject to address. Which was why his standard policy was to demand a generous down payment on services to be rendered upfront. But Miss Joanna Thorncroft, with her clear blue eyes the color of an autumn sky, did not so much as blink. Nor did she blush, much to his disappointment.
He’d always been attracted to a blushing woman.
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Thorncroft.” A lie, of course. Except that it wasn’t. Not entirely. Because there was a part of him that did want to take her on a client. The same part of him that wanted to kiss her. The same part of him that had imagined her on his bed. The same part of him that was fascinated by that damned freckle on her collarbone. Which, as far as he was concerned, was simply more evidence that he should not, under any circumstance, agree to help Joanna. “I can recommend—”
“Yes,” she cut him off, waving her arm in the air, “you mentioned that.
But the fact remains I want you to be my investigator. And it is you I intend to have, by whatever means necessary.”
Was she trying to heat his blood, Kincaid wondered?
If so, it was working.
Any hotter and he’d burst into flames.
“That may be. But if you cannot afford my services, I am afraid we will not be able to proceed.” Closing his journal with a loud, purposeful snap, he slid it away from him across the desk. “Thank you for coming in, Miss Thorncroft. Please let me show you to the door.”
He stood up.
Joanna did not.
“I believe I was very clear, Kincaid.” She arched a russet brow. “I temporarily lack the monetary funds to hire you, but that does not mean I am incapable of paying by other means.”
Kincaid sat down so hard his chair slid back and hit the wall. “What—what are you implying, Miss Thorncroft?” he croaked as his mind immediately conjured a flurry of scenarios, each one more wicked than the last.
Joanna against the wall, sighing his name as he kissed her neck.
Joanna naked on her knees, eyes heavy-lidded with desire as she beckoned him towards her with a crook of her finger.
Joanna leaning back against his desk, her skirts lifted above her waist as she ran a hand down the flat plane of her belly and pressed her fingers between her thighs—
Stop it, he ordered himself fiercely.
What the devil had come over him?
Kincaid wasn’t a monk. Far from it. But in the four years since Lavinia had shredded his heart with all the maliciousness of a feral she-wolf and reduced his career to a smoking pile of ash, he had selected his partners with the utmost discretion. Seeking blind pleasure over emotional attachment, he’d always been exceedingly careful to choose women far outside of his professional circle.
His last mistress, a widow several years his senior, hadn’t even lived in London. He had visited her when time allowed, and when they’d mutually decided to end their affair last month, there were no hard feelings. There’d been no feelings at all. Which was exactly what Kincaid preferred.
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